Tain Nobody's Business

Friday's day at Tain (read the name carefully, Maggot, but you still owe me that dollar) came with high drama....not on the golf course, but as relates to the weather forecast in the days beforehand.

Upon arrival at Casa Coupland, John saw a dreadful weather forecast calling for heavy showers all day Friday, dire even when graded on the Scottish weather curve.  As we got closer the conviction in the forecast waned, and by the day of the heavy rains were pushed back safely past our playing window, so off we trundled.

Tain, in my mind at the very least, is the essence of a Scottish golf club.  Originally layed out by Old Tom Morris in 1890, shortly before his trip to South Uist, it was originally a 12-holer, and the members play that original routing in the winter.  They also played it recently as part of the 125th anniversary celebration and, much as I'd love a go at that original track, I'm not prepared to wait another 125 years for a go.

In expanding to the new standard of 18 holes, the first and 18th play across an inland patch of land that isn't actual linksland, a far from atypical routing required simply to get the players from the clubhouse (located for obvious reasons near the road) out to the more interesting terrain.  Because of that, one never is quick to judgement when playing a new links, but in this case the holes must also accommodate a road likely used to access the grazing lands along the course:

However, setting the filter to insufferable purists, I can attest that Tain is 99.9% pure linksy goodness.  Marvelously rumpled fairways resembling an unmade bed?  Check!

Deep, revetted greenside bunkers?  Check!

Sheep grazing alongside the fairways?  Check!

A bell to be rung after clearing a blind green?  Check!

That bell is on Tain's most famous of holes, The Alps, which has two large dunes guarding the green.  Alas our Tessie had the misfortune to land her second on the left breast dune, and faced this impossible pitch to a green that runs away from the player.

We can easily intuit John's thoughts in this contemplative moment, as he's staring straight at the Glenmorangie Distillery.

This fairway, which might or might not be the 15th, was even more marvelously rumpled:

We were even lucky enough to catch a one-sheep jailbreak (do the Scots know their golf, or what, as even the sheep respect the greens):

For those keeping score at home, this match was far from our finest.  I made an absurd birdie on the first by dropping a thirty-footer, whereupon my golf game went into complete remission.  Seriously, they tested and found not even trace elements of golfing skills...  Fortunately or un-, Theresa was on walkabout as well, and what passed for a competition I won quite handily.

While happy to have an 1.5-.5 lead, I'll remind that this is Employee No.2, whose tactics and strategies come direct from Sun Tzu.  We've not heard the last from Attila the Hon....

Lastly, one only occasionally finds them in the U.S., but the compressed air devices to clean one's shoes are ubiquitous here and quite effective:

And of course we paid our respects to Old Tom after play was concluded:

I also caught Theresa adroitly managing that which, under more typical conditions, would be a devilishly challenging shot:

Because of the wet summer, especially the heavy rains they had while we were off in the Hebrides, the course wss far softer than is typical.  But still. 18 my a**.

Oh, and there was leftover banoffee pie...the key word there being "was".