As we enter the home stretch, the weather becomes our primary concern for our remaining time in country.  In fact, the weather was the lede story from yesterday's golf...

As I hinted at in yesterday morning's ruminations, another unseasonably warm day was forecast, and Employee No. 2 and I lathered ourselves appropriately with sunscreen (sun cream in the local argot).  But somewhere between the village of Crail and the Society's carpark, we entered an entirely different microclimate, far more humid, cooler and with a low cloud ceiling.  One could almost get the sense that the weather is highly changeable...

Heading to the golf shop, we ran into David Snodgrass, only the second Head Professional in the long history of the Crail Golfing Society.  The odd bit, about which I've never asked, is that Graeme Lennie, David's predecessor and a bit of an institution in Scottish golf, was appointed in 1986, leaving one to ponder the 200 years from 1786 until 1986, wherein no head professional was deemed necessary....

Jack, one of the young men who works in the shop, was kind enough to set up our trolley (Theresa has brought me over the dark side, as I'm now digging the power trolleys), and Theresa asked him about the weather prognosis.  After the obligatory, "I don't really know," Jack explained that it was sunny when he arrived for work, but shortly thereafter the haar rolled in.  I'm sorry, did you say haar?  It just so happens to be a localized meteorological condition with which the bride and I have a passing familiarity....

Per Wikipedia:

In meteorology, haar or sea fret is a cold sea fog. It occurs most often on the east coast of Great Britain between April and September, when warm air passes over the cold North Sea.[1][2] The term is also known as har, hare, harl, harr and hoar.

Sea fret?  I like that and you might see it pop up in these pages from time to time.  A proper haar is no joking matter, as it can feature dense fog with unexpected high viscosity, icy particulates that'll sting your face nicely, thank you very much.

To be fair, there are haars and there are haars, and this wasn't anything remotely like the full frontal version described in the link above from our 2019 trip.  I did throw an undershirt under my golf shirt, but played the entire round without needing the long-sleeved jumper, so I took to calling this version an haarette....

We've no need to spend much time today on the golf, as I played the Craighead and Theresa enjoyed her walk.  We had thrown her putter into my bag, but there it stayed all day.  It might have been our quickest round ever in Scotland at exactly three hours, a delightfully brisk pace in which my camera, like Theresa's putter, stayed mostly in my golf bag.  Mostly I just handed the camera to Theresa on the Par-3's, because were something magical to happen.... 

This from the third hole confirms the absence of anything magical but, more importantly, gives you a feel for that haarette in which we/I played.  Again no issues with the hand, in fact the only time I was conscious of it was on my last full swing of the day, a chunked long-iron to the final green, which left me in linksy, hellish no-man's land:

The wind was down and the bride and I took some video of the options for playing this shot.  Alas, for now, this is just a placeholder, as the video is too large to embed in this post.  Before posting this I'll attempt to edit it down to a size that will allow me to embed it.

Success!

At the risk of sounding the braggart, that wee pitch was hit off turf the consistency of asphalt, and you'll skull it more often than you'll pull it off.  Of course, had I skulled it, you'd never have seen the video.... 

Homebound - We grabbed a quick pint at the club's bar, where I grabbed some photos of those final holes on the Balcomie.  Are you familiar with the agricultural term, the "Back Forty"?

Definition of back forty

: a remote and uncultivated or undeveloped piece of land of indefinite size (as on a farm)

I call these the Back Four.... 

It's the 18th green in the front right of the frame, and the fifteenth green closer to the Sea.  Just over that wall to the right is the 10th hole on the Craighead, which can be seen better in this photo:

As of our arrival home, the haar had not made it as far as Pittenweem, although I had noticed a change in the wind direction.  It had been out of the west previously, but seemed to be coming out of the east yesterday, off the North Sea, and Pittenweem is due west of Crail, so....

We had done an ice cream run on Wednesday, something that was a daily feature of our trips in bygone days.  Now your humble blogger has been limiting his dairy intake, but how many times can one pass this establishment without supporting the local merchants:

I can't make it out in my photo, but the ice cream is touted as being from Janetta's, the go-to Gelataria in St. Andrews.  Late afternoon the bride sends me on an ice cream run, in which comedy ensued.

First, sometime between our arrival home and my dispatch to the ice cream shop, the haar arrived in Pittenweem.  So, dressed in a tee shirt and shorts I was freezing on the short walk, the wind whipping along the harbor.  Complaining about the cold in Scotland is akin to taking coal to Newcastle, but my bemusement was at how quickly we had internalized those unusually warm days.

The other bit is quite silly, as I've been living in a pair of L.L. Bean cargo shorts through the heat wave.  I did forget one step, however, as I used the belt I usually wear with these shorts for golf, and left the house uncinched.  I typically throw my camera, which is small but heavy, in, along with all the other accoutrement, so there's a bit of weight to be support, and en route to the ice cream shop I found I needed to constantly hitch up the shorts.

It was the walk home that devolved into comedy, as the necessity of hitching up those shorts was complicated by the two tubs of ice cream in my hands, and I contemplated various scenarios of dropping trou in the historic Pittenweem Harbor, or worse, tripping over them and performing a face-plant for the Art Festival crowd.  It felt a very senior moment, funny for sure, and yet also just a wee bit alarming in that preview of coming attractions sort of way.

Some photos of Pittenweem in its haarette:

Didn't keep them from the tidal pool:

Didn't think there would be enough light to capture this image at full zoom, but it came out pretty well:

On our walk home we saw these guys, Turtledoves per my avian authority:

Given the day's weather, I didn't know what to make of this Art Festival sign:

Who knew?  Unsure why you'd want a nasty localized weather phenomenon in the name of your textile brand, but that's above my pay grade...

Supermoon - As you've likely heard, we've just had ourselves the last super moon of the year, one amusingly called a Sturgeon Moon.  OK, perhaps it wasn't technically a Supermoon:

Is the Sturgeon Moon a 'supermoon'?

The National Space Centre said it did not consider the Sturgeon Moon to be close enough to the Earth to be called a "supermoon". Although there is no official definition, it said supermoons must be closer than 360,000km, but last night's, which peaked at 02:36 BST, was 361,408km away.

So, a supermoonette, perhaps? 

Amusing to see it bear that name while in Scotland, mostly because they're largely lost their appetite for sturgeon over the last couple of years.... Or, so it seems to this visitor.

theresa was up in the middle of the night at got a look at the moon, and took this great photo with her phone:

That would sell in a heartbeat at the Pittenweem Art Festival, no?

We are off to the Bowhouse Farmers Market for provisions then to the Craighead.  Based upon the weather forecast, we swapped out tomorrow's game for one this afternoon, which may have been unnecessary.  Nonetheless, it's another beautiful day (not that it being beautiful in Pittenweem has any relevance to Crail), and Madam has commenced with the smack talk....