While on Iona I had my first 9 holes of golf in a couple of years. Iona is a place of pilgrimage - Christianity has been on Iona since St Columba arrived in the 6th Centrury. The Book of Kells was produced there, before constant viking attacks forced the monks to take it, along with other valuables, to Kells in Ireland. (Better at praying, and no doubt usually half sozzled from all the ale they brewed, the monks were not particularly good at fighting. In comparison, the vikings were very good at fighting. This meant that the outcome of the meetings between the two groups was usuallt in the vikings' favour. I have therefore decided to be a viking rather than a monk when I grow up.) In addition to holy books, stone crosses were also produced on Iona, and these were sent throughout the Christian world, including the Isle of Eigg, where I write this entry. The place is therefore proper holy, and as I was dedicating several hours concentrating on holes, I was expecting good things.
My golfing partner was Marcelle, a Canadian-Yank on a honeymoon/pilgrimage with his German wife Anna-Rose. Marcelle is one part Californian hippy, one part faithful Catholic, and one part golfing nut. He had a Duntroon Jacket on, and was carrying a pair of golf shoes around in his suitcase. The tent would not fit clubs however, and so he had borrowed a rusty set from the campsite owner.
Marcelle had promised a beautiful course, with the price being right, and so off I trotted. Essentially a farmer's paddock that had been used as a course since 1905, it was in excellent condition. The workd-famous Ionia International had been played the day before, and the greens had been copped, the animals ushered into other paddocks, and the pin flags freshly laundered and ironed for the occasion.
With the end of the open, the animals had been returned, but the links course was still pristine. Having no access to a roller, the greenskeeper had done his best, but the greens were still somewhat unorthodox. Sometimes they broke left, sometimes they broke right, and sometimes not at all. One was better of praying before putting rather than checking the line.
Marcelle is also a photographer and film maker, and our round was therefore captured by video camera, still camera and voice recorder (for the commentary). Unfortunately, your golfing heroes were also the cameramen, boom operators, photographers and commentators, and it was therefore not the fastest round ever played... which meant that our race against the Atlantic storm that was hurtling towards us over the bay was bound to be a losing one.
But, one we played, dear reader, with Marcelle knocking in a few lovely pars in between dodging grazing cattle, and me doing my bit with a 20-foot chip for my only par of the round. The result was not a close one. I had lost by the end of the first hole.
And then the storm crashed over the bay, and enwrapped us in its fury. But Marcelle would not be swayed (from the course), and was going to complete the round, come what may. The man's spirits could not be damped if the Loch Ness monster were to grab him down to the depths. Nor were they when he vwas very nearly expelled from the tent by Anna-Rose for a missed dinner date.
And so, we completed the round bathed in sunlight as the sun forced its way through the clouds and the storm roared on over the Isle of Mull.
Marcelle was therefore right, at the end of the day. The course was stunning (see the 'Scotland' photoset for some photos) and the price was right (green fees - £0). The company was also excellent. Now I just need to practice my driving. And my putting. And my bunker shots. And... etc
