Cornwall, Day 19 (Americans on a Links Golf Course)

We picked the most gorgeous of days, and didn't even know it. Golfing was the goal, but the truth was that the forecast wasn't all that great. So should we, or shouldn't we? we pondered. And then, "Well, why not?" said the Brotherly Traveler. And before you could say 'No Jeans On A British Golf Course', we both headed for the door in our jeans.


The cab driver came and whisked (all Cornish drivers 'whisk', here) us to the Golf Club at the top of the hill. The magnificent expanse of Bay lay there before us, as exquisite as any bay has a right to be. We could hardly take our eyes off it, but the Golf Club beckoned and in we strode.

"Hello, Sir, and what a splendid day for your golf game!" said the Club president. And then, there was a pause. "However.." he hesitated, "I'm afraid you won't be able to golf in jeans." It was our turn to pause. 

"Jeans?" said the Brotherly Traveler. "What.."

"Well, Sir, no one is allowed to golf in jeans, I'm afraid."

The SconeLady swallowed, and then piped in, "But - we came yesterday to iron out all the details, and nothing was said about - jeans."

"I didn't realize you would be wearing them."

Fair enough. One never really knows what an American will or will not be wearing. I get it. But there didn't seem to be any solution and since we had taken a cab up there, we were not inclined to return (would you be?). We all sort of stood there slack-jawed, until another Golf Club member said, "Here Sir, you can use mine!"

It was rather like the Chariots of Fire when Lord Lindsay came in and saved the day by switching racing heats with Eric Liddell. What a fine fellow! In the end, the pants weren't quite the right fit and the BT had to purchase new ones. But surely it was the thought that counted.

And here's something fun: as the golf game began, the SconeLady was promoted to the position of Caddy. This meant that I pushed a little electric golf club buggy up and over hills and vales and kept score and encouraged the BT no end. He was good, and splendid fun to watch. It was an 18 hole course, and so when we got back to the Club the kindly member asked, "And how did you finish the course so quickly?"

"Well - we couldn't actually find some of the holes. We think they might be in that Bermuda Triangle out there." 

The golf club member was nonplussed at this. I don't think he realized that there was a Bermuda Triangle in their golf range. We can prove it, though, by the number of balls that were swallowed up into it throughout the day. It was uncanny, dear Readers. I'm absolutely positive it was the Bermuda Triangle.

Even so, it was nothing that a lemon tart and a pot of tea couldn't fix. If only Lord Lindsay would have been there to share it with us.

See you along the way!
the SconeLady

The final putt