We continued our expedition into new links golf courses with a morning tee time at Nairn Dunbar Golf Links. There are so many wonderful links courses along the Moray Firth and we are always looking to bag another seaside links layout.
We had been up to play its more famous neighboring course, Nairn Golf Club in 2016 and raved about it. We were hoping to utilize a deal the clubs offer for a round on each for a discounted rate but Nairn was closed to visitor play due to course alterations. With Nairn’s famous lineage I hope they are slight changes as that is one of the best layouts up here.
But, back to Nairn Dunbar, it’s easy to confuse the two, at least for a foreigner like me. Dunbar has its own vaunted history and has hosted many serious tournaments and will add to its history with the British Amateur Championship in 2021.
I chowed down on some scones as George wheeled us back towards the firth. Nairn Dunbar sits just off the rugged coast and close to the River Nairn much like Spey Bay had with its namesake river.
When deciding which courses we play we always look for the designer but Nairn Dunbar is one of those courses that lists its designer as “unknown.” That confuses me…what?…did the villagers just wake up one day and find a golf course?
What is known is that in 1899 Sir Alexander Dunbar of Boath hit the first tee ball to open the nine hole course on the land he donated for the course. Times have changed and Nairn Dunbar has evolved into a fine course.
We had some clouds and a little wind but mid 60’s and that was fine for me, a sweater and a jacket for my temperature challenged bro.
Playing to 6300 yards from the members tees this course gave us all we could ask for. I was asking for some fairways and greens but found too few fairways and even less greens. But I wasn’t out of the match.
George was having similar issues hitting greens and wasn’t the happiest of golfers when his Titleist was swallowed by the gorse. Gorse is mean and George was pissed.
You see, George rarely loses a ball. He can go four five or more rounds playing the same one. Me? I am lucky to go five holes, heck, five swings without having to reach into my bag. But when Big Bro loses one, it gets in his head.
So we battled back and forth, in the gorse, in the bunkers, in the heather, in the swales and in the fescue to an all square outcome. I thought I had given George the win when I dumped my approach in the burn on seventeen (I have visited burns all across Scotland) but George followed me in. 
We sucked today but we loved the course and the friendly people in the golf shop and in the lounge. Our lucky streak of great courses had continued.
We headed back to our rental for some rest, whisky and sneak in a little nap.
Dinner time came and we found ourselves retracing our footsteps down to The Mash Tun. Our last night in Aberlour so we had to make one last stop.
There was a lively crowd already there but we squeezed in at the bar. And when our server came over I recognized him, it was Kevin, the barman we met last year. Of course he didn’t remember us but he did agree that he most definitely would have told us to visit Bowmore while on Islay. But he did say he thought George looked familiar. Me…not so much.
He poured us some Glenflarcas 21 year old, a mighty dram indeed and we relaxed in what had become our home away from home. Plenty of chit chat with the locals and our fellow tourists and before I knew it we were done with dinner and looking over what “flight” of whisky we’d savor.
Just then Kevin came over and told us that someone was buying us a drink and we were shocked. When I asked who he pointed to an elderly woman who was making her way to the bar.
She had to be near eighty but well dressed and holding a cane in one hand and the leash for her cute terrier in the other. She approached us and we started to thank her and ask why she is treating us to a drink and she just said, ”We think alike.” 
Our confusion only deepened. We think alike? Does she like Glenflarcas too? Did she see George’s Old Course logo and play St. Andrews? No idea so we asked for more.
“I hate that Trump too,” she says. Really? Is our loathing for that mook so obvious? No she said,”I saw him on the interweb.” And she pointed to George.
What? We sat there incredulous for a fraction of a second until Kevin shoved his phone in front of us. “I knew you looked familiar,” he says to George. And there on the phone was a video of George at the highland games being carried around with his F**K TRUMP shirt in all its glory.
“Yes, yes, yes” the woman said, “Just ’cause I’m old doesn’t mean I don’t know what is happening!”
We were speechless and for my brother to be speechless is saying something. Our jaws agape, we stared at each other…”What the f**k is happening?!” We both asked. Kevin helped us realize what had happened.
He had seen the video earlier in the day and it was on just about every social medial outlet there is. Someone in the crowd at the Stirling Highland Games had recorded it and uploaded it the the internet, not the interweb.
I grabbed my phone and verified Kevin’s findings. And I saw that there were already a million hits and likes…just on Twitter. Oh my God!
And then I had a thought that I never, ever would have thought would ever be in the realm of possibilities,,, no way, no how. My brother had gone viral.
The irony of this is massive. George abhors all social media of any flavor, has no accounts and never has posted anything and probably never even looked at it at all.
Now, sitting here at the bar his head spinning, unable to comprehend his sudden celebrity he has become a phenomenon, a viral sensation.
Now, Kevin announces to the crowd in a booming voice, “Hey guys, this is the F**K TRUMP guy!” And the crowd burst into applause and George is getting back slapped and hugged by strangers that share in his disgust for our president. The Scots are no Trump fans.
Still unable to talk, my brother stands there shaking hands with his new fans and a few even insist on taking selfies with him.
Now of course these generous souls start lining up the whiskys for us and we are as flabbergasted as can be.
Just about then they start… they start the chant,,, a pounding on the table and a stomping of the feet…”F**K TRUMP, F**K TRUMP, F**K TRUMP, F**K TRUMP,” they chant and chant until it runs out and we all pause to take a drink together.
Kevin steps up, dram in hand…”To our real American friends” and nods toward us and “F**K TRUMP.”
The strangest night of my life, ever.
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