Morning came too soon but it was welcome after a foolish night and frenzied sleep.
Jeff got the Audi humming as we left Aberlour and headed off to our reunion with Fraserburgh. Unlike last year, we weren’t totally spent at round’s end, battered by wind, rain and links golf whimsy.
At least I wasn’t feeling battered though Jeff might have been, given the whomping he’d taken on the course.
Fraserburgh is everything in a golf club that I’d like to join. An intriguing, picturesque layout that tests all your skill (or lack thereof); a remote location that’s unencumbered by homes and other development; very few other golfer’s (once again we had the course to ourselves); a comfortable, unpretentious clubhouse; friendly and interesting staff.
The young lady who served us, I remembered from last year. I’m sure of this because this year, as last, I couldn’t understand most of what she spoke to me. She understood me well enough, since I did get the food that I’d ordered. But I also go something I didn’t intend to order.
“I’ll have Cullen Skink to start then the grilled chicken special with veggies.”
She nodded in agreement and then uttered a stream of something which I assumed was English, might have been Scots Gaelic, could have been Norwegian for all I know. Feigning understanding, I nodded along in agreement and hoped I hadn’t just placed an order for calves brain.
Apparently, it was prawns in cream sauce on a bed of lettuce that I’d asked for. They were tasty, thank you very much.
The trip from the Northeast tip of Scotland south to East Lothian was just about 200 miles. Before we settled in for the drive, I rang my lovely wife to see if things had quieted down on the home front.
I was glad to hear that things were almost back to normal. The MAGA wearing, gun toting throng had quickly dispersed once the local news stations pulled their mobile vans out of the neighborhood. All were gone by nightfall although some had left a large confederate flag spread between two poles in the field across the way.
Doreen cut it down and brought it home. She told me “We’ll burn it when you get back here.”
The Sheriff decided to leave a deputy on duty to discourage any of the rabble from causing trouble over night. The deputy on duty this morning was named Roger, a big fellow with a wife and a young baby girl. The officer on for last night’s shift was a middle aged gent, a 20 year force veteran. He was currently unattached, and he let Doreen know it.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, my wife is a people person.
In addition to the deputies, she had made the acquaintance of a pleasant couple who recently re-located to our neighborhood from New Jersey. It seems they were attracted by the commotion and came by for a look see. Doreen engaged Dean and Linda in conversation when she noticed they weren’t part of the crazies.
Actually, they were a most unusual couple, a species of being we hadn’t seen before in St. Augustine.
They were Democrats. In northeast Florida. In the four years we’ve been In our exile, these are the first birds of a feather we’ve found.
To say that the past week and a half have been extraordinary would be an understatement.
I’ve made an Ace.
I’ve made an eagle.
I’ve become a world renowned viral sensation.
But finding fellow Dems in St. Augustine is the most unexpected event of all.
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