Great weather, fine golf, a wonderful Links with incomparable sea views proved a promising start to our day. The Glen Golf Club is another of the lesser known links courses that Jeff and I have come enjoy. The idea that most Americans won’t ever come this way adds to our pleasure.
Although I’d thought we’d head to Edinburgh for the afternoon, the exertion of besting me in our match had left Jeff knackered, so we made for the ‘ tiny house’ cottage in Aberlady so his highness could catch up on his beauty sleep.
Back in January, when we were researching and planning this trip, Jeff found The Duck and we agreed we’d spend at least one night there this summer enjoying it’s fine food and drink.
In addition to the food and drink the ambiance was lively and welcoming, the type of atmosphere that brings in folks for multiple visits.
Jeff didn’t need much coaxing to climb that stool, putter in hand, and put his reputation on the line. His reputation wasn’t the only casualty after those three errant strokes. His last putt came out a bit hot, took a carom off the stone hearth, jumped a golden lab that was resting near his owner’s feet and spun up onto a table where it smashed the G&T that Mrs. Elsie MacKenzie was nursing.
We calmed the old girl down, with profuse apologies and a couple of new G&T’s.
After Jeff’s inventive turn at the barstool putting, some of the regulars objected to my taking a turn-another ill mannered American, they thought. I soon had them singing my praises as I easily stroked my one and only putt, dead center in the pint glass posing as the hole.
The evening took a turn to the dark side after that when a shady looking gent approached our table. He wore a coat straight out of The Matrix movie and sported tats on both hands, his face and, I suspect, many other spots thankfully hidden from view.
He’d made the connection – I was the guy in that video making the Interweb rounds. He did press me to make some type of business deal, the purpose of which, and it’s benefit to me, were difficult to understand.
I told him thanks but no thanks as he shuffled off. It’s then that we learned who he was, some low grade hood named Mike MacGregor, known as Mad Dog, who calls himself dog.
Calling this guy dog was a serious insult to the whole canine species. And a MacGregor to boot.
The MacGregor Clan was a famous tribe of the Highlands, who supported the Jacobite cause in the 
17th and 18th centuries. The English monarchs who ruled Scotland then banned the playing of pipes and other highland traditions and the MacGregor’s became an outlaw clan of sorts, with Rob Roy MacGregor immortalized by Sir Walter Scott. Many MacGregor’s were forced to adopt different names to avoid unjust persecution. Skinner was one surname widely adopted and is now a recognized sept of the MacGregor Clan.
It could be Jeff and I were related to this low life. Well you can’t choose your relatives.
In time Mad Dog returned, pushing his deal and the great things he could do for me. Jeff was a bit in his cups so I can see how he misunderstood the exchange I had with doggie.
“Piss off, dog, I want nothing to do with you.”
“ Yoo ilk Ill make an errah in judgement in not puttin in with me” he replied.
And then he pissed off.
Another round of drinks appeared, courtesy of new found friends, and we returned to talk of golf and whiskey.
It was only a short walk home from The Duck, for which I was thankful, for Jeff needed some assistance which I was all too happy to render.
Related Articles
