|I was on the next tee....I really was...|
Now, when we're on holiday, I quite often go with Mr Dunnit to the driving range. I am utterly hopeless at it. Boobs too big, sticks don't work, can't keep my eye on the ball, don't want to stick my bum out that far - AND....want to continue with a running commentary. Not the done thing, apparently. So now I watch at the driving range, and if it's not busy, I offer praise and advice and encouragement. If there are other people within earshot, I sit quietly and pretend to be enthralled. The real pay off is when he goes to play a proper round of golf. At this particular course, he rings me when he gets to about the fourteenth. I get to him at about the sixteenth and I walk the last two with him and we enjoy a coffee and or lunch at the nineteenth together. This particular course is Real Campamor. 'Real' is Royal. Like Regis in Britain. Bognor Regis, Lyme Regis - you get it. So I like to think of it as the King's course. The restaurant and patio service are fit for a King. It's got stunning views over the erm, golf course and the miles of beautiful villas and you can just see the sea.
There are stunning gardens and there are sports facilities at which a lot of international football teams train during the winter. I'm led to believe. Of course, I've notice herds of young men in shorts with towels slung about their necks..but I thought they were doing what I was doing. Taking advantage of the completely class-less structure that exists in Spain....schlepping through beautifully appointed lounges in my shorts and flip flops to use restrooms, bag free wifi and be waited on like a member of royalty. Turns out that no, they've actually earned their place amongst these luxurious surroundings. Ha! All I had to do was walk two holes and buy a cup of coffee. Who's the fool?
Joining Elizabeth and Bleubeard...I thought it would be fun to write a post involving a real tee. Man, I slay myself.