My Spanish friends arrived about 11pm on Saturday bearing a gift of wine disproportionate to the efforts I’d made on their behalf. But it would have been rude to refuse, wouldn’t it? If I’m disciplined enough to spin it out some trickles of Ribera del Duero may make it to Edinburgh with me.

I’d been keeping dinner hot, and true to Spanish type they found the lateness of the hour no impediment to enjoying a good nosh. Not even the eleven year old. Made of weaker matter I had eaten my own several hours earlier.

I’d taken the precaution of collecting the key to the gîte earlier in the day so when we got there around 12.30 there was only the pitch black country night to contend with. Surpassing myself in terms of foresight I even had a torch handy which made putting the right key in the right hole a dawdle.

I got to bed about 2 and have seized on the late night as the obvious reason for a failure to repeat the previous Sunday’s handicap improving round. If golf were a game of nine holes I’d have done very well but alas you have keep up the same standard to the bitter end.