Blue skies, with a few wisps of high altitude clouds to enhance their beauty.
72°F - a rarity in the Texas Hill Country this time of year.
Gentle breezes.
Rolling hills, rocky cliffs, emerald greensward.
It was a perfect day for an afternoon on the golf course. But don’t think it came cheap. The price: a morning spent sitting in a stultifying Corporate Meeting Room, wandering from breakout session to breakout session, slurping down cup after cup of coffee in an effort to keep the eyelids propped open.
I know. Poor me. Alas, alackaday.
Screw that self-pity. The golf, at the Crenshaw Cliffs course, really was superb. I played with a rented set of Titleist clubs, including a driver with a big-ass 460cc head. Kinda like a watermelon on a toothpick. But I was smacking that evil white pill a looooong ways with it, generally in the right places. And I damn near got a hole-in-one on the 17th, my 6-iron tee shot landing a few feet from the hole, coming within inches of hitting the flagstick, and settling down five feet from the hole. The birdie putt was almost an anticlimax.
It’s Macallan o’clock, as my dinner - a fine, pepper-encrusted, seared chunk of ahi tuna - settles within my gently roiling kishkes.
And so to bed.
72°F - a rarity in the Texas Hill Country this time of year.
Gentle breezes.
Rolling hills, rocky cliffs, emerald greensward.
It was a perfect day for an afternoon on the golf course. But don’t think it came cheap. The price: a morning spent sitting in a stultifying Corporate Meeting Room, wandering from breakout session to breakout session, slurping down cup after cup of coffee in an effort to keep the eyelids propped open.
I know. Poor me. Alas, alackaday.
Screw that self-pity. The golf, at the Crenshaw Cliffs course, really was superb. I played with a rented set of Titleist clubs, including a driver with a big-ass 460cc head. Kinda like a watermelon on a toothpick. But I was smacking that evil white pill a looooong ways with it, generally in the right places. And I damn near got a hole-in-one on the 17th, my 6-iron tee shot landing a few feet from the hole, coming within inches of hitting the flagstick, and settling down five feet from the hole. The birdie putt was almost an anticlimax.
It’s Macallan o’clock, as my dinner - a fine, pepper-encrusted, seared chunk of ahi tuna - settles within my gently roiling kishkes.
And so to bed.
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