Water hazard.

After a weekend stuck indoors, I just had to go out for a brisk constitutional today. On with the clumpy walking boots, beanie and hooded coat, open the door and head into the great, blue yonder. I'd barely strolled a couple of hundred yards up the road when a van pulled up next to me and Lyn offered me a lift. Best not overdo the exercise, so I accepted a ride to the Brickie Hut. That way, the wind would be behind me all the way home. I made my way along Fidge to the golf course, where I snapped this view of the par three seventh from the tee. It's usually a generous little knock, but in this mood anything short is going to Davy Jones' locker and will leave you struggling to find a patch of terra firma to take a drop. It won't do your handicap any favours. I entertained myself, on the rest of the way home, by taking pictures of a particularly excitable North Sea. When she viewed the results, Gail was much relieved that she chose not to take a boat to Kirkwall today.