90 HAPPY HUNTING-GROUNDS 



ward by two bays, Traigh na Tobar Fuar and Port 

 Lotha. Beyond them nothing is visible but the mighty 

 Atlantic, its great waves always restless, although 

 sometimes they rise and fall in billowy undulations as 

 smooth as oil, save where white breakers indicate hidden 

 rocks ; or as is more often the case, dash with resist- 

 less force against the shore, sometimes on stormy 

 days sending great masses of sea-weed, jellyfish, and 

 barnacles far above ordinary high -water mark. I 

 have known occasions when after a heavy gale the 

 grass has been covered to a depth of two or three 

 inches with a gelatinous and slimy deposit. 



To-day, however, there is only a light breeze, the 

 sun is shining, and all is fair. I have for partner my 

 old friend, and connection by marriage, Alan Steward, 

 keen like myself at all outdoor sports, and ready to 

 take a hand to-day with golf clubs, gun, and fishing- 

 rod. We make a good match, as although he has 

 considerably the advantage over me in point of age, 

 I have of recent years enjoyed more opportunities of 

 play, and our handicaps are about equal. 



The first tee is just at the edge of a yawning sand 

 bunker, the green being about 250 yards off, the only 

 other hazard beinga little burn which meanders through 

 the links to the bay below. The hole is a little tricky, 

 as although any lofted ball is safe to carry the first 

 hazard, a topped one is certain to be severely punished, 

 and the burn is at a distance which a short drive is very 

 likely to find. My partner catches his ball all right, 

 and it finds a rather lucky resting-place just over 

 the burn, but my first drive is a failure, and the new 

 white ball which I have taken in my pride of heart, 

 rolls ignominiously into the yawning gulf below my 



