The Rain in Spain

I have only experienced horizontal rain in Asian monsoons and Caribbean hurricanes if I exclude visits to the West coast of Norway. Oh yes, and the West coasts of: England; Scotland; Wales; Ireland; and, occasionally North America.

It is depressing and seriously fucks with my golf karma.

I read in the Times on Tuesday that Spain is suffering its worst drought in 4 decades. This story is barely palatable. Climatologists suggest Spain is one of the countries worst affected by global warming, though claim very leaky pipes are a big part of the water shortage. Valencia and Catalonia are the hardest hit regions.

No such luck in Andalucia. The weather gods are conspiring with the golf gods to punish me for one of my many sins. Though I am agnostic, a sin in itself, this often happens to me when visiting Catholic countries. I am holed up safely in the Casa as the wind whistles around corners and the rain pelts the windows.

Even the wildlife has taken refuge. Tuesday morning, Mother duck waddles by the Casa with her gaggle of chicks in tow in search of higher ground. It is very cute but signals to me the dangers at hand. Ducks are good swimmers. They are seeking higher ground. Something wicked this way comes.

Rabbits are not good swimmers. I awake Wednesday morning to a stream of dead bunnies in front of the Casa. It is like Watership Down on acid. I can only assume the local warren has flooded and has spilled onto the property. Mrs. BB weeps like a child for the bunnies. Seeing her in this state breaks my heart. I hug and console her promising to dispose of the carnage shortly after breakfast.

Surveying the task at hand I select a 3 iron from my golf bag. I will repatriate the rabbits to their hole in the rough next to the fairway, a sort of makeshift par 3 mass burial. The bunnies are small but very wet. I change clubs opting for a fairway metal with more loft.

With a gale force 5 to my back the trajectory of the flight is high. The greyness of the horizon is intermittently broken by rabbits gracefully sailing through the air. No holes in one but all makeable birdie putts. I take them as ‘gimmes’ and leave the putter in the bag. This is the only opportunity I will have to swing a club this week and I feel much better for it.

My Spanish amigos are relieved the forecast indicates He will rest on the 7th day. I think He will need a few weeks’ holiday. After the havoc wreaked here He must be spent. I am grateful the weather will be pleasant on Sunday for the drive to Seville to catch the flight back to Oslo, were it is forecast to, uhm… well rain.

I should have listened to Eliza’s repeated warnings and avoided the plains.

Beaverboosh