Mountain Tease
"No! Not again," I growled, waiting in the sunset for my husband to come home.
About a year ago, just after the last snow had melted, my husband started disappearing every second Saturday. With the start of daylight saving on 22 June, he would not arrive home before half past ten on Thursday nights as well. And thus it went until the end of September, with the Saturday ritual ending in an early winter mid-November.
I knew a love affair had begun and burned to find out more about the nub of his attention. One mid-summer's day straight after work I drove up to a golf course nestled in the slopes of the Jura Mountain range.
I left at 5pm, reaching La Maline at 6. I tried to clear my mind for nothing but golf and the fresh breath of the mountains. My form was still good after a day's work, so instead of a leisurely nine holes, I opted for 18, hoping the light would see me through.
Above the thousand metre line I teed off at number 1, drinking in the mountain air, crisp beneath a cobalt sky. Grassy waves undulated at my feet as I spied two ponds lying in wait behind the oval lush of the green. I hiked down through holes 2 and 3, catching my breath in delicious draughts sorely needed on the 450-metre long number 4 that took me up the hill again. By the time I reached the fifth, I was ready for a short respite in the cool and silent glade of a par 3 whose elfin beauty from the tee veiled the hole's intricacy.
The valley led me on springy grass back down again through number 6 and brought me to the comforting and familiar game of 7, 8 and 9, with their expectant ponds and creeks, and bunkers, so predictable, and yet ...
Elated by one closing shot, the padded green I'd reached in two, I spoiled to defy the 10th at the foot of 570-metre climb. From there on in my stance was flat no more and I hit crab-like on to the 15th. But there, it all became worthwhile as my eyes took in a mountain lake lying clasped in a coterie of pines. The clubhouse, a trusty matchmaker in country farmhouse dress, caught the sun's smiling wink and beckoned me to her terrace. From hole 16, the end was in sight; it was downhill all the way, through the 17th on to 18, refreshment easing closer behind the shaven green.
But it was not yet to be. My clubs slowed the way up the curve of the gravel path, loath to leave their mountain playing field.
The sun was slipping homeward as my host, Victor, served me cool and cloudy Pernod with a twinkle dusted smile. I stretched and sipped, my mind reviewing every hole spread out below. Oh, why had I not taken the 7 iron in the glade at number 5? But that shot on the 15th, everything just right, soared me forth to future expectations.
The kitchen fires were still warm, so I ordered a "croque monsieur" of ham and cheese in golden toast before heading down the mountain road back home. I said my "au revoirs", taking in a pitch 'n' putt and a 6-hole compact course. They'd fit in nicely, next time, a prelude to roast lamb and "gratin dauphinois", laced tight by the deep and fruity red of a country meal for two.
My husband stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. I lugged my clubs from the car, a sheepish smile of satisfaction on my face. He put his arm around me and relieved me of my load. "Glad you like her," he grinned.
-----
Published online in 1994 in the Library at IGA - International Golf Associates (Franco-Swiss)
About a year ago, just after the last snow had melted, my husband started disappearing every second Saturday. With the start of daylight saving on 22 June, he would not arrive home before half past ten on Thursday nights as well. And thus it went until the end of September, with the Saturday ritual ending in an early winter mid-November.
I knew a love affair had begun and burned to find out more about the nub of his attention. One mid-summer's day straight after work I drove up to a golf course nestled in the slopes of the Jura Mountain range.
I left at 5pm, reaching La Maline at 6. I tried to clear my mind for nothing but golf and the fresh breath of the mountains. My form was still good after a day's work, so instead of a leisurely nine holes, I opted for 18, hoping the light would see me through.
Above the thousand metre line I teed off at number 1, drinking in the mountain air, crisp beneath a cobalt sky. Grassy waves undulated at my feet as I spied two ponds lying in wait behind the oval lush of the green. I hiked down through holes 2 and 3, catching my breath in delicious draughts sorely needed on the 450-metre long number 4 that took me up the hill again. By the time I reached the fifth, I was ready for a short respite in the cool and silent glade of a par 3 whose elfin beauty from the tee veiled the hole's intricacy.
The valley led me on springy grass back down again through number 6 and brought me to the comforting and familiar game of 7, 8 and 9, with their expectant ponds and creeks, and bunkers, so predictable, and yet ...
Elated by one closing shot, the padded green I'd reached in two, I spoiled to defy the 10th at the foot of 570-metre climb. From there on in my stance was flat no more and I hit crab-like on to the 15th. But there, it all became worthwhile as my eyes took in a mountain lake lying clasped in a coterie of pines. The clubhouse, a trusty matchmaker in country farmhouse dress, caught the sun's smiling wink and beckoned me to her terrace. From hole 16, the end was in sight; it was downhill all the way, through the 17th on to 18, refreshment easing closer behind the shaven green.
But it was not yet to be. My clubs slowed the way up the curve of the gravel path, loath to leave their mountain playing field.
The sun was slipping homeward as my host, Victor, served me cool and cloudy Pernod with a twinkle dusted smile. I stretched and sipped, my mind reviewing every hole spread out below. Oh, why had I not taken the 7 iron in the glade at number 5? But that shot on the 15th, everything just right, soared me forth to future expectations.
The kitchen fires were still warm, so I ordered a "croque monsieur" of ham and cheese in golden toast before heading down the mountain road back home. I said my "au revoirs", taking in a pitch 'n' putt and a 6-hole compact course. They'd fit in nicely, next time, a prelude to roast lamb and "gratin dauphinois", laced tight by the deep and fruity red of a country meal for two.
My husband stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. I lugged my clubs from the car, a sheepish smile of satisfaction on my face. He put his arm around me and relieved me of my load. "Glad you like her," he grinned.
-----
Published online in 1994 in the Library at IGA - International Golf Associates (Franco-Swiss)
© 2006 Sylvia Petter
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