"Tracks" said Piglet. Oh Pooh! Do you think it's a-a-a Woozle?"
"It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't"
Fifty steps.
That's all it is from my door to the range.
Ok, ‘range’ is a bit of a misnomer.
Experience (and we won't go into that) suggests that anything more than a well struck pitching wedge will escape its confines.
Nevertheless, a wedge and three golf balls, taken to the village recreation ground, have become a staple of my practice.
It's no hassle, I’m often heading that way anyway.
With my regular practice partner.
He’s not big on swing theory but there’s none better at retrieving those balls.
Sessions don’t last too long, usually concluding when all the rich tea biscuits in my pocket have been eaten.
The only condition on the duration of our practice?
We stay out, in all weathers, until my partner has done his business.
Not much of a hardship - he's as 'regular' as a golf101 missed putt.
And the convenience of the location is well matched by the solitude it offers.
Our endeavours are rarely disturbed at the times we choose.
We are both early birds.
So this time of year we tend to be the morning 'Dewseepers'.
But rare as it is, I guess that, over the years, many of the neighbours have encountered us honing our routine.
A slightly incongruous pair even for our Village...
Monty, dutifully playing the role of a sleek, jet black, Sancho Panza.
Patiently waiting to retrieve the results of his wellington-booted Don Quixote, as golf101 tilts a 48 degree wedge at a seemingly defenceless, but occasionally resistant, Srixon AD333.
And when we're done...
"Come on Monty, let's go home for some tea and honey."
Golfing bliss.
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