THE NEXT MORNING, SARAH, who is unaccustomed to three generous whiskeys at dinner, is not feeling too sprightly, and Noah and I brave the dining room of the Old Manse alone. A dozen diners are already there and as we enter the room and take a small table by the window, every one of them looks up and says, “Good morning.” For both of us, it’s our first stay at a B&B, and the unexpected intimacy with our fellow guests is a bit disconcerting, and we can’t quite figure out why the fact that our shared roof is on a large house rather than a hotel makes such a difference.
“That’s one of the reasons why you travel, Noah. To experience different things.”
“I guess.”
Breakfast is also different. In the Scottish version, it’s a much more crowded plate—the fried eggs surrounded by baked beans, mushroom caps, cooked tomatoes. And there’s a medley of meats that include their version of bacon, sausage, and several blackened discs which we are told are blood sausages.
“I think the breakfast is great,” I say. “I love the sausage and beans and eggs all together.”
“Beans for breakfast?” says Noah. “Sorry.”
When we get upstairs, Sarah has pulled the sheets over her head. We grab Louie and walk into town and I’m relieved to see that the pay phone is still there. At the local grocery, we buy a muffin and a large bottle of water for Sarah along with a London Times, which bears the front-page headline ST. ANDREWS BRACES FOR TIGERMANIA, lay it all quietly on her night table, and set out exploring in the van. We end up in the fishing village of Portmahomack, where we buy lunch from a food truck and walk out to a lighthouse, described as the third tallest in Scotland.
We get back to Dornoch twenty minutes before Finchem is due to call, and take another walk through town, visiting its most significant nongolfing landmark, a thirteenth-century cathedral. When we loop back, the pay phone booth is occupied in every sense of the word by a teenage girl in a black leather motorcycle jacket. Her hair is bleached the same white as THE REZILLOS painted on the back of her jacket.
“Who are the Rezillos?” asks Noah.
“Never heard of them, but probably the name of her favorite band.”
As it gets closer to four, the three of us edge nearer to the booth, but the conversation inside shows no sign of ebbing, and when I attempt a bit of universal mime—tapping my wrist with a finger and then holding my hand to my ear to convey I’m waiting on an important call, she responds with a universal gesture of her own.
“Dad, that girl just flipped you the bird.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
A quick glance at my watch confirms that the minute hand is straight up.
“Noah, we have no choice. We got to see her and raise her. With lots of attitude. And try to curl your lip as you do it. Ready?”
“I was born ready.”
“On three. One…two…” On three, we come up with double barrels blazing, our faces twisted into snarls. A passerby would be less than impressed to see a father and son flipping off a teenage girl in a phone booth, but fortunately the street is empty and our target is the only witness.
Rather than being irked, the teen hoots audibly, replaces the phone, and steps out, our cause probably helped by the fact that we’re both wearing Spinal Tap T-shirts. “It’s all yours, gents.”
Seconds later, the tower tolls and the phone rings.
“Travis, this is Tim. I couldn’t get you into the Senior stop. Sorry, it was too late, but I twisted a couple of arms and called in a favor and got you into the Monday qualifier for the Scottish Open. The main event is at Loch Lomond, a new course that’s supposed to be spectacular, and the qualifier is up the road a bit at North Berwick, so if nothing else you’ll get a crack at another charming old Scottish links.”
“Thanks, Tim, I’ll try to make you proud.”
“I’ll settle for not being embarrassed.…Freedom and whiskey gang the gither! Take off your dram.”
“Tim?”
“A toast, courtesy of the great Scottish poet Robert Burns. Good luck, Travis.”
“What did he say?” asks Noah.
“Freedom and whiskey gang the gither! Take off your dram!”