Reigning in Spain – with a timely reminder of home

A sunshine break provides Fiona with a chance to reflect on the origins of golf, Mary Queen of Scots and an early alarm call

As the winter weather hits, we somehow manage to slip away for a bit of Spanish sun. To eat paella and lie on loungers. To drink cold beer and swim outside. Though not necessarily in that order. I have to say, a February break is not the norm.

Because when snow strikes and the wind wails, the chief’s usual inclination is to batten down the hatches.

This time, though, an escape is in the offing. And, despite met office warnings and long faces from the MacNaughties, we manage to get away.

Dark clouds are overhead. Storms batter the car on the way to the airport.

Where for some reason we are made to stand outside for 20 minutes in puddles in a wind tunnel on the runway.

Passengers shiver and shake. A young mother tries to shelter her baby from the rain.

Surely Edinburgh, we can do a bit better than that?

Yet all is forgotten when in the air. Our destination is the colourful Canary Islands – and again, unusually for us, we are staying at a golf hotel. Because neither of us plays the glorious game.

For my part, I would like to. And in my youth, I have tried to.

But the sad fact is, I was born with very little hand-ball co-ordination.

So, basically, I am useless at it. While the MacGregor has no interest.

Yet here we are. Sitting on a balcony in Fuerteventura. Happily watching folk whack small white balls across the green.

An expanse of grass that is religiously mowed at 7.30am. So, no need for an alarm call.

In some ways, being here is a reminder of home. Take away the weather, the palm trees – and the groups of jolly Germans massing on the links – and this could well be Scotland.

For it is the Scots who invented golf; royalty and lesser mortals playing it from medieval times; soldiers and emigrants later taking it right round the world.

And so, it is fitting that there are nods to the game’s roots at this Spanish sporting hotel.

At night we eat in the aptly-named St Andrew’s Restaurant, next to a couple from Bearsden who have come to this part of the world to improve their swing.

At another table, meanwhile, a hearty-looking German woman dines on a salmon steak while clad in an unmistakeable yellow-striped Gordon tartan golfing jacket.

Scottish spirits abound here and they

Sitting on a balcony... happily watching folk whack small white balls across the green

will fix you a decent Rob Roy cocktail. If you drink whisky that is, which I do not.

Then as the week progresses a Dutch lady approaches me with a question.

She wants to know if the word “golf” is short for ‘Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden’?

I tell her I have not given it much thought. But I am sure Mary Queen of Scots once played the thing. So probably not.

Picture: Shutterstock The golf course is an expanse of grass that is religiously mowed at 7.30am. Every day.