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No wind.
And the faint, mocking ding of a bell that rings by itself. hurleypurley foursome ts07-54 Min
I took the club. I didn’t swing at the ball. I swung at the space just to the left of it. The niblick cut the air, and I heard a sound like tearing silk. The ball jumped sideways, rolled onto a tuft of grass, and then—impossibly—hopped twice and ran straight toward the bell. No wind
“The ball,” I hissed. “Where’s the ball?” I didn’t swing at the ball
We searched on hands and knees, thistles stabbing our palms. Chip found it nestled in a fox’s footprint. He played our second shot. The brassie clanked off a buried rock. The ball screamed sideways into the gorse.
By the 13th, “The Devil’s Elbow,” we had lost the ball three times, found it twice in badger sets, and once in the open mouth of a dead crow. Chip’s hands were bleeding. My knee sang with a cold, old agony.