Once, newly arrived in town, sitting in the pub of the Eagle Hotel in Dornoch, drinking water and reading a book, I reached for a refill and discovered it to be a gin tonic. The bartender shrugged her head to the left indicating a nearby table occupied by 3 or 4 guys. I raised my glass as a toast of thanks. I was waved over for an amusing chat and more drinks. I don’t know how they pegged me as a golfer—white left hand, good tan, the book (don’t remember), bad wardrobe, new face in a golf village, whatever—but worn a glove ever since as a sentimental reminder. Was the start of some fine days.