It began, inevitably, with another early morning flight — the kind where spirits are high, sleep is low, and someone’s already lost their passport before duty free.

First stop: La Finca. A warm-up round, allegedly non-qualifying. A window was smashed – Mr N. Wakefield, prepare the insurance documents.

The field was swollen, bloated even, with new blood: Mr S. Silcocks, Mr N. Wakefield, Mr W. Tear, Mr R. Stewart, and Mr W. Newing — each arriving with fresh optimism. Fresh meat for the handicapper.

Dinner that night? A magnificent feast at a restaurant nestled inside a roundabout — The Fish Bowl.

Then: 36 holes at Las Colinas, a top 100 track in Spain.

R1 was uneventful, 35 points from the leader Mr W. Newing. A newbie – the handicapper was not amused.

R2, scandal. Birthday boy Mr O. Mitchell emerged from the setting sun, sombrero flapping in the breeze, with a record-setting 43 points. Uproar followed. Official Provisional investigation: inconclusive. Mitchell kept the points. Muy bein!

A short sleep, and 18 more holes before the convoy tore off toward Valencia.

There, they encountered a mountain of paella and the local tipple – Agua De Valencia, equal parts vodka, gin, cava, orange juice and regret. Stirred with a putter.

The wise old Provisional Owls were chirping.

R4 was marred by a biblical thunderstorm. Several players decided they were unlikely to improve their scores and promptly stayed in bed, or finally went to bed.

Final round: El Saler. A coastal gem. Wind in the trees, salt in the air, hangovers in full bloom.

But it was too late. The damage had been done. No one could catch the leader.

Mr O. Mitchell didn’t even need to look over his shoulder, winning by 12 points. Handicap hearings pending.

The scoreboard sighed.

Surely, they said, surely, next year… a new name?