Lisbon, Portugal

Fish, fungi and fever.

It began with an evening flight and a bleary-eyed drive through the inky darkness to Baleal — a sun-bleached surf outpost where time runs backwards and wetsuits are considered formal wear.

Mr I. Harrington was struck down early by an unspecified virus. He was promptly isolated.

Rounds 1 and 2 were held at West Cliffs — a course so scenic it lulls you into believing it’s playable. It isn’t. Round 2 dragged on for hours, thanks to a group of Spanish “golfers” – the concentration waned, as did the points. Round 1 leader; Robert Hollinshead with 31 points.

Next came Bom Successo, a course so bizarre that it was promptly erased from the Provisional record books. Imagine a Soviet military academy repurposed as a golf resort, and you’re halfway there. Concrete bunkers. Echoing corridors. The distant sound of someone triple-bogeying in despair. The round did not count.

Round 3: Praia D’El Rey — charming, classic, coastal. Spirits briefly lifted.

That night: the beach. A psychedelic group therapy session disguised as a sunset hangout. The world has never looked so beautiful…unless you are sitting in a pitch black room, or are being attacked by giant flying bugs.

Round 4 at Royal Óbidos offered redemption. Sweeping views, elegant holes — and one man down again, Mr O. Mitchell now the latest victim of the mysterious plague.

Then to Lisbon. Drinks on a sun dappled terrace, dinner in the market, the streets were filled with the smell of sardines and the sound of drums until the early hours. The night was large for some.

The early tee time, unwelcome.

Final round: Terras De Comporta. Brand spanking new, lush, serene. We were welcomed like royalty. Journalists, they called us — mistaking our swagger for media credibility.

Mr R. Hollinshead — unbothered, well-hydrated on medium strength Portuguese lager. Relentless. Cruising to back-to-back victories.

Mr P. Edwards — tied for the overnight lead on 96 points, crumbled. Again.