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enormous golf bag covered in logos, the second, who wore slacks and jacket, had a phone pressed to his ear and was in mid-conversation, and the third, in golf gear and with two-tone footwear that looked hand-crafted, had ginger hair tied back in a ponytail. I recognised him from telly as a pro.
    ‘Let’s follow them,’ I proposed.
    We did, at a discreet distance. The path they took led past a bronze statue of a man straddling an enormous golf club . . . five or six iron, I guessed . . . and past a hotel complex on our right, before opening out into a wide field, at one end of which around a dozen golfers stood in a long rank, some with caddies, others with coaches as well, each with a bucket of balls at his feet, each engaged in whacking them into the distance.
    ‘This is more like it,’ Patterson beamed. ‘Practice range.’
    Maybe so, but I felt instantly self-conscious. Although there was a small tiered grandstand behind the players, with half a dozen rows of seats, they were empty, and there was nobody else around who looked even remotely like a spectator, or who didn’t know what they were doing there. Someone else thought so too. A tall white-haired man with tanned, leathery skin came walking towards us. Fortunately he was smiling.
    ‘Morning,’ he began, in a refreshingly Scottish accent. ‘Can I help you? I’m Clive Tate, the practice ground manager. Are you looking for anyone in particular? If you’re media, your tent isn’t open yet, but I saw the Tour press officer on the clubhouse terrace with some of the early arrivals.’
    ‘No, no,’ I told him, hurriedly. ‘We’re not journos, God forbid.’
    The smile became a chuckle. ‘I didn’t really think so; I know all the regulars. But occasionally we have people turn up at these Spanish events saying they work for ex-pat newspapers; websites too, these days.’
    ‘That’s not us, I promise. We’re punters, simple as that.’
    ‘In that case you’ll have the stand to yourself.’ He reached behind his back and pulled a rolled-up magazine from a trouser pocket. ‘Here,’ he said as he handed it to me, ‘on the house for a fellow Jock. It’s the programme for the week, with all the players listed. You won’t be able to buy one of these until Wednesday. That’s how early you three are. Still, if you stick around for a few hours, you should see quite a few of the top guys. This event has a high-quality entry field.’
    He left us to it and headed back towards the Portakabin that seemed to be his office. We chose seats in the top row of the not-very-grandstand. One or two of the players glanced in our direction, but most of them stayed completely focused on what they were doing.
    Shirley and I sat on either side of Patterson, who seemed to know his stuff as he played ‘spot the golfer’. He named quite a few stars even I’d never heard of, proving himself right when in doubt with a quick check of the programme. I concentrated on the ponytailed chap we’d followed. He was one of the oldest on the range, built like a man who’d enjoyed a few good breakfasts in his time, and with a distinctive practice routine which I guessed that he had been following on other ranges for at least a quarter of a century, and probably more. He loosened up before every shot with a huge, furious swing of the club, but when he put a ball at his feet, he struck it with a slow, controlled rhythm, sending it off into the distance with a perfect left to right fade.
    I watched him for a while as he worked his way through all the clubs in his bag, then switched to another player that I recognised, a former US Open champion no less. Patterson remarked that his very presence was a sign that the Catalan Masters event was being taken seriously, and that the prize fund was attractive. I studied his form for a while. At one point he turned to speak to his coach, and noticed us in the stand. He smiled, and I heard him say, ‘Hey, we’ve got a gallery already.’ He waved in