It seemed an overly cautious trip to be taking, but Mason insisted. I hadn't been out this way, save passing through, for some time. A host of McMansions had sprouted up on the other side of the road from the entrance to Belleisle golf club. An overt display of wealth, incongruous with the news full of nations facing bankruptcy. I thinned my eyes, allowed a squint towards the bricks and mortar someone had mortgaged their life to: what was the point? Money, greed, it had taken over. Everywhere. This was Ayrshire. I still remembered the Thatcher years. The pit closures and how the miners fought, in the end, for nothing. They closed the pits anyway. The miners got a few bob, but that was cold comfort for having their way of life taken from them. The money went fast — six-month millionaires they called them; I wondered if they felt right having it. Some of us still held onto values you couldn't measure in pound signs. The car park was half empty; I was sure it wasn't half full. As I pulled up outside what had once been a popular café and 19th hole I clocked the decay of years.
