Stories submitted by: The Order Archive - Sister Morag

Editor’s Note: The following account has been preserved from the Order’s archives. Some minor adjustments to wording have been made for modern readability, but the spirit and substance of the original telling remain unchanged.

You’ve heard why they call it GOLF, haven’t you? Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden. Aye, they’ll tell you it was a rule. I’ll tell you it was a grudge. And I was the reason.

Musselburgh Links, a day that smelled of salt and smoke. The boats were in, the baskets were light, and I had time to play. I walked up with a borrowed club and a creel on my back. The men laughed. “Fishwife on the fairway,” they said. “She’ll lose her ball in the first gorse.”

I laughed louder. “A basket of haddock says I beat your best.” They roared, slapped their thighs, and put up a silver flask. The crowd gathered. Ministers frowned. Caddies grinned. The match was on.

The first hole was a storm of jeers. I swung like I worked: hard and honest. The ball flew, and their laughter thinned. By the third, I was one up, and the laird’s face was red as a boiled lobster. He cursed the wind. I thanked it.

At the sixth, he tried a trick. Sent a boy running to fetch me ale, hoping I’d lose my rhythm. I drank it in one pull and drove the next ball so far the boy dropped his jaw. The crowd roared. The laird’s hands shook.

By the twelfth, the whispers started. “She’s holding her own.” “She might take him.” The ministers muttered about shame and skirts. I gripped my club tighter and thought of every mile I’d walked with a creel on my back.

The last hole was tied. The wind howled off the Forth, and the laird’s shot skittered short. He stood pale as salt. I stepped up, creel still on my back, and struck. The ball rolled true, kissed the lip, and dropped.

The tavern that night was a storm of voices. I drank their whisky, pocketed their pride, and walked home with my basket full and my head high.

They say GOLF means Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden. Truth is, it means Morag Fisher ruined their game. And if you doubt me, ask the men who still curse my name when the wind blows in from Musselburgh.