Home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered...

A 300 years ago when Troon but was a field with the "big house" and the Duke ruling over the pheasants (I know what I did there), there were still sailors.

Big, roughy, toughy, illiterate, muscly, red haired, with an ability to drink gallons of whisky without any effect, real men roamed the docks in search of fair game and fair and wummin.


It's still kinda the same, and I waited for ages this morning, but obviously the ability to cope with the whisky just aint the same.