To the island and back

I am labouring under the burden of some stresses, hopefully temporary. I walk toward the golf course with a troubled mind. On the bridge to the island, a strange feeling that troubles can stay on the mainland begins to emerge. By the time the path to the course is found, with sunlight reaching me through autumn trees, my mood lifts, at least for a while. I play the pointless game of golf, reflecting on the possibility that finding pleasure in pointlessness might help the continuing journey through an ultimately pointless life. Then later I make it to a very fine pub, and about half-way through a pint of Punk IPA, life, for the moment, feels fine.