There’s nothing more boring than finding yourself at a dinner party or on an airplane seated next to some long-winded bore who has just returned from a vacation to a foreign country and who assumes that there is nothing on earth that you’d rather do than have him or her recount for you, in excruciating detail, everything he or she saw and did on their trip, often in the precise order in which he or she saw it and did it, and usually accompanied by frequent reminders about just how much more exciting and vivid the event would have been if you had actually been lucky enough to have been there yourself rather than having to hear about it instead from your lucky storyteller.

Just last week some Bainbridge Island friends and I were talking about the crushing boredom of other people’s travel stories as we stood in the dappled sunshine and gentle breezes along the sandy beaches and rocky outcroppings of the scenic coast of the Kintyre Peninsula on the Southwest Coast of Scotland, waiting outside the starter’s booth on the storied first tee of the Machrihanish Golf Course. As we prepared to begin play on the first of many rounds of golf we made a solemn vow that none of us, no matter who asked us or why, would mention the spectacular scenery of any of the traditional links courses we played during the week we were there.

Late one afternoon in the Old Clubhouse Pub adjusting our hydration levels after a dazzling round of golf, we recognized that it would be difficult not to respond to the innocent inquiries about our trip from friends, family and colleagues, but in the interest of solidarity we pledged that we would not mention to anyone how lush and beautiful the Scottish countryside is, or how friendly the Scottish people are, or how reasonably priced the beer is in local pubs, or the quality of the local single malts. We agreed not to tell anyone that some of us actually ate and enjoyed both black pudding and haggis. Actually only one of us tried the haggis and black pudding, and he didn’t die or get sick, but the rest of us still felt it was probably not worth the risk.

We happened to be in Scotland on the day of Queen Elizabeth’s funeral in London. It is no exaggeration to say that the country shut down for most of the day. The pubs that were open were packed with locals with their eyes glued to the TV screens. Stores, restaurants and everything else were closed, and the streets were virtually empty of cars or pedestrians. It was an absolutely terrible day if you happened to be a home burglar or a street busker. Fortunately, golf courses were open, so we played a morning round and then joined the locals to watch the queen’s funeral procession on TV. It was an impressive and solemn event, and I mean no disrespect to the queen when I say it reminded me a bit of Bainbridge 4th of July parades of old when everyone on the island was either in the parade or gathered along the street watching it go by.

Our week in Machrihanish was perfect, so enjoyable that we were able to endure the several flight cancellations, delays and missed connections and the lost luggage and golf clubs that almost all of us experienced. On the bright side, I now know what one’s entertainment options are if you happen to find yourself stuck in Heathrow Airport for nine hours on a Thursday night, and they aren’t pretty.

Our group consisted of eight guys, some of whom have known each other for more than 60 years, and all of whom have been getting together regularly for decades to play golf and poker. I don’t know what women talk about when they are traveling with other women.

I suspect they talk about the long and rich history of the places they are visiting, the local fashions, customs and cultural activities, and perhaps the bargains in local goods to be had by the crafty shopper. I do know what men talk about in such circumstances: Sports, how we played the day before vs. how we think we’ll play on the current day, whether having the fish and chips for lunch in Old Clubhouse Pub is a better overall decision than having the steak and kidney pie for dinner, and whether it makes more sense to lay up in front of the stream guarding the green on the 17th hole at the charming local Dunarvaty Course or go for the flag with a lofted fairway wood. On this last question, I’m afraid I can’t help you; I can get a golf ball wet from any spot on any course with any club at any time.

Tom Tyner writes a weekly humor column for this newspaper.