"currently battling with my dear friend, the Silverstripe CMS" - 1 hour ago
"is thoroughly relaxed at another Irish farmhouse B&B, this time one run by a character and a half, Sharon Moore.... http://fb.me/Fd1zVe5z" - 18 hours ago
"Is this the Nellie bunker you were talking about mate? Safely avoided I'm pleased to report http://fb.me/EHAvCmyU" - 23 hours ago
Friends, top of the morning to you. And what a fine day it is up here in Donegal.
One of the rudimentary tasks that confronts us when we enter a new country is to sort out a local SIM card (i.e. phone number). I've just been into Carndonagh a quaint wee village and lo and behold they had an O2 store.
So. The long and the short of this little story is this. If you're telephoning Michael or myself, the number to use is:
+353 (0)86 842 3399
Mike's still got his UK number and (we think) can continue to receive calls on +44 7403 170 371. If in doubt call me and if you'd prefer to talk to my friend I'll hand the phone over to y'er man.
Slainte
JP
I think it was Dylan Thomas that said, “Wales is the land of my fathers. And they can keep it” (or something like that). Well, Nor’n Ireland is the land of my fathers; Porteedown to be precise. And I’ve come to take it back! (Now that dad, his only brother, and his parents are now out in New Zealand). Because I have a soft spot for this part of the world, for its people. They are so wonderfully human and, more importantly, funny. Craic is the name of the game.
Before heading to Porteedown GC – just a mile or so down the road from my grandparents’ old house at 146 Gilford Road – we were invited to have lunch with their dear friends, Allan & Alix Jardine. You Dear Reader will never in your life come across more of a character than Alix, who is as they say full of beans. I haven’t laughed so much in a long time. Allan does well to keep up with her, and offers his own banter when Alix (occasionally) pauses for a breath. Their house was one of the last I was in before we emigrated back at the end of 2000 (for a Christmas Day cocktail party), so it seemed strangely familiar. (There were presents this time around too!). Another of my grandparents’ great pals – David Davin, who’s pushing 90 I hope he won’t mind me saying – came along for a sandwich and coffee too. We all had a famous time telling lies and half truths and everything in between. Mostly about D T Patton who has been known to share a half truth or two of his own...
David’s an amazing man, the light still very much being on and burning bright. Among other things he told stories of my grandfather’s notorious mischief, as well as a particularly nice tale about Upper & Lower Ballanderry (anyone?). He passed me a piece of paper too with a speech printed on it. It was the send off he delivered at my grandparents’ Emigration Wake, just before they defected to The Antipodes a couple of years after us. A moving few paragraphs it was too. I think if David lived in my town we’d be friends notwithstanding the 64 year age gap. Although I’d probably soon grow to resent him as he’d no doubt hog all the good looking girls with his chat.
Anyway. Once Alix had shoved as many sandwiches down our throats as she could possibly manage, Allan led us down to the Golf Club. En route was a quick stop in at G&G’s old house, which doesn’t seem to have changed much save for a few internal reshufflings. The immaculate big garden continues to be so. Walking through it brought back memories from many years gone by, when I’d spend hours pitching up and down the lawn – between the hedges and flower beds – while the other Pattons would pursue more sensible endeavours. An evocative 5 minutes or so. Allan and I did what was Right and Proper, and as the Germans would say, had our picture made.
Allan then took us on a tour of the clubhouse, which too was familiar. Everybody who walked past would say hello, not because they knew who I was but because that’s what they do here. It’s a friendly club. Along the hallways were framed portrait photos of past Captains and Presidents alike. A couple of familiar faces appeared on one or two of them. One frame in particular caught my eye - a group photo of past Captains. Standing there among a crowd was a handsome gentleman wearing a blazer that looked very familiar indeed. It was the blazer hanging up by coat hanger in our car parked outside. (Grandpa handed it down to me a couple of years ago, as he tends to do – and it’s the one I’ve been lugging around with me all year!).
As we were laughing about it all a friendly couple of lads got chatting, one of whom was a patient of my grandfather’s. Over the next few hours I would encounter roughly another 30 men or women that were patients of my grandparents. On each occasion I apologised for what they’d had to endure, and congratulated them on still being with us.
Then a bear of a figure appeared over my right shoulder. It was Johnny Rankin, the Captain of the Golf Club. He was a rugby player and looks like he could still hold his own against the Argentinean front row. A nicer fella of jolly demeanour you couldn’t hope to meet. His Porteedown accent was particularly thick, which may indeed have been one of the criterion for selection as Captain. Johnny joined us for a chinwag then marched us out the front to meet a photographer who’d come to take a snap for the local rag. Decked out in his number 1s – most notably, a very fine bottle green blazer – Johnny put us ragamuffins to shame.
And then there was golf. Just Michael, Allan and myself. The 1st tee shot looked more daunting as a youngster, although Back Then the decision making process was easier – driver it is then. Fast forward a few years and a bit more strategy is required (because I hit the ball further (but not necessarily straighter); not because the hole has changed). The 3 iron I hit down the fairway might’ve gone further than even my best knock as a 14 year old, but it was on the approach shot that I’d get caught out as I had so many times before. 1 green is long and narrow, and slopes sharply from front to back. Even landing my 50 yard pitch short of the green wouldn’t prove enough to hold it; I ended up down the bank over the back and failed to get up and down, carding a miserable opening bogey. Och well.
Allan was zipping around in a buggy built for the elements. The red awning you can see in the picture below will hold out even the most determined of showers, which you’re likely to find around these parts if you hang out long enough. The shower that confronted us on the 5th you could see coming like a tidal wave down the fairway towards you – like those Hollywood rain showers where someone has just turned on the tap. Frightening, as Gents would say.
Y’er man Johnny came out to see us as we trundled up to the 2nd green. In his pocket were 2 balls, each embossed with “Captains Day 2010, Johnny Rankin, Portadown GC” - to pass on to G&G with his best regards. A nice touch I thought. Allan had already furnished Michael and me each with a goodie bag holding a marker & pitch mark repairer, yardage book, bottle of water, banana and tees. Spoiled we were.
The course was just as I remember it: quaint and narrow enough to make you think/cry. It’s very much a parkland track, with trees and small greens being the main defences. The River Bann plays a lovely cameo on the 9th when you’re forced to drive over it. There appear to have been one or two new holes introduced in the past 10 years since I last played it, like the short par 3 6th, which with a pond and walled garden featuring was a delight. The 18th was still as hard as it was when I couldn’t hit the ball 200 yards.
[9 tee, over The Bann]
[5 green, guarded jealously]
[17 tee - narrow chute on a 564 yard par 5]
Really today was all about reminiscing though; reminiscing about what two tremendous humans Thomas & Margaret Patton are, and what they meant to this club and community. Since they emigrated to New Zealand I’ve had the privilege of spending a good deal of time in their company, in the hope that a little wisdom might rub off. They clearly had a lot of fans over ‘ere in Porteedown – patients and friends alike – and continue to be missed to this day. They were in my thoughts throughout the day.
Johnny postponed the Joker Draw for 20 minutes or so until we’d made it back to the clubhouse. A packed bar waited patiently for Johnny to pipe up. He then was kind enough to describe me as “a special guest”, and tell all what Michael and I had taken it upon ourselves to do. I said a few words of thanks – and about The First Tee – then drew the numbers. Johnny presented us with a club tie each, and pledged a donation on behalf of the membership – a very touching gesture. When all had settled down I sat with the lads and my pint, only to be shoulder tapped a few more times by former patients and friends of The Good Doctors. It seems they treated nearly everyone in Nor’n Ireland!
A kind gentleman who goes by the name of Don (yes, a patient of grandpa’s) bought us a pint of the black stuff and bent our ear for a while. Lovely chap. Allan gave me a history lesson on the shilleleagh (an Irish war club, one of which was pinned on the wall as a trophy), then took us next door for a smashing meal.
A more heart warming few hours it is hard to imagine. I know y’all read this for the golf, but today as I said before was really a story of my grandparents’ old stomping ground, where they obviously left a wonderful legacy. Only for me to ruin it!
If I may: a huge thank you to Porteedown GC for their epic hospitality (to Johnny Rankin in particular); to Allan & Alix Jardine for their craic and hospitality; and to David Davin for the stories. Thanks also to Dr Tommy and Margaret Patton for creating such a mountain of goodwill enabling me to come back and have such a tremendous day among your friends!
Slainte
JP
It was a very warm welcome to Northern Ireland by our hosts, Hugh & Grace Taggart, with whom we’d be spending the next two nights with on the outskirts of Belfast.
Hugh had contacted us a couple of months back inviting us to stay and arranging our golf at the Royal Belfast Golf Club and it has been very comforting knowing we’ve had the first game of golf in Northern Ireland arranged well in advance. The connection? Hugh is good mates with Norman Patton, Jamie’s fathers cousin, who we met up with for dinner in Ponte Vedra when we were staying with Mark and Nancy and playing at Sawgrass, visiting The First Tee HQ and the World Golf Village. That was a whirlwind time.
My initial thoughts of Belfast are that it feels like home. It is lush and the roads, cars and general feel is similar to back in New Zealand. First impressions are of course far from a determinative opinion on a place but you could definitely sense we had landed in a different country. Hugh and Grace did not disappoint in living up to the adage that folk here in Ireland are the friendliest in the world. They were fantastic hosts.
Hugh reminded me at times of my grandfather back in NZ who, along with my late grandmother, both had roots in Northern Ireland. Some mannerisms were the same and Hugh was particular to make sure everything was perfect whilst I kept saying, as laid back kiwis do, ‘it’s sweet as thanks’. Traveling this much you have simple wants and needs – a good bed, good company and a golf course somewhere in close proximity! Perhaps the bed was a bit too good as I managed to sleep in until around 1030 leaving a perfectly laid out breakfast (and first meal in Ireland) to wait downstairs.
The Golf
Early afternoon we made the short drive down the road and the stately entrance way to the Royal Belflast Golf Club. We’d met a few chaps from here way back at Royal Aberdeen when Zyg and Graeme (aka S.P.) led us astray for the day (and night) and we ended up in the Aberdeen township in the early hours of the morning with a number of the traveling Royal Belfast golf team. A couple of guys walked past saying a cheery g’day but I must admit it was difficult to remember all 20 guys names from that night!
Hugh had arranged the local Bangor paper to come down and so we had a couple of photographs and then it was off to the first tee along with our playing partner John. Hugh and I teamed up and after some serious handicapping calculations we were away.
The golf course has recently hosted the British Girls Open Amateur Championships, which Grace – as Ladies captain – had a huge involvement with. Sounded like she did a fine job and the course was still in pristine condition.
The first couple of holes are very strong par fours. And the first green has a tilt from back to front that gave us a real shock to the system. We’ve been playing on the generally flat links greens in Scotland and on these courses the green staff can’t make the greens rapid because the wind will blow that ball off the greens. But the greens at the parkland style Royal Belfast course had no such restrictions and they were absolutely rapid. A good couple of feet quicker than anything we’d played on in Scotland – even Loch Lomond. So the first few holes we were trying to adjust our short game. On the second I hit a chip that looked OK, only to see it roll through the green and into the deep greenside bunker on the other side! Jamie gave himself 6 foot return putts almost every hole on the front nine. Neither of us learnt in a hurry that we needed to hit the ball below the hole. A seemingly short course, designed by Harry Colt, Royal Belfast had plenty of defense in the form of its green complexes and surrounding bunkers – particularly with the course running at this speed (and a significant wind blowing). Don’t get me wrong, you could score here and the greens were receptive to the odd well struck iron shot, but you have to keep the ball below the hole. The story goes that Mr Colt kindly dotted 365 bunkers around the course but now this number has now shrunk to somewhere just below 100.
Hugh and I were taking on John and JP and I’d got Hugh on a good day. He played his lights out for much of the round until the match ended on the 16th hole courtesy of some dovetailing all the way around! I particularly enjoyed a quip from JP after Hugh had missed the green (by a fair way) on the par three 7th hole. “I’d like to see you get up and down from there” was followed by a remarkable pitch across the sharply sloping green to a couple of feet from where Hugh calmly tapped in for par and the win on the hole (no shots). His second remarkable par three on the front nine.
The stretch from 9 thru to 11 is particularly fun and known amongst the locals as amen corner. 9 plays along the waterfront, 10 is a devilish short par four where stories of Rory McIlroy – the local lad from the neighboring course started to flow (he hit 3 wood onto the green of course!), and then the famous uphill par three 11th over all kinds of scrub to a blind, two tiered green. Here John and I were faced with a real dilemma. A putt from the top tier to the pin cut right at the bottom of a sharp slope. John was a fine putter, and when he hit his putt first JP was quick to acknowledge his partners good roll. I held my tongue as I watched it gather pace and end up a couple of feet off the green. Using the experience of John’s putt I was faced with two options – lay up out to the left, or try and sink it knowing that at best I’d be left with a 10 footer uphill, if not further away off the green. Not one to lay-up full shots, let alone putts I knocked it down there barely moving as it went over the crest but still faced with a 10 footer coming back. Perhaps a green that was a little bit O.T.T – like the old Olympic 18th, but good fun nonetheless.
[On the 11th tee]
[JP on the 12th. A hole on a step between the higher holes and the holes alongside the water]
The course finishes with a couple of ‘half pars’ the shortish par fives 16 and 18 and the very difficult 210 yard par three 17th. It’d be a great course to watch a tournament finish on, or to play in a match.
The Aftermatch
The folk here, arranged by Hugh, really put on a special aftermatch do in the grand Victorian clubhouse. Showered up and into the dining area we were treated to our first Guinness in Ireland. And I can report that all the stories they say are true – it was even that bit better. Smooth. Black stuff in hand we sat down and met John’s wife Janet, the current Captain, Arnie Wright (who we could definitely remember from our time at Aberdeen – champion) and his wife Connie, and two former Captains, Phyllis and Michael Park. Hugh nicked home to pick up Grace and the two of them were in particularly fine form after hearing just before the meal of their sons engagement - congratulations!!
Banter (or should I say Craic) followed for most of the night as we soaked in the atmosphere of Royal Belfast – one of only four Royal clubs in Ireland. The Irish people have a lovely way about them and I found myself thinking that this is going to be some 4 weeks in our year of golf. After a Top Meal we said a few words to thank our hosts and made the trip back to Bangor for another good nights sleep.
Huge thanks to Hugh and Grace for having us, and Arnie and the club of Royal Belfast for the day. As I said, it was a real pleasure to spend the day with y’all and I hope to one day share a reciprocal visit with you (Royal Belfast had just hosted Royal Melbourne folk – including one chap we’d met earlier in the year, and Arnie told me he has 5 matches with other Royal clubs coming up over the next month!!).
M
Postscript – well done to the ladies interclub team who have beaten all in their path this season and good luck Grace and co with the all Ireland final in the coming weeks!
What a way to bring our 45 day Scottish leg to a close. It’s fair to say we’re leaving this bonnie land on a high note, after a tremendous 36 hours at Turnberry: the jewel in the crown of the gorgeous Ayrshire coast, and site of four Open Championships. Mike’s already told you about yesterday’s fun and games on the Kintyre course, a superb “little brother” track. He’ll also have mentioned that last night our accommodation options were slim pickings; that we were odds on to be kipping in The Tank. That was until Graeme Russell – chief, champ, boss, captain, skipper that he is; Macallan Whisky’s ambassador to the US – played Fairy God Mother and spotted us a room at The Turnberry Hotel on his points! You wouldn’t read about it. I’ve already thanked Graeme privately (several times), but would like to do so publicly now too: as our caddy Ray at Cypress would say, “you’re the greatest.”
A momentary blip in the fairytale though: I awoke this morning with my first illness of the year (worry not, my friends – just a common cold). Standing outside in minus 6 degrees last night having a quick chat with Radio New Zealand I joked with the producer that I’d catch a cold. Then I did just that. There’s a lesson in there for all of us. Maybe even a couple.
But a mucus clogged sinus passage couldn’t dampen my spirits when I opened the curtains to find that the bright sunshine we were treated to yesterday hadn’t yet packed it in. That big ball of gas was out in spades. Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssss! With a spring in my step I hopped into the shower (read: emptied 6 pints of snot down the plug hole) and went in search of some appropriate golfing attire. Sadly my respectable golf breeks were in the car, so I was forced to don the Argyll Loudmouths (which I would inevitably get a hard time about in these parts). Sick and looking a tad stupid; but who gives two shakes when you’re about to play one of the best courses in the world. On a bluebird Thursday morning, no less.
The commute from the Hotel carpark to the club carpark is a very short one. Roughly 36 seconds if you don’t run into any traffic. Downhill too. Had we not been lazy Gen-Y’rs we might’ve even walked! (But that would’ve left an unpalatable walk back up the hill – a solid justification to my mind). In any case we ran into our host – Alan Stevenson (whose father played in several Open Championships) – on the tarmac and were soon introduced to his pal John, host #2. John like me likes cardigans and is all the more a man for it. They’re both locals and quality humans in their own right. Sharp banter exchanged between the two was evocative of the Laurel-&-Hardy-like Alan Melville & Mike Macdonald, our hosts at North Berwick & Gullane. I must confess I wondered whether we’d be able to hold our own.
There was no mucking around with coffee or cocktails or kummel or anything of the like; straight to business. With an 0820 tee time we were ahead of the pack – alleviating any concerns of being held up behind a fourball of 29 handicap tourists (each lining up every putt as if it was for The Open, of course). PERFECT. Peter McCoy the Starter provided yardage books and light amusement, including a cracking story about Juan Quirros, whom his son had been caddying for recently on the Senior’s Tour. Juan’s apparently a hothead and on this occasion lost the plot. The nearest object towards which he could direct his anger was a sponsor’s billboard. After chucking his club in disgust Juan gave it a good boot; only problem was a lassie was leaning over it at the time, munching on her lunch. In the melee the sandwich got splattered all over her face, poor thing. Juan either didn’t notice or care to notice, so Peter’s son went over to apologise on his behalf. As unfortunate as it would no doubt have been for the young woman, I can’t help but think it would’ve been hilarious to be a fly on the wall. Anyway. Turnberry.
The 1st hole plays parallel to the road, perpendicular with the view from the omnipresent Hotel above. “Ailsa Craig” it’s called, after the big (I can only assume volcanic) chunk of rock sticking up out of the deep blue Firth of Clyde. A dawdle at 354 yards you might think, but there are 9 bunkers – setting the tone for the morning. And the pin was at the front, which made it difficult to get near down wind. I tried not to smile when I saw my opponent’s ball had come to rest deep in a divot in the middle of the fairway (one of the peril’s of the heavy traffic the course gets over the summer). Whether I succeeded or not, who knows? You know what they say though: every golf shot makes someone happy. To Mick’s credit he got it down there, there or thereabouts, and made a 4 which was good enough for the half.
Loved the name of the 2nd: “Make Sure.” Make sure what?? The yardage book pearl of wisdom offered a clue: “Poor shots will be punished with trouble lurking in almost every direction.” The Scots don’t beat around the bush do they? It continued: “Strategically placed fairway bunkers and a steep slope to the left of the fairway and green are just a few of the problems facing players. The green is deceptively long and will require careful club selection to avoid leaving a long, difficult putt.” Don’t sugar coat it boys!
Those forking out 110 squid for a game would get their money’s worth out of the dry humour of the yardage book alone. Rather than make the golf course look and sound easy – as is conventional in amateur golf and sports psychology generally, I imagine – they’ve gone out of their way to do the opposite. The fairways on the pictures look like pieces of string. Thin ones at that. “Woe-be-tide”, the 4th, is aptly described as “a light hearted warning to be aware of the Firth of Clyde and other possible hazards on the left of the hole.” Ha. It’s a glorious short hole in any case; the first of the Ailsa’s coveted set. The contours of the green and the dune to the right of it encourage you to bring the ball in from right to left, especially given the aforementioned drop off to the left is severe. However. Y’er man cut a nasty looking bunker into the front right of the mound upon which the green is perched. So you better dam well hit that draw out of the middle of the club (or end up in Purgatory as Michael did).
Speaking of y’er man. Life would be much simpler if the Ailsa Course had been designed many moons ago and not been touched since. But that’s not how things went friends. A brief history lesson:
In 1900 the Marquess of Ailsa (a keen golfer and former Captain at our beloved Prestwick) decided to build a course on his estate at Turnberry. So he commissioned Willie Fernie, the then pro at Royal Troon, to do the design. It opened in 1901, Turnberry GC subsequently forming the next year. Turnberry quickly became popular with the expansion of the railways and when word got around about the luxury of the Hotel. World War One then got in the way of everything as it had the tendency to do (the Hotel and courses being requisitioned as an officers’ mess & airfield respectively). When Zee Germans surrendered James Braid did a redesign of the Arran Course, following which it overtook the Ailsa as the course of choice. So Cecil Hutchinson God Bless Him was brought in to do a re-design (hooray!). But wait for it: the course re-opened in 1938, just a year before Hitler went mental and declared war on The World. Again Turnberry was requisitioned (who would have guessed?), this time as for RAF Coastal Command. The final chapter? MacKenzie Ross was brought in to do a(nother) redesign, creating “the masterpiece that exists today.”
Now where was I? The 5th (“Fin me oot” - i.e. “find me out” - i.e. find the putting surface or give up). One of the best par 4s of the year. Graeme had warned us about it last night and The Boy wasn’t wrong. Take a breath and enjoy the moment sorta stuff. (In a cockney accent I ask of you) d’ya know what I mean? Perfectly formed but no less nasty for it greenside pot bunkers await unsuspecting 2nd (or even 3rd) shots, as does a coffin bunker to the right of the green – which I carelessly allowed myself to get stuck behind. The real treat came when we stood on the next tee and looked back at what had just come before us. Check it.
Turnberry’s the sort of place where you just look around in reverence and wonder how you managed to find yourself there despite your abundant lack of recent prayer (by recent I mean in the past decade). It’s tempting to swear to impress upon you just how moved I was by its beauty, but that would betray a linguistic laziness on my behalf. How should I say...soul nourishingly stunning? Whatever. I’ll let the photos do the talking.
What this photo of the 6th won’t capture, however, is just how bloody difficult it was. “Tappie Toorie” is all of 230 yards over a ravine to a raised green DEAD INTO THE WIND. Oh, and there’s a bunker carved into the face of the sharp rise guarding the entrance to the green that would make Hell Bunker at St. Andrews look like a toddler’s sand pit. Poor John had an intimate encounter with the (unnamed) hole of death (which I took it upon myself to decree as “That Bastard Bunker On The 6th”); and the...bunker...won. Convincingly. I must’ve been so pleased with myself at having killed a 3 wood onto the front edge that I lost the plot and 3 jacked from 40 feet straight up the hill to lose the hole. “Oh dear” I exclaimed.
Between the dry wit inherent in the hole descriptions penned in my yardage book; the incrementally ascending difficulty of each hole; and the bitterly fresh wind that was growing in strength by the second, I was starting to see the funny side of all of this. A string of opening pars and I’d had the naivety to at least consider that maybe Turnberry wasn’t so hard after all. Then reality found me wherever I’d been hiding as we stood on the 7th tee. Why? Because “Roon the ben’” is 500 yards of par 4 (stroke index 1 of course) into that dastardly wind. To a green that slopes hard from right to left and that’s guarded by two little sods at the front right entrance. If you make a 4 in these conditions then you should give up as that’s as good as your golf will EVER get. I guarantee you that. What fun though, pitting yourself against a Leviathan like the 7th.
At this point my good partner Alan and I found our way back to where we should have been: namely, with our noses in front. Just finding our stride we were. Just as we were getting within clear sight of That Lighthouse, the sight most people come here to see. Why lighthouses on golf courses are so intriguing I don’t know. But they are. While at The National Golf Links of America I remember second guessing myself as to why there was any merit in taking so many snaps of that red and white construction on the hill. I did the same today. Why? The angles you take photos of holes or humans would have to be adjusted to as to incorporate the lighthouse in the background. For the avoidance of doubt that one was at Turnberry. Perhaps I’m simple minded.
In Any Case. “Goat Fell” the wonderfully named 8th hole is a mouth watering long-ish par 4 (432 yards for anyone who cares) that takes you right out near the rocks. From the green I gazed starry eyed at the beach below and the coastline stretching for miles behind it. And at the lighthouse ahead, of course. For goodness sake I’m only human. Mick and I scuttled off with a couple of 4s pleased to find the next tee unscathed. Goat Fell by the way is the name of the tallest peak directly across the water on Arran. Why it was called Goat Fell I have no idea. Use y’er imagination folks.
9 may have one of the most photographed (championship) tees in world golf. You march back down a rocky outcrop to a meticulously mown square of lawn which seems to float above the Firth of Clyde. On a day like today the scene is almost one you’d find in those golf calendars of imaginary holes that you can’t quite believe would exist. 360 degree views of splendour. Looking at the golf hole in front (we didn’t play from the championship tees because 1. You’re not allowed to; and 2. The wind was blowing and the hole was hard enough) you begin to understand why pros like Tiger Woods go off the rails. If I had to make a living teeing off across mischief like that I’d be driven to abnormal behaviour I have no doubt. A cairn is optimistically placed in the middle of the fairway, giving the player an “ideal” line over which to tonk the ball. I found the cairn to be as optimistic as goal setting during your early years of high school (“When I grow up I want to: 1. Become a millionaire; 2. Find creative ways to spend my millions; 3. Marry a Victoria’s Secret supermodel; 4. Play off scratch consistently and with consummate ease; 5. Become a respected and cherished member of the local community; and 6. Always remain in my mother’s good books, etc etc).
In very un-Scots like fashion we paused for coffee after 9. By now the breeze was getting rather fresh, so the shelter of the half way house had a more settling effect than we might have thought. It’s like a wee standalone conservatory, with 180 degree views of The Firth of Clyde and That Lighthouse. With a coffee in hand and a good bit of craic it’s a tough spot to beat. Unpretentious but perfectly adequate.
Although our party could quite happily have camped out for a good hour or two, the aptly named 10th hole beckoned. “Dinna fouter” translates to Don’t Mess About. “The Firth of Clyde awaits players who hit their tee shots too far left and, if that’s not enough, EVEN MORE TROUBLE AWAITS PLAYERS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FAIRWAY, in the shape of two pot bunkers and a further bunker on the right hand side of the fairway...” Over coffee I’d forgotten entirely what entertainment might await me in my strokesaver readings on the back side. As it happened I didnae fouter, instead choosing to chip in from the deep stuff left of the green for my opening birdie of the day (one of two – both of which came from off the green!). The opposition were spewing. Good riddance.
The views back up to the 9th and beyond from the 10th, and along the 11th, are something rather special. The deep blue sea hypnotises you like the Pied Piper did to those rats. Contrast the fresh white paint of the lighthouse and you have a postcard scene and a half. The caption might read: “Stay away from Scotland: all the trouble is in the middle of the fairway...”
13 is a glorious sweeping dogleg right with 3 left side fairway bunkers and a huge plateau green. With the wind hurling off the left; gorse along the right; and that trio of bunkers guarding the dogleg, it’s an improbable proposition that you’ll smash one down the middle. But you must. And don’t be shy with your approach either, because that upslope rising up to the putting surface won’t think twice about spitting your ball back down to the fairway below, leaving a tricky up and down. In all honesty I was just trying to get the ball near the hole but unfortunately it went in for a second lucky birdie in 4 holes. John by this stage was very animated, and even began to call me unkind names. Which I won’t repeat.
On the 14th you’re told to “Risk-an-hope.” We all did just that and it didn’t work for any of us. The pot bunkers on the “Ca Canny” 15th – a par 3 playing short with the wind behind – were gruesome, particularly the one over the back. John as he was prone to doing picked another fight with one, and was again forced to accept Second Prize. Luckily he has a good sense of humour (although by this point it was no doubt running thin).
Many photos must’ve been taken over the years of “Wee Burn”, the 16th, particularly around the green complex. It’s a gorgeous “little hole” (at 455 yards...) that plays shorter than it sounds, but is no less difficult for it. Not a time to thin a 9 iron Jamie...into the burn... Michael hit a smashing drive down the right as he was instructed to, then made a very good par indeed after coming perilously close to finding a watery grave over the back right of the green. It’s no “Wee” burn let me tell you.
Perhaps the most evil little bunker we’ve encountered all year is positioned sadistically just off the fairway – into the face of a rise – on the par 5 17th, “Lang Whang.” When the wind’s behind us as it was, assuming you get a decent drive away the little codger shouldn’t come into play. It’s 88 yards of the green, which you can hit with a driver and a 9 iron if you play your cards right. However. In less favourable conditions this thing could give you nightmares for life. I wouldn’t wish an adventure in there on my worst enemy, unless he deserved it.
Many of you will remember The Duel in The Sun, the showdown between Watson and Nicklaus at the 1977 Open Championship at Turnberry. Well the 18th’s name has since been changed in reverence to “what is regarded by many as the finest Major Championship ever played.” A nice touch. By the time we were coming in it was becoming a Duel in The Wind, and a nailbiting one at that. After having been up for most of the match, Alan and I somehow found ourselves dormy 1 down after 17, courtesy of a characteristic Goldstein par 5 birdie. So we needed some magic. I’d positioned myself menacingly just off the front edge with a Texas Wedge at the ready (angling for my 3rd off-the-surface birdie to pull equal). Goldy knocked it relatively close. And John appeared to be in no man’s land way back left somewhere. Alan was gone. Then John much to my dismay pitched in, the rascal! After he’d been giving me so much jip for it too... A lovely moment to finish a well fought battle. Credit where credit it due: the heathens combined well and probably deserved their victory in the end. There, I said it.
No sooner had we finished than we found ourselves in the bar with an American size bowl of chips in front of us. The clubhouse by now was buzzing as big groups were readying themselves for their day of reckoning. We inhaled the chips then realised it was time to get back up the hill to check out. And check out of Scotland altogether. Stranraer was our last port of call on what has been an incredible 45 days here in this bonnie land, my homeland. It’s no St. Tropez, believe me, but it softens the blow by making the next destination – Belfast – all the more enticing.
Before I knew it we were out on deck on the Stena Line ferry, pulling into Belfast Lough. The old Harland & Wolf cranes – David & Goliath – looked to have had a paint job since I last saw them a decade ago. Sadly the ferry doesn’t take you all the way past them anymore as it used to. Och it’s still a lovely introduction to Nor’n Ireland though, which’ll be our adopted home for the next week. It’s the land of my fathers too. Slainte.
JP
Scotland turned on a stunning day for our penultimate round at the Kintyre course at Turnberry on the South West coast of Scotland.
The township of Turnberry revolves 100% around golf. As you drive in the road sign reads – ‘Turnberry, a golfers paradise’ and then it is a case of blink and you’ll miss it. But only a non-golfer would ever miss this.
The massive hotel sits atop the hill to the East (the inland side) of the road with an amazing pitch and putt laid out below, and on the seaside is a large car park with signage on the front saying ‘golf courses’. The entrance to golf paradise.
We arrived with plenty of time so we decided to do something about our lack of accommodation for our last night in Scotland and popped up to the Turnberry Hotel to see if they’d put us up. Worth a shot I guess. After two nights straight in the car JP was particularly keen for a decent nights sleep. And with The Tank being a much smaller beast than its American counterpart Dodgy & not being able to accommodate the both of us, I’d had two nights straight in a YHA which was not kind on the budget.
Unfortunately the marketing chap at the Turnberry Hotel was not so receptive and we were politely asked to step outside and speak with the concierge about finding somewhere more appropriate to stay. Sure... Problem is around these parts – the Turnberry Hotel has a bit of a monopoly – over both the accommodation and the golf courses (actually there are a couple of B&B’s set up to cater for the golfers). The Hotel & Golf courses are very commercial– they’re both owned by an outfit from Dubai and so it’s very up-market and eager to please the well-heeled golf tourist. Stay and play packages are the norm at a rate that could purchase a small nation. I wondered to myself what the story was with the members of Turnberry – two of which we were to play with on the Ailsa course the following day. [later we would find out the gig: they negotiate their rights to the course with the owners from time to time and have access to the courses at set times during the week and play their competitions from there – it looks like a great club culture but there’d surely be a sense of insecurity knowing that someone more concerned with their cashflow than the club has the final say].
The Kintyre course? The second course which was once named the Arran course before it was entirely redeveloped following the second world war. If I may digress, during WW2 Turnberry was taken over by the airforce with landing strips built through the golf courses and the hotel used as lodging. Supposedly the officers spent a fair bit of time playing golf around the few holes that remained on the Ailsa course….
So to the golf. Perfect weather - no wind and the ultimate big blue. A day primed for scoring we thought to ourselves as we set a birdie challenge of combined 10 for the day. Ambitious stuff. Of course. Probably eyes too big for the stomach kind of stuff.
The first tee shot was always going to set the tone. A dog-leg left par five bunkers on both sides and crap far off in the nether regions where I am prone to hitting driver. Too long for the 2 iron I found myself driver in hand, eyes closed and boom – to the surprise of all down the middle. My 8th fairway in Scotland using a driver (that’s not great odds). Birdie resulted – 1 down 9 to go.
The front nine was straight forward provided you got it away from the tee and both Jamie and I were hitting it pretty well - I think we both hit 8 greens in regulation. But there was some difficulty being had with the putter. I found myself with 100 thoughts going through my head standing over the ball, none of which had anything to do with the 20 foot putt laid out before me. Where are we staying tonight? How are we going to fund the Irish leg? How is Gretta? What’s happening with our final month in NZ? I think it’s one aspect of the golf game that has improved over the course of the year - being able to block out all kinds of stuff and instead live in a little bubble that is the golf course and the task ahead on each particular hole.
Well that’s what I must have done today as out in 32 I found myself freaking out in a different way on the 10th about the possibility of shooting a number that is ordinarily preserved for those who play this game for a living. Moments later I was wandering around in the knee high stuff looking unsuccessfully for my ball. Double bogey / Bogey later my feet were back squarely on the ground. JP and I had both started straying from the tee and now all we could see before us was the thick gorse lining both sides of every tee on this relatively tight course. Supposedly the members rate it one shot harder than the more undulating, longer Ailsa course which hosts the Championships. After now playing them both I do not agree with that assessment!
Let me quickly rewind though to a hole which cannot go unmentioned. The par four 8th hole is a little beauty. It's a blind par four and at 290 odd yards it is very much reachable. Even more so because of the sharp undulations short of the green. The green sits in a sheltered nook between the ocean and some rocky outcrops. It's a hole that takes your breath away, and with the green sloping subtly away from you it's by no means a gimme birdie either! The photograph below is of the 8th green. Gorgeous.
Amidst a few bad swings there really wasn’t much to worry ourselves over whilst out on the course as we’d caught Turnberry on a perfect night with the Aisla Craig glowing offshore, the famous lighthouse shining in the evening sun and not a cloud in the sky. Looking around I just had to pinch myself.
Then as the holes started traversing back towards the clubhouse the cup started to get wider and wider and a few long putts snuck in. Unfortunately all of them were after poor iron shots and poor chips had left me 20 feet away for par. Then to the last hole, a par five which plays back towards the clubhouse and with heavy bunkering it requires two solid shots to maneuver around / through / over the bunkers to the green and give yourself a chance at eagle 3. Down a slight breeze both of us managed this and a cheeky two putt later I’d signed for a career golfing low of 2 under 69. I was thrilled.
Keen to celebrate with a beer or 3 this plan was stalled after JP hit the practice putting green to work on his stroke. An hour and some later we left the course, myself with spirits still (relatively) high and JP with a new putting stroke (cack-handed no less).
We got some tucker from the local supermarket (end of day rolls & salami as you do) and then headed back to the course to suss out sleeping options. Just as we’d agreed on the hut / car combination and were having a beer and a few (more) practice putts, we got a call from our man Graeme Russell from Macallan who saved our bacon and jacked us up a room in the Hotel. So up we drove where we met up with the kiwi lads, Erik, Laurie, Rhys and their latest recruit – Peter Fowler (the Aussie pro) and had a couple of drinks hearing all about their day at Western Gailes [which is a wonderful course and when you can still remember each hole 40 days on this is a great sign]. A radio interview with National Radio back in NZ followed & then it was bed time to prepare for the final day, the ultimate challenge and what would be my favourite golf course in Scotland – the Ailsa course at Turnberry.
Shinnecock
auckland dodgy donald ross links mackenzie melbourne mornington mornington peninsula new york queensland rain royal sandbelt scotland sunshine coast sydney the first tee tpc us open wow
