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First impressions are everything in this world. From the way someone is dressed to the way they carry yourself to the way they speak – our brains in a millisecond compute a picture of that person and make all sorts of deductions therefrom. We do it and we can’t help it. It is, for better or for worse, human nature.
When we roll up to a golf club on a given day, naturally we try to make a good first impression. Most days we’ll pull the tidiest looking polo shirt out of the suitcase; tuck it in, of course; maybe even shave before we leave; then walk upright and tall into the clubhouse, politely asking to speak to the appropriate person. It’s all fairly elementary stuff. On a recent occasion, however, I got it wrong. Badly wrong.
Among the 126 polo shirts I seem to have accumulated this year is a maroon one that my mother brought back from Scotland for me some years ago. It’s embossed with the logo of the football team I used to support as a we’an (Heart of Midlothian FC). And it’s quite smart. I was sporting the shirt in question on Friday when we turned up at Luffness New GC, down the road from Gullane in East Lothian. I had no reason not to. What no one told me though, was that the club steward – who was the first chap I met in the clubhouse – is the biggest Hibernian FC supporter in the world. (Hibs, as they’re better known, are Hearts’ arch rivals, both teams hailing from Edinburgh). Massive mistake.
The Steward (whose name I never caught) looked shocked, almost insulted. “Ye cannae wear that in here lad!” In the moment I wasn’t sure whether his words were hearty banter or serious proclamation. Before I knew it I was marched down to the Secretary’s office (much as I was often marched to the Headmaster’s office at school for being a little toad). The Secretary couldn’t believe it either. How could I have been so ignorant? “Nobody told him” he assumed. No, they didn’t. Well, there was just one thing for it: the Steward disappeared next door only to reappear moments later with a royal blue Luffness New GC polo, the tags on which he promptly cut off (with a touch of venom in his hands). I was told to change and shown to the locker room.
One more thing: “do ye have long socks lad?” No, Sir; sorry Sir. “Well we’ll have to get ye a pair of those too then.” Two pairs of blue woolen knee length socks were tugged from a cabinet by the bar (one for me, one for Mike) and passed to me “courtesy of the club.” A nice touch indeed. And so I was a new man. Having arrived in a maroon polo and navy shorts with invisible white ankle socks I was now a picture of blue. Ready for my first day at school. What an amazing little episode (which, I must point out, was good humoured – although at first I wasn’t so sure).
The golf? What a magical wee track. We’d driven past it a number of times in recent weeks en route to Gullane, Renaissence, North Berwick and Muirfield – wondering whether it was Luffness. It was. A point of clarification, while I’m on the subject. As I understand it, when people talk of “Luffness” they are talking of Luffness New GC. Luffness New and Kilspindie GC down the road used to be part of the same club but then split. Kilspindie then took the (full) name Kilspindie Luffness Golf Club, and wouldn’t allow Luffness New to call themselves just Luffness GC – hence the “New”. Correct me if I’m wrong.
Anyway all that semantics didn’t matter a bit to us; we were just out to enjoy the golf course and hopefully not fall on the wrong side of any other sectarian rivalries. Enjoy it we did. It’s deceptively difficult if you ask me. The first hole looks on paper like a gimme birdie, but Mick and I had to struggle for our pars. At about 260 is a rise punctured with a string of bunkers, the green sitting only 30 yards ahead. We both laid up prudently with long irons, leaving ourselves 60 or so to the stick. I don’t care what anyone says: blind pitches are tricky business, particularly if the greens are running quick as they were on this occasion (apparently they always are at Luffness). Two messy shots were played over the back then a couple of dicey up and downs made. The writing was on the wall: don’t underestimate this place.
The next 4 holes are played on the same side of the road (the 4th being a beautifully simple but in the wind, quite challenging par 5), before you cross over to the bulk of the links. Don’t expect cars to stop for you either when you cross: this is a main thoroughfare along which hoards of keen golfers zip, anxious to breathe in the East Lothian fresh air or at least make their tee time thus avoiding reprimand from the draconian secretaries of these parts. Had I still been wearing my Hearts polo no doubt any Hibernian motorists that saw me would have sped up and taken dead aim.
The lovely thing about Luffness is that the links is more or less all in front of you. A bit like Gullane No. 1 next door (with the exception of the opening and closing 2 holes). A short par 3 (the 6th) is followed by a short, uphill, blind par 4 then a short, downhill par 4. It’s a nice wee stretch that I’m sure the more youthful members could carve up with glee. The 7th tee is also a fine vantage point from which to turn your gaze back west towards Edinburgh and the Firth of Forth. My delight was dampened by the sight of a few Very Dark Clouds heading our way. Don’t you love that sense of inevitability, particularly when you’re on the golf course (the front 9, no less)? Hmmmm. The prospect of escape was a distant one too, given there were a string of fourballs ahead whose combined age in each case would’ve pushed 300.
Just when I was admiring the artwork of the bunkering (they’re perfectly formed much like those at, say, Muirfield, Carnoustie or Skibo), the phone rang (tisk tisk I hear you mutter...). It was a gorgeous sounding lassie called Rebecca, calling from a radio station in Dublin for an interview. I could’ve listened to her talk all day. Irish women have something quite special don’t they? But I digress. Sadly Rebecca’s voice was replaced with that of the interviewer – a sound chap by the name of Anton – and over a few minutes we had a good chinwag about all things puregolf2010. One of the more pleasant radio chats I’ve done.
Along the back 9 we got wet. Very wet. Those clouds I mentioned before held a quite miraculous carriage of H2O, which they in their infinite wisdom decided to drop on Luffness New. Och well, can’t win ‘em all can you? As is often the case however, no sooner had the scoundrel clouds passed over us had the sun reared its bright head with equator-like intensity. Layers were peeled off laboriously but I still couldn’t avoid that itchy-wet sensation (the one you got when your school blazer got wet and gave off that funny smell).
A mediocre round looked like being rescued when I knocked it stiff on the 15th, then did the same on the par 3 16th – that is, until I missed the 2 and a half foot down wind putt!! There’s no fairness in this game. Two very frustrated double bogeys inevitably followed to finish. Such is the way. To rub it in Goldy closed with a fine birdie.
A kind member whose name now escapes me had got wind of our tale and very generously left a tenner behind the bar for us to have a post-match refreshment. To your good self, if you’re reading: thank you. I hope by now though you’ve got your money back from that Hibernian-supporting-miscreant, because all we could stomach was water (on the back of a sociable week in the midst of Edinburgh’s Fringe Festival). Perhaps – as I suggest to y’er man – you could donate the money instead through our website (by clicking the button above) to The First Tee?
Luffness New was a place we had few preconceptions about. It was a very pleasant surprise indeed. The staff (once they put aside their prejudices against my heathen football sympathies) were delightful; and the course was a pure and simple links treat. It might not have the notoriety of Muirfield or even Gullane, but Luffness New stands up there with the big boys as a top drawer golf club. Traditional and unassuming it may be, but under the radar is probably how the members like it. Do go there but don’t wear a maroon polo!
JP
Our third golfing destination in the city of Edinburgh was Bruntsfield Golf Club. One of the four original golfing clubs which originally all played over Bruntsfield Links under the shadow of the Edinburgh Castle and then as congestion became a factor out at Musselburgh. When they decided that the four clubs ought to each get their own course, the chaps from Bruntsfield bought a nice piece of rolling parkland land not too far from town where the course sits today and where on this higher ground the water sparkles in the distance below. They also built a grand clubhouse in position A1. Today was earmarked as a day for rest and catching up and so we had hoped to nick around the links in a few hours and head back to base camp with Gillian and Ian. Alas, it was not to be.
We arrived for our 10am tee time and saw a gaggle of golfers hovering around the first tee. Joining the queue we watched as some of the less talented golfers managed to move the ball in a direction barely towards the hole and looked at each other as if to acknowledge that our plans of a quick round were shattered.
Two young chaps had taken their place to tee off next and, being 0950 hours and anticipating a slow round we thought it would be best to join up with Bruce and Ben two young chaps from Jamies old school – Stewarts Melville. Bruce was a member at Bruntsfield and Ben was on the waiting list.
The first hole was a stern test uphill and into the wind – probably the toughest hole on the course. The first tee shot was also one of those shots where you’ve got a dozen or so guys standing very close and watching intently which is one way to focus the attention after feeling a bit shaky from the night before. We both pulled out our 2 irons and had the old fullas wondering –‘an iron from th tee??’ – but a couple snaked down the middle drew the odd gasp. This must be put in context as they’d just watched a number of groups from the Irish and Scottish lawyers golf day out tee off with what I can only describe as varied success.
[We just passed underneath an overhead message which I thought I’d share with you – ‘drive efficiently’ – what does that mean? Perhaps gives you an insight into the Scottish Government.]
Back to Bruntsfield and ‘that moment’ where I realized we were in for a long one. Standing over my birdie putt on the first – we were adjacent to the second tee. A well dressed chap looking a tad confused like an 18 year old as they walk into a busy pub for the first time had taken to the tee. His clubs were placed to the right of him and below was a huge and inviting downhill fairway. He drew the club back and made a pass at the ball and the next minute it was soaring off the clubface like no ball I’ve ever seen. His drive flew to a maximum height of 2 metres, a maximum distance of 2 metres and at an angle of 90 degrees right, barely evading his bag. A similar shot followed but multiplying the distances 10 fold. Ouch. After this, these lawyerly chaps stopped for a chat as they put their knitted head covers onto their drivers before strolling off down the fairway – the aforementioned chap walking off on an awkward angle right all day until they pulled pin after 12 holes. To be fair to these boys the field of corporate players ahead all looked like they were on a similar wave length and pace of play this morning.
Four holes down and a few fundraising chances missed – including a straight eagle putt from 20 foot which I managed to 3 putt – we spent a good 10 minutes sitting on the 5th tee. Jamie went for the lying down option drawing the query from the group behind (also waiting) whether he was ok. And then, after an hour 20 minutes four holes into our daily endeavor the story of the day, the story of the blog happened. After I’d knocked it to the middle of the green, JP stepped up 6 iron in hand and lazily dropped the club on the ball careering it with his signature right to left sling down the hill towards the green. Great shot we said as it zero’d in on the flagstick and it kept going and going. Then we saw in the distance the white ball bound up from short of the green and career straight into the middle of the flagstick only to bounce off it two feet to the right!!! I wont go into whether it was lucky or unlucky as it was traveling but what I do know is that I’ve seen those go in before (on TV). It was, without a doubt the closest to a hole in one all year and I tell you it’s going to happen.
The round continued at a leisurely pace despite our disoriented chap ahead pulling pin after 12 holes. The odd sparkling shot kept us going and a few birdies were made to help the fundraising tally. Bruntsfield was lush and a really nice walk with mature trees and gentle undulations leading you around the property. From what Bruce said it’s normally a very leisurely place where you can knock it around in 2 ½ hours no worries and I’d suggest it would be a great place to knock it about for locals at the end of a long day at work in the city. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case this morning and over 4 and a half hours later we arrived at the 18th frustrations aided by another three putt from JP, thanked the boys for their company and jumped in the car to head back to Ian and Gillians for some rest.
This is the last blog I’ll write during our Edinburgh stint so I’d like to thank Gillian and Ian for having me this last week – you’ve been amazingly kind to me and welcomed me into your place so thank you very much!
Few places in this amazing world that is golf are as steeped in wonder. The Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers professes – as far as I understand – to be the oldest golf club in the world. I’ve heard other superlatives used in conjunction with The Company too. Muirfield, “Hon Co, “HCEG”, is as polarising as it is revered. Throughout this odyssey tales of affection have passed our ears, as have tales of disgust. Very seldom if ever is a storyteller’s reaction indifferent. It’s the sort of place, then, that I was wholeheartedly looking forward to visiting. (The fact that the Honourable Company plays their golf on one of the best courses in the world had something to do with my anticipation too).
Our host Roddy McDonald was a dear old friend of my Uncle Nigel’s. In fact Nigel was his Best Man. They studied medicine together at Edinburgh, a few years behind my dad (who, as Roddy pointed out, was one of “the big boys” - in that he only talked to you if he felt like it, not because he was physically imposing). Hearing about the escapades of The Brothers Patton was one of the most amusing aspects of Roddy’s good company – but more on that later. Roddy’s lovely wife Wendy brokered the outing, because Roddy’s not much fussed about email for various reasons that would become apparent. If I had a Secretary as delightful as Wendy I might give up email correspondence too. Sadly when I offered at the end of last year Jean – my eminently obliging secretary at Chapman Tripp – opted for the safety of employment by a large law firm instead of puregolf2010. We couldn’t pay her much anyway. There’d be a bit of travel involved too.
Roddy graciously allowed us to bring Jimenez in tow. Or Ed, as he’s known to most of you. The one that can’t putt. Upon receipt of this happy news Jimenez seemed rather more underwhelmed than expected – not for a lack of gratitude, but rather a complete lack of perception of what he was about to experience. Neither Mike nor I had ventured to Muirfield before either, but our experiences to date had been informative; we had a fair idea of what we were in for. As forecasted, Jimenez would be overwhelmed with what he saw. He wasn’t the only one either.
You need to know where you’re going. Driving through Gullane you take the last street on the left (I forget the name), alongside a field, heading towards the Forth. On the right at the end is a carpark marked discreetly for the use of Muirfield members and guests. 3 or 4 rows of parking sheds were lined with the type of cars you might at a UBS annual conference in the Swiss Alps; then an overflow carpark extends into a field behind the last one. Into the overflow field we went. It was busy. Standing by the boot of the most recently parked car was a dashing gentleman in a sports jacket that HRH Prince William himself would be pleased to wear on a day excursion from Balmoral. The dashing gentleman turned out to be Roddy.
While I was wrestling with the gearbox we sent out Jimenez to greet him. Roddy looked frightened, alarmed even. Soon though order prevailed as Michael and I – who have poor hair cuts no doubt, but not El Savadorean underworld ones – fumbled out of The Tank gracefully. The 3 lads from Nu Zillin (well, counting me as an adopted Kiwi for the moment) were in their number 1s and ready for action. Our 4 marched around the corner to the right, through the cast iron gate and across in front of what appeared to be a packed hive. Tuesdays and Thursdays are visitor days, when mostly Americans turn up with their 225 quid (having booked well in advance) for The Muirfield Experience. The members don’t much bother turning up, instead choosing to take their gin at home. This however was a Wednesday and it was...lunchtime. Feeding time at the zoo. (The lunch at Muirfield plays about as important a part in the day as golf – but I’ll get to that in a second, bare with me). 2 and a half; 2 and a half; 2 and a half, is the mantra - for the morning round, lunch and the afternoon round respectively.
Into the clubhouse we paced – almost nervously – past The Secretary’s Office and into the locker room. If naked old men is your thing then Muirfield’s locker room at 1 o’clock would float your boat. We dumped our gear then were led through the hallway, past a secret locker housing an electricity meter, into The Dining Room. Our very presence lowered the average age by a score and ten. What must’ve been a hundred gentleman were lunching before our eyes – only a handful being on the younger side of 60. Sir Alex Ferguson’s red face appeared at a small table nearest to the bar. The rest were either doctors, lawyers or businessmen. Maybe a vet or a dentist or even a hygienist. This be the professionals’ domain. And it has been for centuries.
Demand being what is is here, the queue for a gin was a long one (the huge old tanker, for those of you that knew it and drunk lustily from it, appears to have been retired, no doubt due to exhaustion). Us youngsters felt a little uncomfortable hovering around in the doorway, so we excused ourselves to inspect the silverware housed in a cabinet in the hallway. A silver golf club impressed itself most upon me: largely because it had dozens of silver balls chained onto it – one for each past Captain (when new members finally make their way into the Company they are reputedly invited to kiss the Captain’s balls). Before we knew it Roddy appeared with a tray of aperitifs and we were led into the smoking room. Someone asked whether he might have a coffee, but apparently it’s tea that’s taken before play, coffee after. A gin and tonic it was then. To say The Honourable Company’s habits are idiosyncratic is to say Stalin was a bit naughty. But then that’s their prerogative and who am I to argue. Truth be told such traditions don’t bother me one bit; on the contrary I enjoy learning about and partaking in them.
On the walls were mightily impressive paintings of past Captains and dinners and shindigs of all sorts. In the painting above the doorway – from memory, of a Recorder’s Dinner (the Recorder fixes and documents all the club’s matches – a very distinguished position indeed) – were a few gentlemen in red jackets laughing and joking with a dozen or so others in a smoke filled dining room (there were no anti smoking laws in these days and even if they were I don’t suppose The Honourable Company would take much notice). It looked like a fun dinner to attend – especially if you had a red jacket. One gentleman I spoke to was proud as punch because his mug appeared in the background, before his father (whom had been a member for years before him) had received the distinction of appearing on the same walls.
Fast forwarding to the present. We perched at a table near the west window amongst a packed gallery of old boys. Everyone was very pleasant. Matches were being fixed and other plans hatched; sexist banter was never far from earshot; and there was enough gin and tonic in the air and on men’s breath to intoxicate Keith Richard. A more surreal atmosphere you will struggle to find. Before long we were called to lunch, and joined one of the long tables running nearly the length of the dining room.
Like at Prestwick, the protocol is to introduce yourself to whomever is unlucky enough to find themselves at your side. Arthur drew the short straw. Poor Arthur hadn’t even been down to play golf but, rather, just for some lunch with his pals (a group of gents from Atlanta Athletic Club in Georgia over for a break). Without a hint of pretense or smugness Arthur proceeded to fill me in on what the next week or two held in store for him: among other (to most people, other worldly) things, a weekend down at Royal St Georges for a match. Salmon like Arthur swim in different currents to most of us. That said he was great craic and a pleasure to spend half an hour or so with.
The food? 5 star. Like a very posh school dinner. Roddy led us up to right hand side of the canteen, to fetch our starter. I had cream of tomato soup with garlic croutons and lashings of parmesan. Then we were led up in due course to the left hand side of the canteen, to the carvery, where myriad options lay spread in front of us. My eyes were hungrier than my stomach, so my plate was piled high with roast lamb and curry and vegetables and every kind of sweetness imaginable under the sun. A modern day Oliver Twist, except I was too full to ask for more. I did however find space for a few biccies and cheese. As at Prestwick a few hazy weeks ago, the cheese selection looked like it had been lifted straight out of the delicatessen at Harrods. The brie and blue had labels more French than my muddled tongue can pronounce; they were rich too, taking me from a fullsome state into a near comatose one. For a weaker stomach it might all get a bit much.
Just when we thought it might be time for golf – a proposition that was becoming less and less likely as the clock hands continued to make their way around the dial – I found myself back in the smoking room with a digestif in front of me. Kummel. Of course. (I can hear you Prestwick & Royal Aberdeen boys snigger). Yes, a Kummel before golf. Everything in moderation, mind you. Half of the old boys ‘round ‘ere are doctors, so they must know what they’re doing. A bit like Laphroiag malt getting its way into the US during Prohibition under the pretense of being medicinal. Ha. By this time only a couple of die hards remained in the room, by the window – Arthur my lunch companion and his friend Gilmour (who was sporting the most fantastic red breeks you might ever lay eyes on). But they weren’t golfing. It was time.
Roddy in his wisdom had decided that he and Michael would take on Jiminez and Yours Truly. That way Roddy and I would be teeing off together and have a proper chance to swap notes on The Brothers Patton between blows. (In the afternoon at Muirfield, as many of you no doubt know, the format is foursomes). The offshoot being that Jimenez would be getting me into all sorts of trouble and me, on occasions, he. I’m pleased to report we remain friends.
What confronts you on the first tee is a sign of things to come. A lot of hay. (Not heather, Jimenez, that’s quite different). Somewhere down there is a fairway, although at first I couldn’t make it out. As good fortune would have it the ball that met my 2 iron found its way in the right direction, leaving Jimmy with a straightforward 3 iron onto the dance floor (which he duly played to perfection). This game is easy. The rest is a bit of a blur, though I remember at one point having to give The Baddies a shot a hole until they got from 3 down back to 1 down (a local rule named after a past member/Captain who conjured it). Some good shots were hit, but in honesty these were outnumbered by the bad ones. That however is the beauty of matchplay foursomes – you just need to defeat the other two rascals. Which we didn’t.
It’s hard to gain a full appreciation of the course having only really played half of it – foursomes and all – but I think I got the general gist. Under the early evening sun the famous sand filled holes where level ground used to be revealed themselves more honourably than they might otherwise do. Nasty buggers they are though, and thank you to Jimenez for putting me in a couple for practice. The layout of the course, which is relatively flat, is nothing short of ingenious: the way it winds around the perimeter in a clockwise fashion before turning in on itself but this time in the other direction. This way the wind plays different tricks on more or less every hole. Favourite holes for me were the 7th and the 12th. Walking up 18 was something to be savoured too; that magnificent clubhouse gazing nonchalantly down at you as you remove your caps and shake hands.
I can’t move on without mentioning the showers, which are well positioned to make this year’s Top 10, among very fine company indeed. A jumbo jet could’ve landed in my cubicle. Good pressure too.
Sadly the time came to leave The Honourable Company; we thanked and farewelled Roddy for what had been for all of us a tremendous afternoon (and a particularly eye opening one in Jimenez’s case). To put the icing on the cake Roddy reached into his boot and furnished us each with a sleeve of HCEG embossed pro-v1s! What a gentleman. Rest assured they won’t be making it out of their packet this year; but instead will be auctioned off for The First Tee at one of our events in December – buyers take note. Thanks again Roddy!
No sooner had we pulled out of the driveway than we found ourselves round the corner at The Old Clubhouse in Gullane, to catch up with Graeme Russell, a charming chap who appears to have the best job in the world. He’s Macallan Whisky’s ambassador to the US. So he saunters around doing demonstrations and dinners and generally spreading cheer with a case or two of Macallan’s finest tonic. But try as I might I couldn’t hold it against the guy, because he was a very good soul indeed. To our American friends: if anyone is interested in a whisky tasting evening with Graeme, drop him a line and make it happen.
It really was a day for “catching up”: before we’d even got to The Honourable Company I’d spent an hour or so with an old pal – Stevie Dick – whom I played hockey with growing up. He now plays for Scotland and Great Britain. And he’s still as affable a character as he was when we were 10. We just picked up where we left off. Over an espresso in downtown Musselborough we put the world to rest, then parted company probably for another 10 years. Then we’ll pick up again where we left off. Such is the way.
All in all, one of the most action packed and awe inspiring days of the year. I’ve done my best to encapsulate it in just a few paragraphs...no easy task.
JP
Our day out at Gullane Numero uno (#1) or ‘Gillan’ if you’re a local was one of those cracking days that makes an innocuous round of golf seem like it is the tonic that makes the world go around. But who would have known such a day was to be forthcoming as waking up in the early hours of the morning Jamie and I were both more than a tad hazy after a night out at the Edinburgh festival the night before. Self esteem levels were low and golf was looking as appetizing as a sweaty day old tuna sandwich.
But as we do, we managed our way out to Gullane with a sense of humour – the kind of humour which happens after a late night – the kind of mood we were in when this crazy project was conceived almost a year ago to the day.
Upon arrival we were to do a photo shoot for Today’s Golfer – a UK magazine running a feature on us – which was, as you can imagine, the last thing I felt like doing. I tried to banter with the photographer, Mark, who probably just thought I was a neb. We’ll look like two tired boys in those pictures. But Mark was a top chap and, as a freelance journalist who gets paid to effectively do what we’re doing, we had a wee bit in common. Although it is fair to say that Mark’s camera was a shade more impressive than ours (particularly more impressive than the iphone camera which has now taken on full duties whilst Sony keep trying to fix the dysfunctional one they sold to us which has grown tied of taking photographs of golf courses and packed it in).
We got through the photo shoot unscathed partly due to the timely arrival of our hosts Alan Melville and Mike Macdonald who turned up and whisked us off for some lunch. Our plans to eat in the members clubhouse were scattered due to the (increasingly pasty) flesh on our bare knees showing – our shorts were not welcome here [nor would we be allowed in the ordinary bar later on and had to resort to having a beer in the “ladies bar” afterwards?? How bizarre are some of the rules here….]
I’m not painting a rosy picture so far. It gets better… To the visitors clubhouse we went – the clubhouse which acts as a central port for the three golf courses at Gullane so it’s busy. Today there were a group of juniors buzzing around about to start a tournament and there were a few tourists getting their bearings and being introduced to their caddies who would show them the way around Gullane 1 (again formidable groups of 8: 4 golfers and their accompanying caddies, were to be seen all afternoon dominating the fairways). After a rather manic interview with a friendly sounding Irish woman for a local paper in Dublin organised courtesy of my wee gem of a girlfriend back in NZ, we sat down to a hearty and much needed meal of pie, beans and chips. Good Scottish tucker. The barman – whose name I forget but he was a Good Man - well he was some craic indeed and before we knew it he’d taken a fancy to his boy from Kirkaldy (pronounced in a sharp Scottish twang as ‘Ki-koddy’) JP and there were more than a few photographs of JP in his hearts top holding a rival football teams mug. They’re a proud lot over here when it comes to football!
So now I am going to come to the two reasons why today was the kind of day that is just about impossible to beat. The first, but by no means the main reason, is the golf course at Gullane (Number 1). The precurser being that this golf course is one that I’d heard very little about so had low expectations for. You unsuspectingly play the first hole away from the road and towards a great big hill that in Florida they’d call a mountain and then are faced with a par four second which actually winds its way straight up the hill – sounds innocuous at 395 yards, but when you look at the incline, the fierce wind in our faces, and the hay that surrounds the barely 20 yard wide fairway – it’s some test. Mark was still in tow at this stage so we were playing for an audience and he was getting some good frustrated faces as the best we could muster amongst the group was two bogey fives…
Then as you walk to the 3rd tee a magnificent view is laid out below – some 14 holes of pure golf. Holes laid out on an amazing piece of golfing terrain that enjoys spectacular view across the Firth and towards Fife. These holes are some of my favourite that we’ve played in Scotland and more than once during the walk I thought they reminded me of NSW GC – one of my Very Favourite courses this year. Like NSW the holes run in all directions (although not mathematically laid out to each point of the compass) and so the wind is always presenting a different challenge. Some times you need to cut it into the wind, other times a wee draw is the play. It requires real shot-making to simply keep your ball going straight. These 14 holes sit high above the cliffs but still are blessed with rolling undulations and the odd dune. There aren’t any trees and the wide expanse waves in the wind as the long fescue grasses blow from side to side. The greenies tried to put a spanner in the works out here when the course was developing a new hole – the par four 8th hole - because of the odd beautiful little purple orchid which are supposedly endangered but after seeing acres and acres of them around the property I think the club told the bureaucrats where to jump. The 8th has turned out a treat – it’s an example of a newly developed hole where a visitor like myself would have no idea of it's age but for the information of our tour guides. The green is flat and subtle. The bunkers fit in with the rest of the course. The hole is a strong par four but remains entirely in character. Take note M Clayton when you’re next (if ever) asked to tinker with another of Aussie’s gems.
The back nine winds its way back up to the crest of the hill where the 16th green is perched – a par five which plays downwind but uphill making yardages very difficult to calculate! I think it was around this point that the final nail in the coffin was placed in the fourball match by our opponents Jamie and Mike Macdonald when JP made birdie thus raising another few pounds for The First Tee. The golf snakes by the names of Patton and Macdonald who had last time out at North Berwick contrived some 9 birdies over the closing stretch to hold out Alan Melville and I had done it again. Although this time the onus was equally on the ineptitude of Alan and I. Alan took a putting lesson the day after our match.. I could do with the same.
Anyway Gullane is a great track and I can see why it's made its way slowly onto the tourist roster. If you're coming out this way it's definitely worth a hit. And now I come to the number one most important factor in making today the sparkling day which it was. And that, as clichéd as it sounds, is the company that we kept. Last time we played golf with Messers Melville and Macdonald out at North Berwick I left the words to your imagination as I whipped up a wee video blog. This may have been because I had nothing good to say. But it wasn’t. Quite the opposite. These lads are two guys that could quite happily join us for every single round of golf for the year and fit in a dream. Asides from both loving their golf and being handy (and competitive) players they’re full of life and good craic and make the round of golf seem like it’s taken about 2 hours (when actually we’ve dragged our sorry excuse for a fit healthy 25 year olds body up and down hills for 4 hours). Alan, my dear partner, informed me later in the round as we were both struggling along that he’d managed a 75 in the monthly medal here last month. That's good golf. And Mike, well he just hits it straight sinks putts and probably was a pro a few years back but we didn’t go into that as life is too short to talk golf all day long. These boys are full of all kinds of interesting stories and that’s what makes them superb – we’re on the same wavelength regardless of age, occupation (Alan is a vet Mike runs a golf shop) and all that carry on. We often get asked by journalists about some of the famous or notable characters we’ve played with over the course of our 235 rounds to date. Alan and Mike probably don’t fit into the famous camp but they are the epitomy of good natured golfers that make the game what it is and the kind of guys we try to explain to the journo's that make our trip and the journey what it is. So boys if you’ve bothered to read this far down this rambled blog post I hope we can have another game or 7 in the future – Read: stop making excuses and get yourselves down to NZ where we can have some home course advantage and by that stage Alan, our putting lessons would have come to fruition and we’ll show the pretenders a thing or two.
[Alan (left), Mike (centre) and Jamie on the last hole at North Berwick - photographs for Gullane are courtesy of Alan's camera cheers mate!]
Dunbar is a bonnie wee village on the East Lothian coast, about 45 minutes from Edinburgh (our base camp for this week). Like more or less every other village along this stretch of coastline, Dunbar has a gorgeous links that’s been around since biblical times. The reason I know that is because the walls around and within the bounds of the course look like they were laid down by the Romans; one, because of their ancient appearance, two, because of the skilled craftsmanship apparent in their construction. I like old walls as you might have gathered. The other defining characteristic of the links at Dunbar is the very pungent nasal cavity violating aroma of seaweed that grips you for most of the journey. Its permeating quality might be matched only by the ability of cigarette smoke to find shelter in clothes and hair, and under finger nails (not that I’d know anything about that, being the keen athlete that I am).
I had hoped my Uncle Digger (who’s not a real Uncle but rather one of dad’s oldest and dearest pals from their days studying and generally creating mischief at Edinburgh University) would be able to join us for a game at the time I’d arranged with the club – he’s a member – but alas he was in the depths of a month long celebration of his 60th birthday. The fact that he’d rather be gallivanting around Scotland in a jet black vintage Morgan with his wife (Auntie Jillian), rather than play golf with me and my pal, tells us that Digger clearly has his priorities all wrong. Or not. Anyway as a result it was just Us Two On Our Todd on the links on a rather dour Monday morning. Shame, because Digger’s banter is sharper than a pencil sharpened carefully by a certain former school boy of the initials JDP who should have paid more attention in class instead of daydreaming while sharpening his pencil.
The start of the round was somewhat rushed, because I was trying to juggle several of many thousand commitments. The most pressing one being communications with one Kit Alexander, a gentleman who has been kind enough to do a feature on us in Today’s Golfer (watch this space). He was sending down a photographer to meet us the next day at Gullane for a shoot (who turned out to be a smashing lad by the name of Mark Alexander). Eventually the “off” button on the phone was held down and my attention turned as it tends to do every day to golf.
1 and 2 are short par 5s with acres of space to be errant, so young fit humans like us who can get on in two without too much bother should be at least 1 if not 2 under by the 3rd tee. That was a normative statement. Now for the reality. JP: +1, MG: Level. The ineptitude scares me even now. I drove it on the 1st into one of a couple fairway bunkers; pitched out to 150 yards; hit a very big wedge by accident onto the back edge; then proceeded to 3 putt. Mike made a mediocre par. How crap are we? Anyway as we know it’s not all about scoring but rather the enjoyment of the game. It was at this point that I started my love affair with Dunbar’s walls – having gazed across at the magnetic sandy coloured one separating the 4th from the 18th. Don’t hit it over that, I thought to myself, presuming it was O.B. In each case. The seed was planted.
On the 3rd tee you stand elevated some 20 feet above sea level, the clubhouse, pro shop and first 3 holes sitting below you. On a clearer day it would be a quite magnificent view. Even on this grey Monday it was enough to distract me for a few moments. The hole itself is a bonnie one; a 185 yard or so par 3 with a green guarded jealously by more of those awful sand traps (whose cousins I’d visited on both the 1st and 2nd). Thankfully we both escaped the bogey dust and made quite competent pars.
On the 4th tee I got an intimate view of that sandy coloured wall I mentioned. It was as impressive up close as it was from afar, if not more so. The hole ahead was more or less a straightforward one, requiring only a 2 iron and pitch. The putting ineptitude continued however and no birdies were carded. Apologies to The First Tee, who should have had a few more pounds coming their way by this stage. Pip – we’ll be doing some practice on the putting green over the coming days, rest assured.
The 7th hole is a magnificent spectacle. My favourite on the course without shadow of a doubt. It’s unusual for me to be so passionate about a dogleg right – given my natural hockey swing that’s conducive more to a “strong draw” (read: hook) than a gentle fade – but y’er man laid out a beauty in this one, making quite brilliant use of (you guessed it) a very attractive wall. The wall frames the dogleg; in the conditions you could try cutting the corner if you were reckless enough. A well struck 2 iron to the corner was a more prudent plan, although I managed to roll mine over and leave about 200 yards for my (blind) approach. As you round the corner – you can’t see over it because the wall is a good 8 feet high – the top of a flag flirts with the horizon, being a rise 30 yards short of the putting surface. On the line to the flag is a bastard bunker cut into the face of the rise. And to the left is a very ancient looking shelter. It’s a gorgeous wee vista. (Little did I know that behind the bunker visible on the horizon was another sod of a pot on the front right of the green, directly in front of where the pin was cut). My purely struck 5 iron sailing over the first bunker went straight into the second. Dam it all. Justice my friends you will be pleased to know prevailed and a par was made. Mike hit two block cut 2 irons over the wall and ended his encounter with the hole there and then. Walls thus weren’t as high in his opinion as they were in mine.
On the 10th green you find yourself at the furthest point from the clubhouse, looking south east towards a Soviet-like factory of some sort (steelworks?). Not one of the bonniest sights we’ve seen of late by any stretch of the imagination. But then again you’ve got to put these monstrosities somewhere. More striking – in a positive light – was another little construction between 10 tee and 11 green, perhaps once a greenkeepers shed or even a house. (It was more or less a ruin).
Along the back nine are some lovely views of the coastline. I imagine. I couldn’t see a thing because my eyes were watering from the all consuming smell of seaweed. Much as the Koreans ferment cabbage to create the delicacy kimchi I suspect a menacing Dunbaronian (correct proper noun?) was putting his high school chemistry expertise to potent effect. Even breathing only through my mouth for several holes on end the seaweed had its horrible way with me. I never liked the stuff as a kid – the fear being struck into me the moment a tentacle grabbed my feet as I swam innocently in the harbour at Portnoo – and our relationship has never improved since. But never before has its smell been impressed upon me so acutely. Right up there in my delicate nostrils. People eat this stuff???
Remember that seed I planted earlier, about not hitting it over That Wall. Well. On 18 the bugger germinated. Yes, I hit it over the wall. On the bounce! How you can bounce over an 8 foot high wall I have no idea – especially with the penetrating ball flight of my 7.5 degree driver – but there you go. Och. It should have come as no surprise. Because at all the iconic holes I’ve done the thing you’re not supposed to do. At Prestwick I hit it over the wall on the 1st (with my approach!); at St. Andrews I hit it in the road hole bunker (but got up and down!); at Cypress I hit it on the beach on the 16th (before going into the ice plant!); and so on and so forth. It still remains to be answered whether this is all fate, or whether I’m just a fool. “The latter!” I hear you all chorus...
Anyway. I think in part due to my gallus character this all amuses me. Seeing my ball bouncing over that lovely sandy wall was not a tragic occasion but a funny one, If you can’t laugh about your misfortune in golf then you’re doomed. I sort of got my own back anyway on the 18th, by thrashing a driver straight down the middle Matt Cleary styles for my 3rd, then drained a 25 footer for a second ball birdie, and a 73 in total. I hold no grudge against the wall and wish it all the very best of health for the next thousand years.
Dunbar like Billy Connolly has character. It’s a place you won’t forget playing in a hurry. And a place you should go if you like old walls or the smell of seaweed.
JP
Shinnecock
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