"currently battling with my dear friend, the Silverstripe CMS" - 18 hours 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" - 1 day ago
"Is this the Nellie bunker you were talking about mate? Safely avoided I'm pleased to report http://fb.me/EHAvCmyU" - 2 days ago
It may just be the bonniest place on earth to play golf. A huge call, perhaps. But Loch Lomond’s beauty is something to behold. Y’er man Burns even wrote a song about it: “By yon bonnie banks, by yon bonnie braes, where the sun shines, on Loch Looooooommooonnnddd; where me and my true love will never meet again: on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Looommmooooonddddddd...” Those words were reverberating through my internal jukebox as we drove up the Mull of Kintyre under dusky light last evening. Yes folks, I was excited. The eery calm of the dark hills looking down on us thickened the atmosphere. This part of Scotland is as mystical as it is stunning.
[Tragically we had neither our normal camera nor my phone camera, which were defunct and out of battery respectively - so no photos to show to you other than a couple we snapped just before we left. Alas.]
Where to stay? It was 10pm and really quite dark. We hadn’t done our research. A Youth Hostel sign appeared from nowhere as we neared the southern end of the Loch; soon we found ourselves winding up a wooded lane. A very stately looking building lit up by electric candlelight emerged from the darkness. ‘Twood make an ideal murder mystery venue. The Australian woman behind the desk wanted 20 quid for a bed though, which I thought was a bit on the nose. Mike was happy to pay it but I was having none of it, so instead opted for the passenger seat of the car (which I parked just across the main road in one of the carparks at the rather pucker Cameron House!). We could’ve done with a bit of space anyway. I actually managed to sleep pretty well, despite a constant stream of car headlights rolling past intermittently (I was worried they were those of security guard vehicles; that I was going to get turfed out).
Rather than my first thought when I woke up being “Holy hell, I’m about to play Loch Lomond”, it was more a case of, “God my neck is sore...”! The Tank’s made for navigating country road corners at 70mph, not for sleeping in. 20 quid well saved though. Some of those quid I put to good use down the road at the Co-op in Ballacher; as soon as the doors opened I was in like a flash, pulling together a breakfast fit for a king. A king who sleeps in his car. I picked up Mike from his spooky castle cum hostel – and we were On Our Way (about 4 minutes down the road).
The entrance is a very understated affair, by design I would’ve thought. “Jamie Patton here, for a 9 o’clock tee time,” I piped up when the intercom asked what business we had. I think the guy on the other end could probably hear my smile. To say that the drive in is impressive is to say Everest’s summit is quite high. Sir James Colqhoun and his descendants had some driveway, which leads to quite a house on quite a property. You snake through trees, past a few holes and eventually get a peek of the Loch. By the time you arrive in the carpark you’re only a couple of hundred yards from shore. Being the amateurs that we are we parked our own car (rather than pulling up outside the clubhouse and having it parked for us valet styles). The service ethic here is world class. And the clubhouse itself, well...see for yourself.
Wallace was our first port of contact, a lovely gentleman of a gentle disposition who looked after us all day. (I thought nothing of his name until I met a few of the other staff, all of whom had more Scottish names than the next – leading me to suspect that it’s club policy either: 1. To make employees change their names to sound as Scottish as possible; or, more likely, 2. To only hire humans that already have very Scottish names; or, even 3. That it was all just a coincidence). Wallace, I suppose, was the master of ceremonies. He directed guests and staff alike, keeping the Loch Lomond machine ticking over like clockwork. What a tremendous job he did too. We felt instantly welcome and, to be honest, humbled.
En route to the locker room I ran into John Caven, Director of Golf, who – upon request from our pal Harry Summer, a member from South Carolina – had kindly made our visit happen. Delightful gentleman he was too, possessed of one of those soft Glaswegian accents that I would’ve thought does more for the women than a harsh Fife brogue. He sent us down to the locker room (certainly in the top 3 this year, knocking at Sea Island’s door) to see Willie. Now Willie appears to have been making members and guests feel welcome since Sir James Colqhoun’s day (but as it happens I know he’s only been there for 14 years). During that time he’s perfected the art of being The Nicest Locker Room Attendant Ever To Grace God’s Good Earth. He was the sort of chap that you couldn’t be angry at even if he’d slept with your sister, or worse, drunk all your whisky.
As hard as it was to leave the locker room we had to. To play golf. A shower reared its ugly head as we traipsed to the starter’s box; waterproofs were pulled on quick smart. Please understand though that rain at Loch Lomond isn’t like rain anywhere else. It’s going to be hard to explain this, but... On the shores of Loch Lomond, where bonnie Bens rise up around you and clouds float sleepily above, it almost feels Right And Proper that it should rain. And you don’t mind it when it does. Or I didn’t anyway. Maybe I’m mad. Anyway we had a good old chinwag with y’er man the silvery haired Starter whose name sadly escapes me (probably Murdoch or Fraser or Tam). Then it was game on.
He advised agin playing the blacks. 7000 yards of golf course that – in the conditions – would play more like 7500. Feck it; full glory it would have to be (in keeping with our masochist ethos). Just as well that we both thumped drives straight through the chute and down the middle then, because it might’ve been a bit awkward with y’er man standing there (after his words of caution) if we’d snap hooked a couple into the abyss. There wasn’t a soul ahead of us, and we weren’t going to be holding anyone up. So really we had Loch Lomond GC to ourselves. A nice, even decadent feeling.
Right away the course’s trademark (to my mind anyway) revealed itself. Feature (deciduous) trees are positioned strategically on most holes, often just off the fairway. Be they oak, ash, sycamore, chestnut or maple – these things were quite stunning; and if you were unfortunate enough to find yourself on the wrong side of the fairway they would block your way in earnest. Sadly our camera wasn’t with us on this occasion (a crime, really), so I can’t show you an example. Use y’er imagination. Gawjus.
By the time you’ve played the 2nd hole you start to get the feeling that you’re playing one of the world’s great parkland golf courses. It’s a strong dogleg left par 4 with bunkers guarding the landing area, feature trees down the right, and a dyke some 60 yards short of the green (which I thought was a burn from afar). Heavy hitters like me mate Goldstein can smash driver over the left hand bunker, and over the dogleg, leaving a mid iron in; but most mortals are forced to be a bit more cute and hit two solid blows.
Our appreciation of Weiskopf & Morrish’s design went into overdrive on the 3rd, a dogleg left par 5 that takes you down to the water’s edge. The tee shot is played through a narrow chute guarded at the front right entrance to the fairway by a feature tree. Past that it opens up slightly, but a couple of huge bunkers are cut into the corner of the dogleg on the left. To fly them is dam near impossible for most (even my gorilla playing partner couldn’t quite manage). As you climb slightly and round the bend your view of the green opens up, but only partially. That’s because it’s guarded first by two huge trees on the right, behind which is a pond. A false front on the front right of the green no doubt sends careless approaches mercilessly into fish territory. A fair lay up area lies short left, but if you get too aggressive then a greenside bunker on the left awaits. Just a wonderfully crafted golf hole. And a stunning backdrop to boot.
While putting on the 4th an American looking chap standing by the next tee caught the corner of our eye. He was wearing a bright red waterproof jacket, khaki shorts, sneakers, and he was holding a big umbrella. It was Harry. He spends 3 months or so every year in a house down in Ballacher, then heads back home to Myrtle Beach late August. His summer’s spent playing golf in his adopted back yard, at Loch Lomond. Understandably he’s a relaxed character, who’s clearly done well in life. In fact he’s so laid back he’s horizontal. We’d met Harry through a mutual friend, the lovely Carol Kaufman, some weeks ago at her club Renaissance in East Lothian, where she hosted us all. It was on that day that Harry extended us an invitation to come here.
I set about trying to impress y’er man by knocking a 6 iron straight at the pin on the par 3 5th, to 10 feet. Then before long I showed my true colours: and missed. Harry didn’t have time to play, but he wanted to walk with us for a few holes. When you’re in the man’s company it’s impossible to imagine the phenomenon that is stress. A bit like the impossibility of feeling anger while looking at a penguin. His calming influence – combined with the serenity of the bonnie Loch that by this time was just a few feet away – quickly blew away any residual frustration that lingered from seeing another birdie opportunity slip cruelly by.
On the 6th tee I paused for quiet reflection. And basically said an atheist’s prayer. There’s a Beatles track called “In My Life” that in recent years has been for me a source of much inspiration, the way it’s harmonies and lyrics blend to make you feel as if you exist in a blissful vacuum of peace and contemplation. Gazing across the Loch I was transported to that same place (except in this case it was Rabbie Burns’ words bouncing around my head). You stand there and imagine who’s sat on these shores before, pondering the important and the not so important questions in life. I guess you could say it’s a place thick with atmosphere. Or you could say it’s breathtakingly beautiful. Or both. A place where hopeless romantics are brought to their knees.
And nervous golfers driven to drink! The par 5 6th is 600+ yards and plays right along the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. I hit my first ball straight right probably into the path of an unsuspecting brown trout. (I’ve mentioned this before, about my unfortunate tendency to hit all the “Don’t Do It” shots, like over the wall on 1 at Prestwick or into the Road Hole Bunker at St. Andrews – well, this was no different). But was I bothered one bit? Not at all. That was until I saw the 6th is stroke index 1, meaning in practical terms that I could take a triple bogey if I didn’t get my act together. I don’t like making triples any more than the next rooster, but I particularly detest them when they’re par 5s – because an 8 appears on your card. 6s and 7s are bad enough, but an 8...???? Fortunately the ball dropped after 7 blows, saving (some) face.
Harry instructed me in no uncertain terms on the next tee that the only successful tee shot could be a high fade with a driver (3 wood wasn’t an option because the hole was 450+ yards). First, I have a 7.5 degree driver with a stiff shaft; second, I hit hooks. The impetuous child within me was awoken, however, so I thought I’d try to follow Harry’s instructions. Of course it didn’t go to plan! In any case, by this time, you’re sandwiched in between the majestic clubhouse and the Loch. Much as at Cypress Point, at Pebble, at The NGLA, at Royal Dornoch – you pinch yourself and thank your lucky stars.
Somewhat unusually the 9th tee is adjacent to the clubhouse, the hole taking you away past the carpark along the line of the driveway. It’s a fairly straightforward affair; a hole on which they bring the tees forward for the big boys so they can have a go at the green (it’s a risk / reward short par 4 guarded by some clever bunkers). From there though the examination becomes a sterner one, your birdie opportunities (fundraising opportunities, in our case) become fewer and further between. Indeed some of the holes pose such a challenge that the best is subconsciously drawn out of you, out of necessity / survival. 10: long downhill par 4 through a chute off the tee; over a burn at about 350; to a subtly undulating green guarded at the front and to the left by a pond, to the right by a bunker. A pure 3 wood and a shaky 4 iron it took me to get home; par was a very welcome score indeed. 11: 250 yards uphill par 3 to a green with a huge bowl in the front middle (pin back left). The first 150 yards are all carry over dense scrub – not that it should come into play, but it focuses the mind on the task at hand, and quickens that swing just a little. Behind the green is a wonderfully mature forest with an ancient looking building (of whose purpose I’m still not sure) nestled quietly in the shade.
On 12 the feature trees lining the fairway are among the most striking on the property. In a strange way these trees look more alive than almost any tree I’ve come across before. I say that because they’re covered in lichen and, in some cases, by other trees...! You know, carpets of leaves covering the trunks. Must be the clean air and abundant moisture. What say you tree experts?
Harry had told us earlier to keep an eye out for the 13th, because (on one of the occasions) when he won here, Big Ernie Els hit driver / 6 iron to 6 feet. Now, the 13th is a long par 5. Not in a month of Sundays could I get up with driver, 6 iron. It may be downhill, and at some 320 yards there’s a down slope that can catapult you another 30 yards or so. But there’s just no way. As if I needed reminding that Those Boys play a different game...
There are some scintillating holes coming down the stretch that can be played with great enjoyment (albeit differently) by any golfer. 14’s another risk / reward short par 4 (with a split fairway) that’d give some of Dr. Alistair MacKenzie’s creations a run for their money; 16’s a brute of a 500 yard dogleg left par 4 with a gushing burn 30 yards short of the green; 17’s an all carry long par 3 playing along the shores of the Loch, where it forms something of a bay; and 18, well 18 is a fitting crescendo to the symphony. The back tee is tucked away through a chute on a small tee offset at 30 degrees from the path of the fairway, which at the landing zone shapes right to left. You need to swing hard because the carry must be 230. A long bunker awaits at the far side of the fairway if you block or crush one. Left is dead. Once on the safety of the fairway you play over the final feature tree – perched on the left side – to a huge, 3 tiered green pitched towards you. Adding to the drama are a boathouse, the ruin of an old tower (directly behind the green), the clubhouse itself and, of course, the Loch. It’s a sensational vista.
Who was there to meet us as we walked off but Wallace. He’d arrived in one of the club’s custom made buggies into which your clubs are chucked then escorted back to your car, while you relax in the comfort of the clubhouse. Harry being the consummate gentleman that he is had kindly left a few quid behind the bar for us to have lunch and a jar (or silver tanker, in this case). Then we might’ve decided it was time to get back to The Real World. But. A group of Kiwi lads – some involved with The First Tee – were also out on the course, and had hoped to catch up with us after they finished. Wallace then took it upon himself to ask management whether we’d be able to use the spa facilities in the interim, while the boys were still out on the course. No problem at all.
So we were ferried across in one of the Merc taxis they have on the estate, to an old walled garden into which the spa has been built. It’s a very special place indeed. A lovely Glasgwegian lady showed us around the facilities, then told us to make ourselves at home (after equipping us each with a pair of loan togs). Dream Result. I won’t gloat, but these water jet contraptions they had in the hydro pools were fit for use by The Sultan Of Brunei himself. I didn’t want to leave. Then there was the Turkish crystal steam room (or whatever it’s called); and The Best Shower In The World. Yes folks, another superlative. It had 3 modes: tropical rain, cool mist, and side massage. Cool mist was the best.
Once cleaned up I sat in my bath robe with a bottle of cold water enveloped by a huge armchair in the men’s relaxation room. Outside is an immaculate garden walled in by those ancient bricks. The sun was streaming in; and the bees were floating around fetching pollen for their Queen. I admired their protestant work ethic. And reflected for a few moments about how lucky a lad I was in this moment of privilege. I suppose there are people out there who become so accustomed to such luxury that they no longer appreciate it. Don’t think I’ll have anything to worry about there...!
Golfed, lunched and pampered we were delivered back to the locker room, where our Kiwi friends-to-be pals were perched at the card table. Eric, who owns The Golf Warehouse back home in NZ, was taking the Australian MD of Srixon for a bit of a getaway to thank him for being a valued supplier. Eric’s right hand man – Reece, who was #1 on the NZ Order of Merit for a spell – was there too, as was his pal Lawrie. The four of ‘em seemed to be having a famous old time. As they well should. It soon became clear that we all had plenty to talk about, so the boys kindly invited us to join them down the road at Cameron House, where they were staying (and where I’d slept in the car park the night before!). So we did. And a smashing time was had by all.
What a surreal day.
JP
Last week we had 24 hours on Islay for what was a stunning mini break from the mainland of Scotland. We were invited out here by the Machrie Hotel & Golf Club. Here are a few tid bits from our stay!
6 hours of sleep I got in this wee hotel – the Machrie after staying up late writing stories, playing with photographs on our CMS and posting some blogs.
14 Years that big Ian has been running this joint. And he is some host. The type of guy who has found his calling in life. I’d say he runs a pretty tight ship too.
17 blind shots awaiting us on the Machrie links course. Blind, but generally very fair. If a green was blind, it was flat (or had a bowl to it). And if you took a quick walk up you’d see where to go. Similar story with the tee shots – blind but fair.
22: the rating of Machrie in the list of top Scottish golf courses according to www.top100golfcourses.co.uk. Good website although some rankings are bizarre (eg Skibo as 60 odd in Scotland?).
1 the hole where the first birdie of the day came courtesy of JP’s pinpoint second. One of 6 birdies on the day.
5 ridiculous putts I’ve missed for eagle during the Scottish leg – each would have resulted in a 30 pound donation to The First Tee. Today’s blow out was a 8 footer for eagle on the second. Ali Asher & Gents you know what I’m talking about. Sorry Pip and co back in NZ! I’ll make up for it in Ireland. At least the second green was flanked by this calming outlook:
11: The number of bunkers scattered around the course. It was a good feeling seeing four of the blighters on the par three 5th hole and knowing there would only be another 7. Who needs bunkers though when there is heather, long rough and blind shots everywhere. The heather is not bad looking stuff either… (bad for the score mind you).
15 yards to the left of the stake is where you should hit the ball on the blind 7th hole. JP went for the route just to the right of the stake (with a draw of course) only for his ball to bound right off the fairway over the dune into the long stuff.
16 paces wide is the 9th fairway was at its widest point. Cracking hole played along the water to a green protected by a stunning dune short right. One of those holes that make you stop in your tracks and say ‘blimey that’s a great hole’. The sign of a classy golf course.
0 The marketing budget for the Machrie Golf Course. But none is needed as I’d say 99% of people leave Islay and tell their friends it’s worth a visit. I know Jamie and I will be traveling advertisements for the place. The Cut were onto something as well when they did a feature here during 2009.
3 photographs sent to me by Ian after our journey which he has taken recently. Ian is quite the photographer as you’ll see below. This place is stunning. Wow.
8 minutes that we camped out for in the hut before the par three 12th hole waiting for the rain to subside.
423 yards long is the stroke one hole playing uphill and inland towards a firm and fast green surrounded by bunkers. Straightforward and laid out before you but by no means an easy hole.
45 centimetres further I needed to hit my 9 iron on the blind 17th for it to kick down onto the green. What a zany green complex over a huge mound – check it out.
70 shots to knock it around this track beating it’s par by one for it to become the third golf course defeated during the year. Credit must go to the greens – they were sublime.
8 distilleries on Islay producing some of the best Single Malt Whiskeys in the world. Peaty stuff mind you. We managed to visit three of them: Ardbeg, Lagavullin and Laphroaig. I checked out the visitors book at Ardbeg and we were the first visitors from New Zealand since... Jonah Lomu.
52.5 the alcohol percentage in the triple distilled Lagavulin single malt that can only be purchased from the distillery and that we tasted during our fleeting visit there. The best tasting experience I’ve ever experienced. Laid back, hospitable, and some fine produce.
863 times we thanked Ian for the magical 24 hours on Islay as he dropped us at Port Ellen. We had enjoyed the ferry trip, our accommodation at The Machrie, being ferried around the Island courtesy of the rickety rackety Machrie van and of course playing on the sensational world class golf course. This is one place that every whiskey and golf lover must visit.
Guys, team, readers.
We've now completed our Scottish leg - and what a 45 days it was! Thanks to everyone involved from the MacKenzies up in the far north to Pooky in Gleneagles and the various aunties and uncles of Jamie in and around Edinburgh and Fife!
Over the course of our Scottish leg we had 3 kind folk donating 1 pound for every birdie we made and 10 pounds for every eagle. The outcome through 45 days? After numerous missed putts and 'what-could-have-been' opportunities was 152 Birdies and 4 Eagles!
Irish Fundraising - Get involved!!
We're now one day through our Irish leg. Over the next 24 days we will play through Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland driving a fair few miles in the process!
So far we have 2 people who have kindly agreed to take part in the Ireland Birdie / Eagle challenge - including Jamie's father Mike who hails from these parts. Trust me when I say it's hugely motivating when we're standing over a birdie putt to know that when it rolls in the side door some benefit will come from it to the great folk at The First Tee.
For those who are new to our charity - The First Tee - it's a cause worth supporting. They give kids the opportunity to get into golf and learn some of the amazing life lessons we've been fortunate to pick up over the years (and this year in particular!). All of the donations are going straight to the program and we hope that over the course of the year we'll raise enough for them to expand into the town where Jamie and I went to school and university back in NZ, Christchurch. Have a read here for more information about TFT.
We'd be stoked for readers from across the world to get involved!!! - please email me if you're in to be part of the challenge. And to Mike and Carol - on behalf of Jamie, myself and the folk at The First Tee - Thank you!
M
I hope y’all enjoyed Mike’s Machrihanish video as much as I did. Certainly it encapsulated for me what was a very special 24 hours on the Mull of Kintyre. It’s a stunning part of Scotland and the course is really something to behold. Pooky’s company was sparkling as ever – we got a few more juicy stories on the course than we had bargained for! - as was that of Belle Robertson who is quite an amazing lady indeed. And so it was with much anticipation that our party set off on Sunday morning to the neighbouring Machrihanish Dunes: a fledgling course designed by David Mclay Kidd (or DMK as his company is creatively called). The views from Belle's rented cottage whetted the appetite: first, looking across the coastline past the old course to the site of the Dunes; second, looking next door to the starter's hut / pro shop at the old course.
“Built” on (leased) farmland adjacent to Machrihanish GC (now sometimes referred to as “old Machrihanish”), it’s drawn a mixed response from the punters in the year or so since it opened. With respect, I can see why. DMK’s mantra is “pursuing purist golf”; and on the MD website you’ll find the slogan “This is the way golf began...this is Machrihanish Dunes.” The point of difference (if there needs to be one) is that the course is the first to have been built on a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSi) since the days of Old Tom Morris. Now let me first make clear that the site is a stunning one. From the website you’ll no doubt gather that the views are knock-your-socks-off-good, and the air as pure as can be.
However. I do question the wisdom of “building” a golf course atop an SSSi when the restrictions on what dirt can be moved are so tight. At one end of the spectrum you have the Kingsbarns, Castle Stuarts and Whistling Straits of this world – where megatons of earth have been moved to create the appearance of a natural links. The ethics (for want of a better word) involved in these projects is for some a thorny issue – to be honest I’m not bothered as long as the golf course is a good one, with a few minor caveats – but at least the designer is in complete control of what the golfer will experience. With projects like MD that’s not the case, because the developers weren’t allowed to move any dirt (save to cut the tees). Thus the golf course really does follow the lie of the land, quite literally – which in many cases will cause the average golfer a headache or three.
The folks at MD were very hospitable and greeted us warmly as soon as we’d stepped out of our cars (the fact that we were the only people there perhaps meant we were easy to spot!). They clearly believe in their project and spoke openly about the challenges they faced. I hope for their sake that those hurdles can be overcome. The background information we heard about the concept, the process and the course’s reception since opening was a useful introduction – but ultimately we just needed to play golf and see what it was all about for ourselves. So we did. (Please note the evaluative undertones here refer more to Pooky’s need to form an impression, rather than ours, given he runs a golf tour business and needs to feel comfortable about a place before sending paying clients along; we were just privileged to be along for the ride, and to enjoy Pooky’s and Belle’s good company in the fresh air).
Peter a mature chap whose background lies in hospitality rather than golf kindly gave of his time to come and be a forecaddie. Pleasant though he was, I must confess Peter didn’t inspire me with confidence with his pearls of wisdom on line and length. At the Dunes there are more blind shots than you can shake a stick at, so local knowledge is of paramount importance. Absolutely key. Number 1 tee sets the tone. From where we were standing (us boys played from the backs) we couldn’t see a hint of a fairway, or a green for that matter. There are little arrows dropped at the front of every tee block pointing you in the right direction, but you still need to know how far to hit it and where the trouble lies. Enter Peter.
Y’er man was doing his best to keep us on the straight and narrow, but it’s an unenviable task for the most experienced of caddies – because the course is something of a labyrinth. Peter (wearing a little backpack with those rope straps; more like a sack really) would toddle off to the apex of the dune ahead, then edge one way or another to show us the ideal line down to the mythical fairway. Once we’d all pinged one in roughly his direction we’d march on, hopeful that our ball supply would last us the day. Belle’s tees were in most cases a hundred yards ahead, as they should be for 99% of ladies. But Belle plays off 1 and still – at the ripe old age of 74 (I hope she won’t mind me saying so) – hits the ball 220 yards or so. What timing... She would take counsel; take aim; and nearly drive half the par 4s. It was a pleasure to watch.
For us mortals the blind tee shot would be followed by a blind approach – again, Peter would trot off into the distance and give us a line. With variables like strong wind, different shot shapes and greens with more undulation than the Himalayas putting green at St. Andrews, it was something of a lottery to be fair. The offshoot of this, however, was the acute delight you’d feel for a moment if you trudged over a dune and saw your pill lying on the dance floor. In some cases though, the delight would turn to despair when you realised that the prospects of a 2 putt (let alone a 1 putt) were at best 50/50.
On holes like the 2nd you forget about the golf and marvel at the scenery around you. Perhaps ponder the more important things in life.
The front 9 is a bit of a blur because it seemed to take an eternity. Taking into account the walks between greens and tees the pedometer will read something like 3.6 miles by the time you walk off the 9th green, if you’ve played from the blacks. That’s a long way. Especially when you take into account the energy expended wrestling with the abundant tussock in the hope of finding a dozen wayward golf balls. It’s the most washed I’ve been after 9 holes this year. How your average 65 year old could walk the course I do not know.
Things improved on the back, I must say. The blind shots became fairer and fewer. Greens on the whole were more puttable. And there were actually some very nice golf holes. What we couldn’t understand though was why Mr DMK didn’t make use of the numerous flat(ter) areas left vacant between the existing holes. Belle in particular was at a loss.
Amongst the frustration were a few lovely moments. Pooky the wee sod that he is made back-to-back 2s on the 13th and 14th to bring the match back to all square. The second one dam nearly went in. Still life in the old bugger yet. Belle’s competitive spirit clearly hasn’t left her either; on the 17th and 18th as things were starting to go down to the wire the tone of the match changed ever so slightly. Belle wanted to win, and was very disappointed in Michael and me for taking our stroke (us playing off 2; Pooky off scratch and her off 1) on the Stroke Index 2 17th to win the hole, going dormy 1 up. Justice prevailed when that wee fella chipped in on 18 for birdie, prompting widespread applause, laughter and the odd wry smile. We had a lot of fun.
But we were glad to be in the comfort of the clubhouse after 5 hours of battle. Again the staff couldn’t have been more obliging, and passed around complimentary coffees. Just the ticket as the air had crispened throughout the morning. Belle’s good humoured husband Ian joined us too, as we reflected on what was a fun but trying morning on the links. Ian looked fresh as a daisy; all he’d done was read the paper. But then I guess we can excuse him given he’s 85!
With a 6 o’clock ferry booked (over to Islay) the time soon came to farewell our new friends and get on the road up to Kennacraig. We’d had a famous time in the company of Pooky, Belle, Ian and Jane – so it was with heavy hearts that we pulled away. The Mull of Kintyre had been good to us.
Our ferry trip across to Port Ellen was a nourishing one under the evening sun. Deck 4B was packed with folks of all shapes and sizes and accents, giving a holiday-like atmosphere. It felt like we were off on an adventure. To somewhere far off and unchartered. I stood on the deck for an hour or so, listening to the “Soul Food” playlist on my iPod, and absorbed the mystic beauty of the confluence of sea and coast. I was in another world. As we pulled closer to Islay those famous white buildings (the distilleries Laphroiag, Lagavulin and Ardbeg) glowed luminously on the shore, emitting a magnetic pull. I felt at once relaxed and excited. Enchanting stuff.
Unfortunately however the 2 taxis on the island had been commissioned before we could flag one down. The 5 mile walk to our hotel – The Machrie – wasn’t an enticing one with all of our gear, so we headed to the nearest pub for a pint to ponder our options. Eventually Ian the hotel manager was kind enough to pop down in the van to collect us, thank God for that. Very interesting chap that he is. After his wonderfully welcoming email appeared in my inbox a few weeks ago (“The Machrie Hotel would be delighted to be involved and we will certainly be prepared to put you up in the hotel on a dinner bed and breakfast basis at no charge to yourselves and of course golf too, regards aye”) I was looking forward to meeting the man himself. With a shaved head and hybrid accent he filled us in on the Hotel’s place past and present on Islay, and of course on the delights of the golf course we would discover the next morning. 14 years Ian’s been there; he just loves the place. Over the next 24 hours we’d see why.
JP
Shinnecock
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