"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
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
Ayrshire’s been good to us. Very good, in fact. Which is only right and good, in a karmic sense, because the place was for many years a source of less than happy memories for Yours Truly. Our family made an annual (non-religious) pilgrimage to Nor’n Ireland – The Land of My Father – part of which involved driving from Kirkcaldy to Stranraer. The Pattons Five were packed into the car (along with golf clubs, footballs and, optimistically, beach-going apparatus); the 3 in my generation, which I led, would fight incessantly for the duration of the drive; and the windy Ayrshire roads seemed never to end. Pandemonium in the old Saab, to put it mildly. In fact on one or two occasions I think I may have been ejected from the car (yes, dad occasionally followed through on his threats) in the town of Irvine – no doubt deserving it. Of course I was allowed back in, and the “holiday” continued.
Anyway. On a more serious/golfing note. The 6 avid readers of our blog (hi mum, hi Uncle David...) will have seen that over the past few days we had the privilege of playing Prestwick, Dundonald, Royal Troon and Western Gailes – 4 top tracks, each within a stone’s throw of the next. At the end of the links lies The Gailes Links of Glasgow Golf Club (the club’s other home being Killermont up the road in Glasgow). And what a gem it is too.
The clubhouse is an understated affair from the outside, but once you get in you know you’ve arrived at Glasgow Golf Club. At once spartan and suave, if that’s possible. The gentleman behind the desk in the pro shop – in all likelihood the Pro – greeted us with that lovely soft Weedgie accent (can I use that term here or is it non-PC?), and told us we more or less had the course to ourselves. There was some gig on up the road at Killermont, so hardly anyone was around. At 4.30pm on a muted Saturday evening that was music to my ears.
The 1st hole is a fairly gentle affair, as it should be. A 2 iron; a wedge; and a putt – nice to start with a birdie and get that First Tee donation counter rolling for the day. On the 2nd we started to get a feel of what Glasgow Gailes is all about. At roughly 350 yards (I’d need to check the card but can’t be bothered), you lick your lips on the walk back to the tee. However. From about 130 yards out the fairway begins to narrow, and narrow, and narrow. Merciless heather looms on both sides, and there is a pot bunker or three to gobble up any unsuspecting stray pills. Hit a good 2 iron and a good wedge and you’re in business (assuming you navigate the false front); veer off course and it can be lethal. My kind of golf hole, if I may say.
The fairways actually were wider than they looked. But from the tee they’re partially obscured from view by the heather ahead, and in the low light conditions it wasn’t easy to see much at all. The message then is that they’re fair, but that the golf course tricks you into thinking it’s harder than it is. Make no mistake though – that heather is abominable! Every time I ventured into it I dropped a shot, or two. This won’t come as much of a surprise to any local reading this blurb or blog or whatever it’s called. They know its mischief. But for a lad that hasn’t tangled with heather for over a decade, it’s a novel sensation and one I could happily leave for another decade. Hit it in the bloomin’ fairway then son, I can hear you say...
Save for the group we caught up with on the 17th hole, there was not another soul on the course. Well, no other golfers anyway – the odd family or two were walking their dugs up and down the links, seemingly happy as Larry. Whoever Larry was. I was happy too, and relaxed – at least when I wasn’t visiting Heather anyway.
There were one or two semi-blind shots to contend with, which require you to place a certain amount of trust in the golf course. And your swing. On each occasion I seemed to somehow scratch together a birdie or an eagle, which tells me one thing – when I see the hole I get ahead of myself!
The course had a good set of par 3s, come to think of it. None were gut wrenchingly long, but you had to be pretty cute about where you pitched the ball. Humps and bumps and that cow Heather were lurking everywhere – no more so than on the 14th, which has a raised green surrounded by mayhem. The talking point really though was The Gailes’ collection of short par 4s, each of which demanded something a little different. I could’ve played them over and over and never sicken of trying to get the better of ‘em.
In the locker room we got chatting to one of the chaps from the two ball in front. Tommy’s a member, and was having a wee fiver match with his mate Tony (which he managed to pull back to square after being dormy 4 down, much to Tony’s dismay). Out in the car park we were about to go our separate ways, but then Tommy suggested we grab a pint up the road in Glasgow. We had nothing to be back for in Edinburgh that night, so took him up on his kind offer. Before we knew it we were at a buzzing pub in Glasgow’s West End – Tennent’s – with a guy we’d only met half an hour previously, putting the world to rest.
Before last week’s wee excursion I’d never really been to Glasgow – apart from for the odd game of school boy rugby or rep hockey. ‘Twas worlds apart from Edinburgh in my mind, somewhere I didn’t know much about and had never bothered to find out more. So when Tommy offered us a bed each at his ample flat up the road, and a night out in the West End, a great opportunity presented itself – and in Tommy we had a Top Guy to show is what it’s all about. Within the hour we’d picked up a fish supper from the local; gone back to base camp to spruce up; picked up Tommy’s wee dug, Sushi (otherwise known as “Toota”); and returned to Tennant’s for another round. Wee Toota was with us too, of course – she’s a local attraction at the pub and gets much more attention than her owner! We chucked as everyone ogled the wee thing, asking “how is she?”; no one by the same token bothering to ask how Tommy himself was. He didn’t seem to mind.
Tommy took us out to meet a few of his pals who were – in the Glasgow way – entertaining to say the least. Real characters. It wasn’t a late night, but it was a very social one. Our host showed us some real Glasgwegian hospitality, which reminded me a bit of The South in the US, in the way that the people seem to embrace anyone and anything. Some people might be a bit wary about spending an evening on a whim with a random single man in Glasgow, but not us. For one thing it was immediately apparent Tommy was a great guy; for another, it’s what This is all about – meeting people and seeing where the wind takes you. Great day.
JP
Royal Troon is among the most famous of the Great Scottish Links’, and therefore among the most famous courses in the world. It was founded in 1878 and held 8 Open Championships between 1923 and 2004 – won by Giants of the Game such as Locke, Palmer, Weiskopf, Watson, Calcavecchia, Leonard and, er, Todd Hamilton. Troon became Royal Troon in its centenary year – 1978 – when it received the Royal Decree. Now the members drive Aston Martins instead of BMWs and use silk handkerchiefs instead of linen.
The Old Course is sandwiched between Prestwick to the south and the Gailes courses (Western and Glasgow) and Dundonald to the north. On not a bad piece of golfing terra firma. In fact you’d be hard pushed to find a better agglomeration of links tracks anywhere on these Isles, or anywhere in the world for that matter. Royal Troon’s in good company.
How they let 3 Kiwi punters (and a Kiwi caddy) on for a game I’ll never know. But when the email came through suffice to say I was somewhat elated. Pete delayed his flight by a couple of days so he could experience a day or two of life as part of the puregolf2010 machine, with a game at Troon as a sweetener (as if he needed one...?!); and Doug came along for the ride too. Four excited Kiwis, yes Sir. Pete very kindly sponsored us to stay at The Anchorage Hotel in Troon last night, which was like going back in time. On Troon Eve we took in the sights of the local town, taking in a quiz at the local Inn and a spot of Bingo (we weren’t in time to take part, but observed with interest)! A very confusing discussion with the Head Chef at the local curry joint was also a highlight. As was sitting up until the wee hours – rather unwisely – playing cards in our room.
Anyway. In the morning we waded through a sea of cholesterol / chowed down a cooked “breakfast” at the Anchorage (the lads hadn’t experienced black pudding before!), then made our way around the corner to the course. Rookie mistake: I’d forgotten that in the email were instructions not to wear shorts. So when we turned up in the clubhouse to meet the Caddiemaster we were politely advised of our error. Peter himself was a very gracious man indeed, and didn’t bat any eyelid. The rather officious chap running around in a blue jacket though was not quite as patient. Trousers on, quick smart. Right.
With an hour to kill before we were off, quite a few practice putts were hit. Not enough, as it turned out. I got talking to the starter, a very affable gentleman who used to be a footballer in his day. He shared with me his regrets about not giving it a go down south and overseas. Sadly his mother had kept from him an opportunity to go down at the age of 15 to Brighton to try out for a team down there, probably with his best interests at heart. He however didn’t see it that way and looks back on What Might Have Been. That’s not a sensation I enjoy.
The first 3 or 4 holes on The Old Course at RT are bonnie but not intimidating. As long as the wind’s not howling you can fire a few easy swing 2 irons down there and a mid to short iron onto the deck, without much trouble. Things start to hot up a bit on the par 5 6th, which I recognised from the 2004 Open. Then on the 7th you begin to realise you’re playing Royal Troon: a 380 yard dogleg right par 4 with more bunkers than I’ve had hot dinners and a well guarded green tucked between the dunes. On that hole Goldy rolled in his 3rd birdie of the day, and given Doug was perched up on the dune behind the hole I thought he might’ve captured it on film – but no such luck. At this point I made by 7th straight par and was beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about. Ha – famous last words!
The postage stamp 8th hole is infamous. Many a postage stamp hole has been designed around the world with the 8th at RT in mind, some of which we’ve experienced this year. The only one I can remember that comes close is 16 at Paraparaumu Beach, which is equally as straightforward / tormenting, depending on how you play it. I pulled my sand wedge into the coffin bunker, which is not a nice place to be; Goldy pulled it onto the other side of the dune; and Pete stuck it was an easy swing (the secret) to 6 feet! I’m pleased to say Mr. Borren rolled it in for a memorable birdie too. And with an 8 footer sliding past the left edge I carded my first bogey of the round. Dammit.
On the 10th we had a bit of a mozza. The tees are set amongst the gorse in what really is the middle of nowhere. Were it not for the narrow path cut up into the dunes ahead you’d have no idea whatsoever which way to go. Doug strided up ahead to give us a line and to keep an eye on where our tee shots ended up. He picked his spot and waved us on. I took aim and thrashed a high draw with my driver, precisely down the line he indicated was the correct one. Problem is, when the ball left the clubface, Doug turned 180 degrees and yelled FORE. The 2 ball ahead were about to play their approaches and my ball flew straight over their heads! Doug neglected to shout back that this was the case, and so we found ourselves in a slightly embarrassing (but thankfully not lethal) situation. I marched up to the next tee and apologised; the two Englishmen were good humoured about the whole thing, but I was red faced nonetheless. What a kafuffle.
Yesterday at Dundonald we’d been laughing about the inevitable 3 off the tee that follows a 3 putt. It’s uncanny how a 3 putt or a missed 3 footer always precedes a block or hook into the gorse. Unfortunately it was my turn, when I 3 putted from just off the edge of the stroke 1 11th hole, then put the nail into the coffin on What Might Have Been A Good Round by blocking the wee white thing into the gorse on 12. Curtains. Next time I think, as an experiment, I’m going to hit a 9 iron off the tee – regardless of how long the hole is. Reckon I’ll score better...
The sun came out along the stretch and – though the pace of play slowed a little – we were in our element, marvelling at Troon in its full splendour. The brilliant red sandstone of The Marine Hotel glowed handsomely. And the contours of the course were revealed more acutely, as shadows grew longer by the second. The understated yet majestic clubhouse was a beacon of comfort – i.e. a sign that food wasn’t too far away – and an impressive sight in its own right. I wonder whether those 8 Open champions that walked down the 18th were as hungry as we were? Probably.
Off then we went to Morrison’s supermarket to pull together a feast to end all feasts. Goldy was particularly pleased with the 8 donuts for 59 pence deal he found. I was more taken with my 4 nectarines for a pound find. Yum.
The 2001 St. Andrews College golf team then packed into the car once more and set sail for Edinburgh, where we were to meet an old friend of Pete’s for dinner on George Street. I had forgotten how beautiful the centre of town is on a summer’s evening – the likes of India Street, Charlotte Square and George Street itself were buzzing with action and caked In sun. ‘Twas a long day, Day 203, but a good one. A very good one.
JP
Prestwick must surely be as traditional as it gets in the golfing world. And I like it. Nay, I love it. Our visit to this hallowed place has been a long time coming: a Scottish expat now living in New Zealand – The Rt. Hon Kenny Thomson (Jnr.) – saw us on Breakfast TV back in February and noticed we were planning to be across here around the time of The Open. As it happened, so was Kenny – so he dropped us a line and asked whether we might like to join him for a game down at Prestwick before he returned back to NZ. After taking the 50:50, asking the audience and phoning a friend I confirmed that yes, we would be happy to slum it for a day and make the trip down to Ayrshire. And so a 5 month wait ensued.
After getting bucketed on last night at The Dukes Course on the hills overlooking St. Andrews we zipped across Fife to stay with dear family friends of mine, The Lows. The 4 hours’ notice I gave Auntie Phil that we’d be descending upon Dunearn Farm didn’t seem to inconvenience her or Uncle Jock, although my mum would be mortified at such Gaul. With 4 of us – Michael and I, and friends Doug and Tim from New Zealand – packed in The Tank, along with 16 tonnes of luggage, we were glad to pour out onto the doorstep and into the comfort of The Lows’ lovely farmhouse cottage. It was also something of a relief to get out of St. Andrews after a manic 5 days of All Things Golf.
I’ve been lugging around my sports jacket for over 200 days because I’d need it at places like Prestwick. As such I took some satisfaction in donning it in the morning, feeling like a 5-year-old off for his first day at school. One thing I haven’t lugged around – and which I’d need – was a tie, but Jock kindly came to the party and lent me one (which belonged to his father before him, as it happens). Sporting freshly ironed white shirts and jackets and ties we hopped back into The Tank and headed West. Doug and Tim were dropped in Glasgow to watch Tim’s cousin (and our friend) Peter play cricket for Holland against Bangladesh; Mike and I continued south down the M77. And then we found ourselves in the carpark at Prestwick, chomping at the bit.
While hauling out our gear from the car we got chatting to a couple of Nor’n Irish cum Californian folk who’d parked next to us, and to a chatty Westie the car over who turned out to be Davey the 4th member of our group. Davey & Kenny – like Michael and I – went through University together and, though Kenny now plies his trade 12,000 miles away in the Antipodes, they still keep in touch and try to catch up whenever possible. Often on the golf course, which is the best place to catch up with old friends if you ask me.
The path to the clubhouse entrance takes you past the big bay window inside which all the members gather on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings before play. Between 8 and 10 each member is dealt to from a pack of cards; the Aces and Queens play together against the Kings and Jacks – a tradition that has endured since the club’s early days nigh on 160 years ago. This way you don’t know who you’re playing with until the cards are dealt, and you inevitably end up meeting most if not all of your fellow members, rather than keeping to cliques as is the case at many clubs.
Kenny was perched in the window looking dapper in a blue blazer and his Prestwick member tie, but came out to greet us at the front door. We were shown to the old locker room to drop our gear, then taken into the bar for a dram and a coffee before play. It’s not every day that I’d have a whisky at 10am before teeing off, but at Prestwick I made an exception. Because it’s Prestwick. In keeping with the sociable fabric of the club, the chairs in the bay window are set out in two parallel lines rather than into huddles of 4 – meaning everyone really sits and likely gets chatting with everyone else.
The time eventually came to step onto that famous 1st tee. Our 4 ball was at the end of the members’ block and a good 15 minutes or so before the visitors would tee off – so we were all but assured of a good pace of play. The balls were thrown up and Davey and I paired together. An offshoot of this was that Michael would benefit from Kenny’s local knowledge and I wouldn’t. (That’s not entirely accurate actually; I promised to wind Kenny up in the blog and am starting as I mean to continue).
What a golf hole. Your brain doesn’t know quite what to make of it upon first impression. Or after you’ve played it, for that matter. There’s a wall running the length of the hole on the right hand side, over which is the railway (from which the holes its namesake, “Railway”). On the left is heather and bunkers and generally inhospitable territory. The fairway is largely obscured from view by said heather, so you have to 1. Rely on Kenny’s instructions; and/or 2. Consult the diagram on the fence by the tee that sets out how the hole should be played. You know you’re in for something of a calamity when the club has to put a picture up telling you how to play a hole!
We all got our tee shots away safely enough – none over the wall at this point – much to our collective relief. Then I blocked an 8 iron that looked like it was heading 25 feet pin high right (it’s a semi-blind shot). I must’ve misjudged both the shot and the wind because it flew straight over the wall onto the railway! A shot I will never forget. In the context it wasn’t just despair and anguish that I felt, but also amusement and almost delight.
The course is littered with quirky holes like the 1st. No doubt they’re polarising: some people for whatever reason detest playing blind shots. I’m in the other camp, and relish the challenge / lottery. All the anguish is worth it when you walk over a dune and spot your ball sitting 6 feet from the pin, having 5 seconds ago not known whether it was in a pot bunker, in the long grass or somewhere playable.
Take the 3rd, an unorthodox par 5 if ever there was one. First of all, there’s a heathery ditch at about 260 yards or so, and a huge railway sleeper bunker behind – so you basically have to hit 2 iron or 3 wood off the tee (on a line Kenny tells you). Then it’s a blind approach over the hill and said mischief to a Himalayas-esque fairway and a semi-blind approach to a postage stamp green surrounded by humps and hollows. Then the 5th (named “Himalayas” - pictured below) is a 200+ yard par 3 straight over a big sand dune. A couple of little wooden crosses stuck into the face of the hill (one red, one white) give something of a clue about where you’re meant to hit it. My partner Davie rifled one right between ‘em and to 8 feet – a very impressive shot indeed.
The deceptively innocuous sounding 6th hole (“Elysian Fields”) is a more straightforward hole but if you stray into the Fields as I did you can Forget About It. Kenny quipped off the tee, “you’ll either find it or you won’t” - which at the time sounded a little Irish to me. When I walked up to where I thought the ball was, I realised what he meant. Either it’d be sitting somewhere obvious or it would’ve been gobbled up by the merciless heather. The latter, as it turned out... I particularly liked the 8th too, another blind approach with the line marked by a pole behind the green.
On the 10th hole (“Arran”, named after the island of the same name to which you look out to as you approach the green) I really found out what Prestwick rough is about. Because I can’t swear on the blog I’ll have to find words of a similar strength that can be used. Let’s try abominable, atrocious, gruesome, harrowing, abhorrent, unpleasant and cursed. My ball didn’t appear to be sitting too badly upon first inspection, so I pulled 5 iron and had aspirations of knocking it There Or Thereabouts. Haha! Oh how naïve. The ball to its credit moved, but only 5 yards or so, this time into a yet less enticing lie. For my 3rd shot I grabbed a sand wedge and tried merely to dig it out onto the fairway. Again, to its credit, the ball moved, but again in its wisdom it decided to stop short of the fairway – which by this time was beginning to seem like a Very Distant Paradise. Finally for 4 I made it; then hit a good pitch to 10 feet; then missed for double, carding an ugly triple bogey 7. Lesson learned.
Along the back there are some extraordinary holes. The 13th green (pictured below) is mental – something you discover when you eventually see it after traipsing up and down through the moguls.
The aptly named 15th (“Narrows” )has one of the narrowest (if not the narrowest) fairways in world golf. And it’s a cracking hole too. As Kenny told us on the tee, when the greenkeeper mows the fairway he starts at the tee and heads in a straight line to the green (just the one trip). It’s a partially blind tee shot, and on both sides of the “fairway” is – you guessed it – heather. To get to the green you climb up a wee hill and then descend a few yards, making the 2nd shot (if you’re lucky enough only to be playing your second) a semi-blind one.
17 is my favourite 17th hole to date, without a doubt. You drive through the heather to an undulating fairway – again, pretty narrow stuff – then pitch over a heather covered dune with 3 little stones atop it (to show you the line: left stone if you’re playing from the left; right if you’re from the right; middle if you’re on the fairway) to what must be one of the most zany green complexes in the world. I won’t try to describe it but check out the photo below.
On 18 tee you can see the lights of the bay window beckoning up ahead. All that stands between you and The Prestwick Lunch is a straightforward driveable par 4. In our ineptitude none of us managed a birdie, but by this stage all that was on our mind was a hot shower and some grub. Davey sadly had to get back to work so our 4 was then 3. We hopped quickly through the showers – another thing Prestwick is well known for, quite rightly – then put our jackets and ties back on, ready for the next chapter.
Kenny let the staff know that we’d be through momentarily then took us once more into the bar for a silver tankard of ale. (There’s a story behind the tankards but this blog is already getting long enough). The dining room is quite something. A huge long table sits smack bang in the middle of a room that probably hasn’t changed at all for 150 years. There are huge paintings of past captains and others on the walls. The table is set as if King George XI was coming for a bite (the Queen wouldn’t be coming as it’s gentlemen only). And there’s the most magnificent cheese board you’ve ever seen on the sideboard.
A young waiter with a broad Weegie accent informs us that there are 3 soups on offer today: French Onion, Curried Parsnip, or Cream of Mushroom. We each have a different one. I fill up on oat cakes smothered in butter while we wait. Then it’s either Venison, Chicken or Fish for the main event. We all have venison. And life is certainly very good. Because we snuck in just before the 2.30pm cut off, we were the last ones to dine. Had we arrived an hour earlier the table would’ve been packed with the morning crowd and – like the bay window – you just take your seat and get chatting to the fella next to you. There must’ve been some fantastic lunches in that dining room over the years, something you can’t help but try to imagine while you’re in y’er seat.
To round off the Prestwick experience we sat once more inside the bay window to digest our lunch with a coffee and Kummel (some austere looking colourless Russian liqueur – Prestwick & Troon combined reputedly consume about 80% of the total volume imported into the UK each year). Then Kenny took us on a quick tour of the clubhouse; picked himself up a very camp looking pink shirt in the pro shop; and we did our farewells. Poor Kenny isn’t going to be coming home for 3 years or so, but when he does he’ll have a few days at this amazing place to look forward to. Before then we’ll have a hit over in New Zealand Kenny my friend, where things are a little different but no doubt we’ll have a blast all the same.
An incredible experience with two good lads we’re privileged to now call friends – Kenny and Davey. Prestwick is a bastion of golf’s traditions, where the finer points of the game remain well and truly intact. It was the venue for the very first Open championship, 150 years ago. It’s also one of the most fun courses I’ve ever played and one I hope to play slightly better next time! At least I’ll know that the wall on the 1st is closer than you think...
JP
Postscript: After leaving Prestwick we shot up to Glasgow to catch the second half of Pete’s cricket match. Holland beat Bangladesh in a nail biting finish, to card their first ever win against a test playing nation. A huge achievement for Dutch cricket, and a special one for Pete as captain. Needless to say they celebrated in style in Glasgow that night, and we were glad to be there to share the euphoria with them. Well done boys.
Shinnecock
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