"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
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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