"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
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
Waking up in the West End of Glasgow was unexpected. But that is how we roll and we had found a new friend in Tommy and his li’l dog Sushi. The two of them had joined us the prior night for a Guinness or two and it may not be the last we see of Tommy as looks like we may join up for a hit in the coming weeks when we next venture to Glasgow.
It was about 1pm by the time we rolled into Edinburgh where we met Jamie’s auntie Gillian who was taking us out to her 9 hole course in central Edinburgh – Ravelston.
Gillian and Ian have had us to stay with them for a few nights already in our Scotland leg and for that we are both very grateful. I must apologise to Ian for leaving their internet cord plugged into my mac during the day… Caused a few consternations, but the yellow cord is back in and all is well.
Gil (pictured with JP below) plays her golf at both Ravelston and Kilspindie and is a Keen Golfer like us which is great. She’s proud of Ravelston and rightly so. It’s a picturesque wee course that has views overlooking the city of Edinburgh, is a good layout (albeit 9 holes) and most importantly has a good group of keen members who sound like they make it a strong club.
It is a challenge too. Holes play across an undulating piece of land and when the breeze is blowing like it was today it’s a real test. So much so that neither of us managed a single birdie today which doesn’t do the fundraising much good.
There are a couple of great views at Ravelston, particularly as you play down to greens framed by a stone wall and houses. I thought I had sculled a bunker shot into said house at one stage but fortunately it held up… Good thing my green fee ticket came with associated insurance, valid only for one day.
Across the way is Murrayfield Golf Club and supposedly they want Ravelston’s 9 holes so they can have a 27 hole golfing establishment. I don’t think Ravelston are so keen on the idea. And they aren’t doing so badly themselves judging by the nice wee extension on their clubrooms.
Ravelston is a great example of an inner city course that encourages people to simply get out and enjoy some fresh air and a spot of golf. And you can’t beat that.
Thanks Gil for taking us on and for looking after us (and feeding JP’s brother Connor who can eat. And eat. And eat).
Shinnecock
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