"Ballybunion, that shimmering institution of Irish golf - It’s a testament to Ballybunion – the town, but in... http://t.co/UHR4dTqF" - 7 hours ago
"a friend, who shall remain nameless, sent us this. the photographer was obviously very taken with their... http://t.co/0zx89Y04" - 9 hours ago
"Photo: Not sure I can explain this one, but will try in due course. In the interim, I blame Newcomb Cole... http://t.co/yo8sa0sE" - 22 hours ago
I??m afraid it??s true. Michael and I are only human. Well I am anyway, jury??s still out on y??er man. Though we??d like to be shining beacons of enthusiasm to you, dear friends, every day...sometimes it??s just not possible. Or even appropriate. This journey you see can be challenging. It might be a tumbling of rain from the skies; a quarrel over something petty; bad news about our solvency; doubts about our ability to Succeed; negative feedback from a Doubting Thomas; or any combination of downward pulling factors. Or, even, just an ??off? day. 99 times out of a hundred life on The Road is frighteningly good, and our spirits soar high. That other lone per cent though is just as much part of the journey as any other ?? and we??d be naïve to ignore it.
No apocalypse, don??t worry. Just reflections on a day where I??d perhaps rather not have been half of puregolf2010. In this instance, no trigger event to point to either. J D Patton on Day 306 was just flat as a pancake; to those who shared the day with me, then, please forgive me.
Our new friend Phil Adcock who has so handsomely look after us in north Leeds teed up a visit to Moortown: site of the first Ryder Cup on English soil in 1929. A Dr. Alistair MacKenzie layout, no less. Or so the story goes. Peter Rishworth is the Secretary at Moortown, and what a good natured Yorkshireman he is too (Peter if you??re not from Yorkshire please forgive my ears ?? must be all the music I bounce off my ear drums with terrifying regularity and intensity). He explained to us a bit about the history of the club and that Dr. MacKenzie laid down next door Alwoodley ??as practice for his real masterpiece.? Who am I to question such an assertion?
Well over the subsequent few hours I found myself doing just that. Try as I might, I just couldn??t ??get? Moortown. Where the other MacKenzie courses we??ve played ?? The Alwoodley very much included ?? have Atmosphere at every turn, Moortown was...different. I??m no course reviewer by any stretch of the imagination, but can only talk to my experience. The dodgy weather didn??t so much bother me (well used to that by now, and having grown up in bonnie Scotland). Nor was the hospitality anything short of marvellous (Peter upon taking his leave organised bacon butties and coffee for us, to line the stomachs). The company too was grand ?? Phil and his pal Alex being perfect gentlemen and not short of a pearl of banter. But every dog has his (off) day. And this day was mine.
Later in the evening we caught up with a tremendous South African lad by the name of Cameron Roy, whom we??ve been in contact with throughout the year. He??s a huge great strapping lad that came across here to play cricket; and who married an Irish girl (lucky sod) and got stuck. Despite having two young nippers he made the time to come and meet us for a beer in central Leeds at none other than the Neon Cactus. Sounds like time is very precious hwen there are little ??uns about... Cam had jacked up our happy visit to the Alwoodley yesterday, along with a couple of media slots. It was nice then to get the chance to thank him in person and put a face to the name (so many people we come across this year are just the name on their email address until we actually meet them in the flesh...). In my next life I think I??d like to be a South African ?? love the accent...
Ganton tomorrow...should be a blinder...
JP
Yesterday I made a rookie error. I turned to Michael and said, "isn't it remarkable that we've not had a cold, wet, windy, miserable sod of a day throughout an English October?" The next day - today - we got all of the above. I knew my error as soon as I'd made it.
At Moortown today we got blown around, mildly soaked, and generally battered. This was entirely at odds yesterday with the mild and indeed pleasant weather we had yesterday at The Alwoodley, which not surprisingly endeared itself more to us - probably because of the conditions.
They held the Ryder Cup here back in '29 - a fact that's drawn to your attention as you enter the Moortown driveway in north Leeds. Nearby Lindrick and Ganton also held the Cup. At Moortown Great Britain won 7-5 over the US, the decisive match apparently being George Duncan's 10&8 win over one Walter Hagen. Walter incidentally is an honourary member of the club. I would've liked to have met Walter - reputedly one of the game's more colourful (and talented) characters.
Apres golf we were so famished that we each sank a plate of sausages, egg and chips the size of Greenland. Hit the spot nicely. Although it's probably not done Fat Goldy's waistline any good...
Few phonecalls to make to Aotearoa now - goodness gracious we'll be there in a few weeks! Kindly arrange for the sun to be shining by then please, my Kiwi friends. This precipitation is not sustainable...
JP
Sunday October 24 was not a good day for two members of the puregolf2010 party. Because they had been led astray in London by a group of kiwis. Yours truly, sitting here sober and smug, decided for the first night in puregolf history to pike, which proved to be a sensible, perhaps even mission critical decision.
So as the car pulled away from Clapham Junction there was not a lot of chat as we made our way to destination Walton Heath the New Course. I was behind the wheel ?? it was a matter of necessity.
The Walton Heath Golf Club has been outstandingly kind to us the last 2 weeks. When we played the Old a couple of weeks back, the assistant professional James said to not hesitate to contact him if we were looking for a place to play when we were back in the area. And so we did and the new course was arranged although unfortunately we didn??t manage to time it so that James (a half kiwi a bit like us) could join us.
After playing the Old course off the purple tips we sensibly made the call to have a whirl from the white tees today. Any further back and JP wouldn??t have mustered the strength to get it to the fairway on the first hole (the fairway on the first is about 50 yards from the tee). JP called on my finest banter to get him around the course, and after an initial slump through the first 6 holes during which he realised his preparation for this match was poor even by JD??s standards, we managed to both thoroughly enjoy the course.
The New course is easier than its elder brother and the heather is not as prominent. The bunkering is also much friendlier and the wind was benign today compared to our last foray here. It is a magic piece of land Walton Heath. The two courses roll in and out of one another and you??re continually passing other golfers, dog walkers and joggers on the property. It never feels crowded though, just popular. Pace of play is not an issue here either ?? before we went out a group of gentlemen came into the pro shop saying ??good day out there lad, and we got around in under 3 hours too??. No messing about in that four ball. Fast golf is good golf.
heather galore on the stroke one 5th - the best hole on the course doglegging right, the cross bunkers below just short of the green, visually intimidating but should not come into play if you steer clear of the heather.
Walton Heath is the final qualifying course for the US Open. The US Open has very few automatic qualifiers and so the qualifying is a huge part of it. Seasoned professionals still take the time to go through qualifying the gain entry into the tournament. A few years back one such seasoned pro qualifying here and went on to win the US Open at Pinehurst #2 ?? Michael Campbell. Now there is nemorabilia about Cambo??s feats up on the clubhouse walls. A good kiwi moment.
Now you??re probably wondering whether JP was still standing come the 10th hole but first I will digress to our manager / physiotherapist Bart who was also a little off top form. In fact, really, Bart was not up to much today, so we opted to park the Tank in the far corner of the public car park out of view across the road where Bart fell into a deep slumber only to be woken by the boot opening and clubs pouring in some 3 hours later.
above - the par three 10th hole
Now JP was very much still standing by the 10th hole and it seemed his complete lack of sleep had not affected his short game whatsoever. In fact he was dancing around par for most of the round after it took him a couple of holes to realise how to muster the strength to swing the club ?? if you were watching him for the first time you??d think he was like one of those annoying schoolboys who had so much talent only to be distracted by pubs and women. JP??s been flushing it for weeks now and judging from today nothing could stop him as he nonchalantly knocked it around in +2, beating me (grinding away and loving the track) by a stroke. The only putt he missed all day was a 6 footer on the last for birdie, although even after then JP, who is never ever happy with his putting did admit to ??a good day on the greens??. I think Loren Roberts would have said the same after that performance.
Golf finished with the 18th hole that mirrors the par four on the Old, it was back in the car, driving (again by necessity) with two tired lads sleeping their way through the 3 hour or so journey to Dover, where we realised the nearest hostel was back in Canterbury, turned around, booked ourselves in and Bart & JP hit the hay (for 12 and 14 hours respectively). I chatted with a Canadian chap called Nenad traveling Europe by himself. I could relate to him after ding the same for 6 weeks a few years ago. It??s a strange sensation having nothing planned, no-one to spend time with and the world at your feet to explore. Nenad said, London by yourself - so many people but one way to feel very alone ?? which I could relate to, it??s not a place that has a great pull for me,
Putting up the photographs above I realise that may well be our last heathland experience for the year. This style of golf has become one of my favourites - it is distinctive in it's own right like the sandbelt courses in Melbourne, fun to play and the heathland courses have generally been extremely well designed and maintained. I hope to one day come back to this part of the world to try out this genre again!
So all in all this Sunday was a Long Day but it??s all part of the fun. Thanks to Walton Heath, and James when you make it back down to NZ we??ll finally have a game!
I remember it dawning on me several times this year that life is full of contrasts. Our topsy turvy existence lends itself particularly well to learning this lesson. Sometimes we wake up in a car and not an hour later are on the receiving end of six star hospitality at one of the world??s great golf clubs. Other times everything appears to be going to plan, only for a rogue spanner to be thrown in the works. One never knows what??s around the corner. Nor does two. Three occasionally has a useful insight.
Ivinghoe and Brian Haworth??s hospitality have made for a wonderful experience over the past couple of days. Paying a visit to a humble club with salt of the earth members can be far more fun than dropping in to an exclusive club with members whose noses are up each other??s posteriors. Then again we have hardly found any clubs ?? even those with the most stuffy of reputations ?? to be terse, condescending or pretentious. Quite the opposite, actually. Often those perceived as being the most elite comprise members just as down to earth and engaging as those at the other end of the spectrum. In some cases, more so.
And so it was at The Berkshire. Perched on prime land adjacent to Sunningdale, Swinley Forest and other prestigious hangouts, The Berkshire keeps good company. The club has a huge red brick mansion of a clubhouse (which, I must say, reminded me of a school ?? a nice one, of course) and two fine Herbert Fowler courses (Red and Blue). The Red Course is perhaps better known than its brother, for it is one of the few courses in the world that have six par 3s, six par 4s and six par 5s. We played the Blue, which was a gentle and delightful affair; similar in nature to The New Zealand Club.
Our host was one Charlie Jamieson, who I can count with confidence among the most interesting and kind people we??ve met this year. The sort of guy who by his very nature commands instant respect and admiration. Charlie??s a member of The Lucifers Society who, loosely, are a great bunch of like minded individuals ?? businessmen, professionals, etc ?? that through golf maintain ties with the Commonwealth. As I understand it, they??ve all worked overseas in Australia, NZ, Canada, HK or wherever; and, having been enriched by their experiences, they extend the hand of friendship through golf to other Commonwealth nationals. A noble and commendable endeavour indeed.
Charlie??s responsible for organising The Lucifers?? trip to New Zealand this coming February, and so it??s perhaps not surprising that our paths crossed. In recent months I??ve been corresponding with him by email and in that time he??s been kind enough to fix a series of games for us with other Lucifers. (Incidentally, a side note: the founders wanted to call themselves The Match Society but that name was already taken so...the common (only?) brand of matches (as in the ones that make fire) at the time was Lucifers...hence The Lucifers). He and they really have been very kind to us.
On a bright, fresh Saturday morning we did the usual routine of wandering between pro shop and breakfast bar, looking for someone who looked like they might be called (in this case) Charlie Jamieson. Fortunately he??d been on this blog at least once, and knew what we looked like. Surely being a trio of bright eyed bushy tailed Kiwis in scruffy gear we stick out in places like The Berkshire, anyway. Because Charlie hadn??t brought a pal, he invited Bart to play too. In an instant Bart was transformed from the kid who gets picked last at football to the kid who??s just won a trip to Disneyland in a radio competition. Just Thrilled, he was. A nice moment.
As I wrestled with a couple of golden retrievers by the putting green Charlie disappeared and reappeared, this time furnishing us with cards and stroke savers. No excuses then. Like Royal Lytham and Walton Heath (Old) the course begins with a long par 3, which forces one??s concentration. Or at least it should: I still managed to end up in the deep greenside bunker with little hope of making a three. From memory Michael was the only one who didn??t drop a shot ?? all the best rounds start with bogeys anyway...
Being married to a Kiwi (an Aucklander, no less) Charlie probably knows Nu Zillin better than us, but he humoured the three of us by asking the odd question about what The Lucifers might do in their ??days off?. Again I caught myself. When asked about my adopted homeland I get probably more excited than I should. Mike??s quipped on a number of occasions this year that I should be on the Tourism New Zealand payroll (I should, by the way, John Key, if you??re reading this). Truth is I can??t help it. I LOVE NEW ZEALAND. And so, non-Kiwi friends, when you come down to our neck of the woods allow me the pleasure of showing you around. Because I like doing it. And I??m currently unemployed (NB. I still don??t charge, don??t worry).
Some good golf and some bad golf was played, but that doesn??t really give you any insight. I mean to say it was one of those rounds where you??re really just walking around bouncing sound waves off each other and there happens to be the odd golf ball struck in between exchanges. A sign that the conversation was interesting and no one was under par.
What followed the golf was quite extraordinary. (At the time) The best shower in England (question mark as to whether it??s since been overtaken by Royal St Georges). Then surely the best golf club lunch in England (although New Zealand would push it close). It was one of those blissful two hour windows of life that regrettably you can never get back ?? but if you could, you??d relive over and over. A Crabbie??s ginger beer in the bar; a 3 or 4 course silver spoon lunch ?? each plateful more mouth watering than the next (although the treacle tart wasn??t on); then coffee and mints back in the bar. I won??t labour the point, but folks it truly was heaven.
We left Charlie??s company feeling like we??d just caught up with an old friend. Then, as soon as Charlie??s wagon pulled out of the driveway another friend rolled in. Fitzy! Bart had left his camera and jacket in Fitzy??s bag when caddying at New Zealand on Thursday, and the big man had been kind enough to pop round to drop the gear off. Chins were wagged for a few minutes; resolutions were made to put on a dinner when he??s back in NZ next year for the World Cup; then ?? Fitzy never being one to miss a photo opportunity (poser!) ?? we, as the Germans say, made a picture.
Epic, epic day. Thanks Charlie for your hospitality ?? thoroughly enjoyed your company. And thanks to one Sean Fitzpatrick for popping by with a rather necessary puregolf2010 utensil. Champions, the both of you.
JP
How apt that we should pay a visit while in the Surrey ??hood to The New Zealand Club. An illustrious and quite brilliant club it is too, if I may say so. It gets better: the Secretary upon hearing of our impending visit shoulder tapped a recent visitor to the club, to ask whether he??d be free to make up a four. He graciously accepted. His name is Sean Fitzpatrick. And he??s a living legend.
With a membership scroll of six score or so (give or take), TNZC is a very small, discreet and private club. I??m not going to tell you just yet where the name comes from, because we were teased on the day and I??m going to afford you the same frustration. The first explanation I received from the Secretary was that the front nine taken as a whole forms the shape of the North Island, and the back nine of the South. Of course that was fallacious but I was gullible enough in the moment to swallow such a plausible explanation wholeheartedly. Fool.
??Fresh? after a few minutes sleep ?? after jetting in from Amsterdam the night before ?? we awoke once more at DC??s place in Radlett. DC was in Hong Kong but his wife Jill and son Tommy looked after us handsomely for the brief duration of our (second) stay. The return leg of The Amsterdam Mission had gone smoothly until the last hurdle, when we were directed by a BR staffer to the wrong train which didn??t stop at our station. A cold 25 minute wait at Westhampstead wasn??t ideal but it could??ve been worse. Anyway we awoke back on English soil and set sail for a slice of home. Well, sort of.
Changing his boots in the car park by his big black Mercedes was our man (??call me Fitzy boys?). Taller than I expected. Instantly endearing human being too. It??s amazing how Kiwi you become when after months on end away from Aotearoa you run into a true blue Kiwi ?? an All Black captain, no less ?? with a thuck Aughkland acceent. By Jove it was cold. As in, Baltic. The frost lying atop the ground was as thick as a Bible printed single-side 1UP. Which is how it??d be printed (in colour too) at Bell Gully, where paper and ink live in unimaginable abundance. Yes you, David Coull.
Around the bend, by the clubhouse, were our host ?? the charming Rupert Beaumont ?? and the Good Secretary, Roger. Standing freezing their testicles off (like men, granted). Pleasantries exchanged; quickly into the sheds. One of my favourite of the year, I??d like to say up front. Genuinely a relic of another age, when men were men and frosts were frosts. Each locker bears several crossed out names of tenants gone by; there??s an open fire in the bar and the lounge that looks like it hasn??t been sat in since the Titanic left Belfast (in perfect working order, no less, the Nor??n Irish will tell you); and there are more black Labradors walking around than people. Oozing charm and hospitality.
We had coffee while Jack began his retreat. At this point we talked around and around the inevitable question as to the club??s Nu Zillin Connection, but inevitably in smoke and mirrors fashion got nowhere. I began to wonder whether Rupert and Roger were of MI6 pedigree. They certainly cultivated an air of mystery. Fitzy played dumb too (I??m positive he knew).
Then, much to our surprise, we were led to the 1st tee while there was still 8 feet of frost lying. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Any other golf club in the world would??ve suspended play until Jack was no longer anywhere to be seen. Not at New Zealand. With frostbite attacking all 10 digits we made gestures resembling golf swings (perhaps not) and kicked off the light hearted satire that would be the Order Of Play. My partner Fitzy got stuck a little into the opposition right away and, more so, into me his partner! So I gave it back in Spades. It??s a miracle we were all still talking by the end. A few pep talks along the way (from The Skipper) steadied the ship intermittently. All good fun.
Rupert was a senior partner at a boutique firm called Slaughter & May for many years, and seems to have had a wonderfully challenging career in the law. It??s always great to hear someone wax lyrical about how fulfilling their working life has been ?? particularly 1. When it??s been a demanding one; and 2. When their career??s one you??ve already tried and...well...! Rupert??s admission that he only took up golf in recent years because he was always too busy to even consider it while working rang a familiar bell. Everyone strikes their own balance.
Fitzy spoke openly and frankly about his experiences: rugby and post-rugby (both equally interesting, I found). He and his wife now have a hospitality business and the big man also gives some of his time to motivational speaking, which obviously comes fairly natural. He casts a commanding shadow does our Sean. And hits a good ball too ?? absolutely burgling off a 12. Apparently Zinny??s not a bad marksman with a golf club too.
The course itself is a delight. That cow Heather makes another appearance and can, like grass, be found on every hole. Because trees also play an integral part in creating the atmosphere, it was a good while before the frost lifted. By the 9th blood was beginning to circulate through our vessels once more. A whisky coffee at the drinks cart might??ve helped. Rupert much to my astonishment opted for Bovril with a dash of sherry. Possibly the most disgusting drink I can imagine. I wouldn??t have dared friends in even the most senseless of games to take so much as a mouthful of this heathen tonic. But Rupert liked it, as did Bart (who was in his element caddying for Fitzy).
Goldy and Rupert (who together sound like a tap dancing or figure skating duo) won. There, I said it. Despite Fitzy??s fine play on the front nine we were pipped on the 17th. I did nothing all day save for make up the numbers. On one tee, SF: ??I??m just waiting for you to do something Jamie?. He wasn??t joking either. And so commenced a pep talk.
Something amusing happened in the locker room that I??m compelled to share with you. Full disclosure and all that. We were stripping down readying ourselves for a wash. Bart and I were last undressed. Bart turns to me and whispers, ??Can you believe we??re about to shower with Sean Fitzpatrick?!?. I nearly cried with laughter. Bart??s now known as GB; I??m sure you can guess what the ??G? stands for...
We were treated to one of the most fantastical lunches ever consumed. Even the Romans would??ve been envious of this symphony of fine fare. Our six sat smack bang in the middle of the empty dining room and were served silver spoon style by the very capable wait staff who??d probably see less customers in a given week than a curry stand at Venice Beach. Like Augusta, the members here get a sweet deal on wine, which is procured by the Secretary (I can??t give away his methods or I??ll be shot) - what an honour! We had a belter of a Beaujolais. It really was the full nine yards. I remember sitting there thinking, ??Where did it all go wrong?? The quality of the grub and refreshments was only matched by that of the company. A few hours that I??ll look back on fondly for many years to come (touch wood).
Oh, the story behind the name? The New Zealand Club? You??ll just have to wait a bit longer...there??s not enough mystery these days...
A sincere thank you to Rupert, Roger and Fitzy for making our day at The New Zealand Club one to remember, for a number reasons. Fitzy: if we ever play together again, I promise I hope that you??ll play better.
JP
I find it hard to imagine that life could be any sweeter for an Englishman than to live and play his golf in Sunningdale.
The most affluent settlement I??ve seen since we left The Hamptons. By far. A club steeped with an atmosphere of, well, privilege. And two of the finest courses we??ve had the pleasure of playing this year. Sunningdale really is The Real McCoy; the most English of English clubs.
Our visit was graciously coordinated by a gentleman whom we met in the R&A Tent at The Open back in July. Marcus Ferguson Jones is a delightful gentleman, and happens to be a pretty sharp golfer in his own right. In fact he finished runner up in the Sunningdale Autumn Medal the day before our visit. When we met him up at St. Andrews, he had been up there trying to qualify as an amateur. Unfortunately Kingsbarns wasn??t kind (enough) to him, so he had to suffer the hardship of just watching the thing. Anyway, we met him over lunch ?? through a mutual friend ?? and before long he??d offered to tee up a game at his home club for us. Which happened to be Sunningdale. Lovely.
Actually Marcus teed up two games: on his counsel, we played both the New and Old. The New??s not that new, by the way. It was laid down by Harry Colt, who was the Secretary at Sunningdale after kicking off his career at Rye. The Old was the fine handiwork of one Willie Park Junior. I dare say there wouldn??t be another club in the world where the members can boast having both a Colt and a Park at their disposal. Apart from anything else, The Sunningdale Lot have 36 holes of dog walking paradise at their disposal too. We must??ve seen a dozen or so hounds of a dozen different flavours, out taking their masters for a stroll.
On this pristine Monday morning the ladies were playing a shotgun start invitational on the Old. Never in my life have I climbed out of the car to such a hubbub of pucker excitement. This was Their day. (Next door is the Sunningdale Ladies Golf Club; Sunningdale proper also has 77 lady members. This lot were from both clubs and beyond, I imagine). Each contestant was decked out to the nines in their Sunday (well, Monday) Best. And each spoke with a more Frightfully Frightfully brogue than the lady before her. No doubt they were all lovely human beings ?? every smile I shot off in the clubhouse was reciprocated ?? but I must admit the sense of occasion was almost unnerving.
Equally unnerving was the predicament I quickly found myself in. I??d arrived bursting at the seams and needing quickly to find a urinal. The pro gave me the code to the visitors?? locker room (upstairs, tucked away in the furthest corner from the stairwell), but it didn??t work. So I??m sprinting back down hill past paintings the size of a small house and into the pro shop, begging for the magic numbers. If y??er man doesn??t deliver second time around, I may be forced to dash into the bushes. Luckily he comes through and composure is restored.
Because there??s hardly another soul in the joint save for The Galvin Greene Brigade, there??s no hurry to tee off. I while away 15 minutes of Nirvana on the putting green ?? perhaps the most magnificent of the year. A brand new sleeve of Pro-v1s is popped to mark the occasion. One of our last sleeves, but there??s no questionning the decision; much as one may light up a Big Fat Cuban walking down the 18th of, say, Cypress or PV. Truly one of life??s pleasures. To one side is the grand old clubhouse; 15 yards away is the Old Oak (immortalised as the club??s infamous logo); at first base is #1 Old; between first and third and in the outfield are 35 holes of Golf Wonderland. The sun??s shining, the greens are rolling with absolute purity, and the odd putt is dropping. I could??ve left a happy man at this point.
Mike??s put together a video with shots of both courses, so I??ll let his iMovie wizardry do the talking on that front. Otherwise we??d all be here for days, wading through my lyrical wax. Suffice to say the morning round ?? a sharpish 3 hours playing around The New ?? was an enchanting experience. Between the heather, the pine, the bright morning sun, the perfect greens, the design, the atmosphere, the odd hound and, of course, the company, well...you get the picture.
Because Marcus couldn??t join us on the day, he organised for his father Martyn to accompany us around The Old. Martyn brought his pal Geoff along too. And Buckley, the most regal golden labrador in The Labrador Kingdom (likely that he??s of royal blood). Geoff??s a Heriots Old Boy, and spends 6 months of the year in Nu Zillin ?? so we had a fair bit in common from the get go. He??s also struggling with his putting at the moment, so we had more in common again... Our four had a pint in the members?? bar before play, whence we came across one Michael Lynagh who lives next door and who??d brought his father along for a game. The Lynagh Lads were in the group behind us, and played through at the 10th while we were ingesting possibly the most magnificent bangers and mustard ever consumed. And a gin and tonic (at Sunningdale, why not?). We spoke briefly at the time, but Goldy got a proper chance to speak with his childhood idol later on back in the bar. Tickled pink he was (Michael Goldstein, that is).
After nigh on every blow Buckley??s stick was hurtled off into the distance. Buckley would give chase and ?? with the prowess of a Golden Retriever ?? retrieve said stick, dropping it in front of Martyn. While one of us was over the ball, Buckley would lie down dead still, not so much as moving a lung until the shot was complete. He exhibited more discipline than a 14-year-old Chinese girl during exam week. On several tees Buckley would lead the advance party, darting forward onto the middle of the mown block; he knows when he gets ??a throw.? I forget which holes they were, but obviously he doesn??t.
puregolf2010 took on The Old Guard and (largely thanks to Geoff??s jetlag ?? he??d only landed 15 hours prior on the long haul from NZ) managed to come out on top. Of course we??d had the advantage of warming up in the morning. And being the gracious hosts that they were, Martyn and Geoff probably let us win too. In The Press ?? this time Geoff and I paired up ?? I ruined the makings of a happy friendship by missing a 4 footer for par on the last. My excuse being distraction a la Old Oak.
The afternoon was a rather surreal experience. Bart??s figure emerged from the trees on 17 (he??d just rejoined the tour after a 36 hour hiatus up the road in London); I??m glad he got a short glimpse into The Sunningdale Experience, because the purity of it all is difficult to capture. In the members?? bar we were summoned to have a ginger beer with a trio of gentlemen parked at the window seat. On the left was the most French Frenchman in Le Monde: beige blazer, open neck white shirt with collar turned up to the ceiling, brightly coloured handkerchief tucked with casual indifference into the breast pocket, round tortoise shell glasses and a mop of ruffled brown hair. Jacques, we will call him for now (I??ve lost his actual name). In the centre sat Nicholas Royds, who may well have seen Queen Victoria on the throne. (His surname sticks in the mind because his pals took us through some gag about how there??s haemerrhoids, steroids, and myriad other -roids, but only one Nicholas Royds). In his crisp green Pine Valley blazer Nicholas looked quite the picture. I suspect he??d be the sort of character that might frustrate one or two others, only in that he??s a member of both Sunningdale and PV but no longer plays golf! To the right was John, who belonged to the ??very old? Oxford & Cambridge Golf Society. An idiosyncratic threesome.
Happily we had the opportunity to thank the Secretary for his hospitality before leaving (he too was in the bar, entertaining a couple of guests). Nice guy. Then we took advantage of the best showers in Golf England (perhaps equal top with Goodwood) before leaving with heavy hearts. Sunningdale really is Another World, a world I could happily return to time and time again.
JP
There is something about heathland courses that intrigues me. Maybe it??s just the heather. Or the fusion of sand and heath. Whatever ??it? is, I get awfully excited when we set off on a heathland excursion. Today then was a particularly enticing prospect, given we were to play Walton Heath ?? one of the premier courses fashioned in this style in England, indeed in the world. I should mention they have two courses: the Old and the New (which isn??t all that new, but it??s younger than the old, surprisingly enough). Unlike tomorrow (when we play both Sunningdale Old and New), we just played The Old; 36 holes back to back would break us in two, and it was our host??s father??s birthday so in the event 18 holes suited everyone down to the ground. (The New looks stunning enough though, especially the 3rd hole!).
The Tank pulled through the gates circa 9.40; we were to meet our good host around 9.45 for a 10am tee off. On time for once then. Richard was introduced to us by a young gentleman by the name of David Ferreira, who we played with at Pine Valley a few months back. Turns out Richard was his boss when David was seconded for a short while at Barclays Capital ?? obviously he must??ve done a good job, because when David put the feelers out for who might be kind enough to host two dishevelled Kiwis for a game Richard answered the call. I??m not sure if I asked all my old bosses if they??d take a couple of random punters out for a hit they??d all do the same!
And so commenced a rather familiar routine, which goes something like this: JP to pro / locker room steward / receptionist ?? ??Good morning Sir / Madam, my name is Jamie Patton, and I??m here as a guest of Richard Jennings. We??re teeing off at 10. Except I don??t have the foggiest idea of what Richard looks like. So if you see him, could you please let him know that Jamie the (ahem) Kiwi is out on the putting green in a black Ballybunion vest? Thank you.? Hit a few putts; look around for someone that looks like a Richard; still nothing. Eventually a tall chap edges over and we both know that we??ve eventually come across the person we??re supposed to be meeting. All very Cold War smoke and mirrors stuff, you see.
Unfortunately I suffered the embarrassment from the outset of having made a rather large f**k up. Richard had asked me days prior whether we had a fourth in mind; I suggested Bart might be keen for a game, unless Richard had other ideas. Great, he said. Only, I told Bart yesterday that I thought we had a four, so he went up to London to sample a bit of nightlife with family friends. And missed out on the joy that is Walton Heath. On a pure blue sky Sunday morning. Ooops. Richard was gracious enough to brush the glaring logistical error under the carpet, but I felt like crawling under a bush. Anyway.
We got chatting in the shop to the Assistant Head Pro, James, who??s spent a good bit of time in NZ with family based around Auckland town. He was perhaps the most ebullient human we??ve met this year; just gushing with enthusiasm about his time Down Under, and full of stories about his six thousand cousins that reside there. We chatted for what must??ve been 20 minutes before realising that we were supposed to be here to play golf. The members must feed off his chat.
Richard (recently engaged following a trip to California, which took in Pebble Beach, no less) led us down the road to the 1st tee. 235 yards of par 3 welcomes you to Walton Heath. A very gentle start... I pinged a 3 wood into the greenside bunker, only to discover perhaps one of the greatest pleasures of playing at the Heath (a colloquial nickname that I??ve selected, whether or not it??s actually used by anyone else): the sand. It has the most magnificent texture; a real treat to clip your ball from. The fact that I got up and down and thus our relationship started out on the right foot may have had something to do with it. But I like to think otherwise. Tremendous sand ?? as pleasing in form as in substance too.
Then you walk across the road (as we did at Goodwood yesterday). And the golf course starts to open up in front of you; in fact both of them do. A strong stretch of holes from 1 to 6 ensures you don??t get complacent ?? not least the 519 yard par 4 4th hole, which I managed to triple bogey after a lost ball from the tee. You can be 3 yards off the fairway at Walton Heath and lose your ball without trying. Such is the tyranny of the heather and gorse and hellish heathland undergrowth. What a challenge it presents; a challenge to relish.
Playing dead into the October sun ?? at this point, shining through the morning mist to create a blinding glow ?? presented yet another challenge. We couldn??t see where we were hitting the bloody thing. Ignorance is bliss. On the 3rd (a 290 yard par 4, playing slightly down breeze) we waited for the chaps ahead to clear the decks before launching. All three of us got near the front edge too (in Richard??s case, with a mere 3 metal). But this put us a couple of minutes behind time: something a cantankerous brigade of old farts in the group behind had no qualms about mentioning on the next tee. ??Are you playing a match?? one enquired rather sharply. ??Of sorts,? I jousted. ??Well, I hope it moves quicker,? replied the despot. I fired him a wry smile and moved on, hoping never to make his acquaintance again. And I didn??t. Because we played at a good pace as we are prone to doing, and he was fighting with more heather and gorse and sand than your average Prestwick member does in a year. There??s always one...
Walton Heath is surrounded by public land, used recreationally for a number of purposes. Like walking (surprise, surprise ?? we??re in England), horse riding and so on. Probably paintball too. I myself preferred to use it to find my own golf balls, several of them having disappeared into oblivion. One would have more luck finding a needle in a field of haystacks than one would trying to find a little white ball amongst the heath.
After the 6th the course gets a bit gentler, but it??s by no means a dawdle. Heather??s ne??er too far away. She??s a right bitch that Heather. Good looking but perilous. Like Russian women, I imagine.
Richard??s a few years our senior (33, he admitted, which means he??s probably 31 if the wisdom of psychology of the male psyche is to be believed), so it was interesting to see how life had panned out for him given our similar backgrounds (in law, etc). His path has been perhaps a more orthodox one than ours (go figure), but he seems to have cultivated a nice life for himself that manages to balance work with all the other stuff. It is possible then, in the banking world. He had four years at Linklaters, and in the latter of those billed over 2000 hours (which is quite a lot), but was still told he wasn??t working hard enough. They wanted two pounds of flesh. So he said, politely, ??go away?. And now life appears to be running more smoothly. For every Richard though there??s an earnest young punter who would reply ??how high??, and work themselves into the ground. For a buck or two, and a chance at ?? drum roll please ?? Partnership! Not for me, and not for him.
We had a grand old time. Walton Heath is the sort of course you could happily play week in, week out, but that can be stretched out to monstrous and ferocious proportions as necessary (it??s used as a US Open qualifying course). And the members have the pleasure of having the New Course at their disposal too ?? which, though we didn??t play, looked rather special too. I wanted to go straight back out and play again, truth be told. But Richard insisted that we have a quick beverage on the deck, and a bowl of chips, before he shot off to do family duty. I could see inside a proper sit down lunch ?? jacket and tie job ?? going on, akin to a couple of the lunches we??ve been fortunate to have this year. Too nice a day to be sitting inside though!
Thanks Richard, and thanks to Walton Heath for hosting us ?? a very special experience.
JP
Sir mae. The original plan was to play 3 or 4 days in Wales, across Ryder Cup weekend. Original plans don??t always come to fruition though. In the world of puregolf2010 they seldom do. purerollingwiththepunches2010. Plan B involved playing a solitary round in The Land of St David, at none other than Southerndown, on Ryder Cup Friday. With a local chap named Lynn Dunster ?? certainly the most Welsh Welshman I??ve ever met; a real character.
Weather forecasters predicted heavy precipitation for the Porthcawl area, but it was only spitting when we passed through Southerndown??s gates. (As a side note, the turn off to the golf club is made when you see possibly the most fantastically named pub in the world, The Pelican In Her Piety!). The course lies up on a hill overlooking Wales?? highest ranked course (Royal Porthcawl) and Europe??s largest Caravan park (haven??t the foggiest). Lynn pointed out other interesting sites too, like old mines and the like. There??s a lot of history around these parts.
Having got caught up in the Ryder Cup traffic coming out of Bristol we were 5 minutes late, but Lynn didn??t seem to mind. Time rolls by at a different pace in Wales, it seems. Without further adieu our trio made our way to the 1st tee ?? past a few sheep ?? and got to work. Straight away you??re confronted with a steeply uphill opening par 4 that on this occasion was directly into the wind too. I pulled 2 iron for prudence (there is gorse lining both sides) but hardly made the carry to the fairway. From there it was my Sunday best 2 iron again to even get close to the green. Michael and I looked at each other with mutual understanding that we could be in for a test.
Lynn may be one of the greatest storytellers I??ve ever met; perfect company on a gloomy day in Wales. Up the 1st hole he was telling us about people he??s caddied for (something he does in his spare time, because he??s a sociable creature and likes the company) and a bit about the surrounding area. On the 2nd he told Goldy he had ??about 270? to the green for his second ?? an analysis I thought to be questionable at best, particularly when Goldy hit a 4 iron to the front of the green. Over the next few holes we came to realise that his yardages were more indicative of whether the shot was a long one or a short one; the numbers themselves didn??t really bear any resemblance to the actual distance from the flag! I??d almost look forward to Mike asking for a yardage, to hear what Lynn would bark out...God Bless Him. Another endearing attribute of Lynn??s was his pronunciation of the word ??hear? - which sounded more like ??yur?. Having only met one or two Welshman I can only assume this is how they all say it.
By the 3rd the rain started falling in spades. In the spirit of hyperbole, I??ll say it was the heaviest rain of the year. It may well have been. I didn??t even have my waterproof trousers with me either. Nor did the rain clouds relent; they kept rolling and rolling in, all the way until about the 16th ?? by which time we were drenched to the core. Comedic is one word for it. Lynn was ever unflappable, and the heavier the rain got the more encouraged he appeared to be to share a story or two.
Despite the monsoon the golf course, as far as I could make out, was quality. The greenkeepers (a herd of sheep) had done a tremendous job in preparing the course for Ryder Cup tourism as well. However we caught them slacking off in a valley adjacent to the 4th green, pretending to ??clear bracken? being their explanation. [This author has it on good authority that they have subsequently been disciplined ?? although each of the herd retained their employment].
Lynn ?? who reminded me of that bald character in Auf Wiedersehen Pet! ?? had a new story to tell each hole. The first one I can remember centres around a chap he used to caddy for, a good golfer whose initials unfortunately are the same as mine (JP ?? I won??t mention his full name). Well, this JP got caught ?? after several warnings from the local constabulary to clean his act up ?? dressed up in women??s clothes in the golf club lavatory doing things with another man that he shouldn??t have! (I think his membership was suspended and he may even have ended up in the slammer).
Then there was the story of Lynn??s good friend who sadly passed away, his dying wish being that his ashes be scattered on the 10th green (it??s a particularly scenic hole). His wish was granted, but no sooner had the family marched back down the hill towards the clubhouse, than a vigilant assistant greenkeeper (this time, a human one) spotted what he thought was some sand that had blown out of the greenside bunker. So he sucked it up with one of those leaf gatherers. Oh dear.
If Lynn to us appeared quite the rascal, his pal Charlie would be in a class of his own. This lad??s a butcher, and for a certain ladies competition one year donated a whole chicken as a prize. Except, it??s what he did with the chicken that is the interesting bit. While all the ladies were out on the course battling it out, Charlie inserted the (raw) chicken into the tea tanker ?? from which the girls would drink their tea later that day, and for weeks to come! When the prank was uncovered, Charlie was suspended for 3 months from the club!
I could go on, but I will bore you no longer. By the time we reached the 18th green we were weary from the elements and had sore abdominals from laughing (his visual depiction of one of the golf club staff as a Walrus nearly spelled the end). If anyone??s going to Southerndown, make sure you ask whether Lynn??s available to caddy ?? a once in a lifetime experience.
In the clubhouse ?? which is full of interesting memorabilia ?? we had designs to watch a spot of the big match going on down the road. Except it wasn??t going on (surprise, surprise: Celtic Manor??s cut in a clay valley). So we had sausages, beans and chips to warm the pipes up and a pint of the local stuff (Brains, not bad); and chatted some more. Our only experience of Welsh hospitality could not have been any better. Lynn Dunster, you made our day.
JP (not the one that wears women??s clothes and gets up to mischief with other men in golf club toilets)
After the past couple of days at Birkdale and Lytham ?? the ??Royals?, both Open Championship links ?? Charlie took us down to his club, Formby, which has riches of a different character. I??d describe it as heathland. And what a phenomenal piece of ground they have there too: enough for a championship course and an equally mouth watering (but shorter) track for the girls that plays inside Big Brother. The club has an illustrious history to boot, and a rather proper atmosphere. How they let riff raff like Charlie in I??ll never know. He changes his shoes in the car park in defiance of The Rools, but suggested we take ours inside ?? as if he??d carved a niche for himself as an outlaw, Lone Ranger, and didn??t want us encroaching on his turf! You gotta love this guy.
Charles ?? like a short tempered army Major, or a despotic boarding house tutor ?? gave us a wake up call (we were staying at Chateau Donald up in Southport). The three musketeers packed down the biggest feast of muesli and marmalade smothered toast you have Ever seen. Anticipation levels were high. I was excited to see that England does actually have sky above the clouds. And it??s ?? you won??t believe this folks... ?? blue! Yes, it was a bluebird day to rival the most crisp of Christchurch winter mornings. Delighted.
Formby like Lytham is tucked away down a residential street in suburbia, just next to a train station (Freshfields?). To minimise the risk of us getting lost we all travelled together ?? a decision also driven by the ulterior motive / desire to travel in style (Charlie has a sharp Audi that??s not packed to the rafters with the sort of things you??d find in a student flat: wet clothes, food wrappers, empty bottles, etc). The man drives like a lunatic. No, I??m kidding: just wanted to get a wee jab in; Charlie and I being fellow Scots like to tear strips off each other.
Y??er man had arranged for another Michael to make up a four. Naturally the Michaels were paired together in what would prove to be a formidable team. The Scots not for the first time (and not for the last) failed to offer much resistance, save for a few satirical verbal knifings and the odd expletive.
Right away we were confronted with heather, pine and sand. Set against the piercing blue of the seldom visible sky, it was quite a picture. At this point in the morning shadows were cast long too, giving an early bird feel to proceedings (even though it was 8 o??clock). Here??s the view from the 2nd tee, to give you an idea. (Incidentally this hole has, I think, one of the tougher greens in England to hit).
Charlie being a staunch believer in the principle that golf clubs should strive to always improve their course, and worry less about all the trimmings like a new members?? lounge, was frequently asking us how we thought a hole could be altered for the better. ??And for f**k sake, be honest?, he??d caveat. The man reminds me of why it can be so endearing to be Scottish.
As we were teeing off on the par 5 3rd hole, a few dog walkers (if you could call them that; they were being walked by wooly mammoth-like St. Bernards and the like) paced across in front of us. I??m not sure they had the foggiest idea that the path they were treading ran straight through the middle of a golf course. If they did know, there wasn??t the slightest indication that they cared one bit for their safety. This is a feature of English golf that we??ve come to notice with surprise, an occurrence that happened yesterday at Lytham too. Walkers must have right of way. Which seems illogical to me given golfers are the most important creatures on this earth.
Holes like the short par 4 4th (above) were a delight: clever bunkering very much making Strategy the name of the game. Charlie questioned the merit of the couple of ??new? holes (i.e. 25 years old or so) ?? 7 and 8 ?? but I thought they were rather good. (In times gone by there were apparently a few great holes playing right down to the sea, but these had to be scrapped due to erosion). The 7th (pictured below) is a pretty classy short-ish par 4 if you ask me: a tee shot that??s not as tight as it looks and an approach that??s longer than it looks. Sure, you can get blocked out if you take the wrong line, but so you well should for being so careless. The hole had atmosphere.
8 equally was a par 5 (stroke index 1) that gives you options. Mike (or ??Sick Boy?, as he??s now known) knocked two phenomenal shots to 8 feet, proving it can be reached. From the tee it??s a case of pick your line, depending on how aggressive you want to be. Then you can go for it if you??re long enough or lay up and still have a good chance at birdie. The green is a McKenzie one though, so if you get on the wrong tier then 2 putt is very unlikely (as Charlie proved). Again, it had atmosphere.
Here??s a photo of the 9th, which ?? for mine ?? is one of the few holes that could be improved. As you can see, Goldy gets right on his tip toes even with a 2 iron!
Below is the view down to the sea, to where a few of the old holes played. From the horizon a par 5 came towards the point I was standing, and then around to the right, to where the current 10th green is (now a par 3).
Canny fairway bunkering on the 11th below. I was in the left hand one, from which par is only a dream. A distant one at that. By this point the Michaels were beginning to strengthen their grip on the match, Michael Senior rolling in putts from everywhere (as he??s prone to doing, per Charlie).
On the 17th tee, just after the match concluded, Charlie pointed through the woods to a gargantuan house the owner of which is something of a ??character?. He bought all the houses around him and knocked them down so he could build a big adventure playground for his kids. On Saturdays they can be heard darting around on their little quad bikes while members try to hold their nerve on the tee! He installed CCTV in the woods as well, obviously to catch out any badgers or foxes that feel the urge to use the playground facilities under the cover of dark.
17 and 18 are two picturesque finishing holes; on both your eye is drawn towards the very regal looking clubhouse ahead. One feels like one is playing somewhere special.
Michael Snr looked pleased as punch with his victory inside the shed as he munched down the fruits of his labour: Cumberland sausage with dipping mustard. Every Sunday morning the loser(s) pays for the sausages. It was a pork pie with Branston pickle that caught my fancy, although the sausage was a delight. Our 4 became 5 when Alan, a friend of theirs who lives next door, popped in to join us for a pow wow. Y??er man was a Walker Cup player a year or three ago, and had some famous victories in the (British) Amateur Championship, stories of which we had to draw out of him with torturuous techniques that would rival even the most sadistic of Japanese wartime rituals ?? such was the modesty of the man.
A famous morning had by all. Golf was followed by a drool laden power nap at Chateau Donald, then we nipped back to Wayne??s in Manchester for a(n extended) family dinner. Gayle??s roast potatoes may be the best spuds I??ve ever had. And I??ve had a few spuds in my time... (As a child, it was the only vegetable I ate ?? at about 15 years old I ventured into onions and eggplant, and now can wolf down the whole veggie garden, save for brussel sprouts and cauliflower ?? just so you know).
JP
Chisholm Park
12 holes bart cape kidnappers christchurch christmas doak ed bayley hawke's bay heretaunga jane poole napier golf club new zealand puregolf2010 rangiora rarangi gc royal royal wellington the first tee the interislander waiohiki
