"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
I hope y’all enjoyed Mike’s Machrihanish video as much as I did. Certainly it encapsulated for me what was a very special 24 hours on the Mull of Kintyre. It’s a stunning part of Scotland and the course is really something to behold. Pooky’s company was sparkling as ever – we got a few more juicy stories on the course than we had bargained for! - as was that of Belle Robertson who is quite an amazing lady indeed. And so it was with much anticipation that our party set off on Sunday morning to the neighbouring Machrihanish Dunes: a fledgling course designed by David Mclay Kidd (or DMK as his company is creatively called). The views from Belle's rented cottage whetted the appetite: first, looking across the coastline past the old course to the site of the Dunes; second, looking next door to the starter's hut / pro shop at the old course.
“Built” on (leased) farmland adjacent to Machrihanish GC (now sometimes referred to as “old Machrihanish”), it’s drawn a mixed response from the punters in the year or so since it opened. With respect, I can see why. DMK’s mantra is “pursuing purist golf”; and on the MD website you’ll find the slogan “This is the way golf began...this is Machrihanish Dunes.” The point of difference (if there needs to be one) is that the course is the first to have been built on a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSi) since the days of Old Tom Morris. Now let me first make clear that the site is a stunning one. From the website you’ll no doubt gather that the views are knock-your-socks-off-good, and the air as pure as can be.
However. I do question the wisdom of “building” a golf course atop an SSSi when the restrictions on what dirt can be moved are so tight. At one end of the spectrum you have the Kingsbarns, Castle Stuarts and Whistling Straits of this world – where megatons of earth have been moved to create the appearance of a natural links. The ethics (for want of a better word) involved in these projects is for some a thorny issue – to be honest I’m not bothered as long as the golf course is a good one, with a few minor caveats – but at least the designer is in complete control of what the golfer will experience. With projects like MD that’s not the case, because the developers weren’t allowed to move any dirt (save to cut the tees). Thus the golf course really does follow the lie of the land, quite literally – which in many cases will cause the average golfer a headache or three.
The folks at MD were very hospitable and greeted us warmly as soon as we’d stepped out of our cars (the fact that we were the only people there perhaps meant we were easy to spot!). They clearly believe in their project and spoke openly about the challenges they faced. I hope for their sake that those hurdles can be overcome. The background information we heard about the concept, the process and the course’s reception since opening was a useful introduction – but ultimately we just needed to play golf and see what it was all about for ourselves. So we did. (Please note the evaluative undertones here refer more to Pooky’s need to form an impression, rather than ours, given he runs a golf tour business and needs to feel comfortable about a place before sending paying clients along; we were just privileged to be along for the ride, and to enjoy Pooky’s and Belle’s good company in the fresh air).
Peter a mature chap whose background lies in hospitality rather than golf kindly gave of his time to come and be a forecaddie. Pleasant though he was, I must confess Peter didn’t inspire me with confidence with his pearls of wisdom on line and length. At the Dunes there are more blind shots than you can shake a stick at, so local knowledge is of paramount importance. Absolutely key. Number 1 tee sets the tone. From where we were standing (us boys played from the backs) we couldn’t see a hint of a fairway, or a green for that matter. There are little arrows dropped at the front of every tee block pointing you in the right direction, but you still need to know how far to hit it and where the trouble lies. Enter Peter.
Y’er man was doing his best to keep us on the straight and narrow, but it’s an unenviable task for the most experienced of caddies – because the course is something of a labyrinth. Peter (wearing a little backpack with those rope straps; more like a sack really) would toddle off to the apex of the dune ahead, then edge one way or another to show us the ideal line down to the mythical fairway. Once we’d all pinged one in roughly his direction we’d march on, hopeful that our ball supply would last us the day. Belle’s tees were in most cases a hundred yards ahead, as they should be for 99% of ladies. But Belle plays off 1 and still – at the ripe old age of 74 (I hope she won’t mind me saying so) – hits the ball 220 yards or so. What timing... She would take counsel; take aim; and nearly drive half the par 4s. It was a pleasure to watch.
For us mortals the blind tee shot would be followed by a blind approach – again, Peter would trot off into the distance and give us a line. With variables like strong wind, different shot shapes and greens with more undulation than the Himalayas putting green at St. Andrews, it was something of a lottery to be fair. The offshoot of this, however, was the acute delight you’d feel for a moment if you trudged over a dune and saw your pill lying on the dance floor. In some cases though, the delight would turn to despair when you realised that the prospects of a 2 putt (let alone a 1 putt) were at best 50/50.
On holes like the 2nd you forget about the golf and marvel at the scenery around you. Perhaps ponder the more important things in life.
The front 9 is a bit of a blur because it seemed to take an eternity. Taking into account the walks between greens and tees the pedometer will read something like 3.6 miles by the time you walk off the 9th green, if you’ve played from the blacks. That’s a long way. Especially when you take into account the energy expended wrestling with the abundant tussock in the hope of finding a dozen wayward golf balls. It’s the most washed I’ve been after 9 holes this year. How your average 65 year old could walk the course I do not know.
Things improved on the back, I must say. The blind shots became fairer and fewer. Greens on the whole were more puttable. And there were actually some very nice golf holes. What we couldn’t understand though was why Mr DMK didn’t make use of the numerous flat(ter) areas left vacant between the existing holes. Belle in particular was at a loss.
Amongst the frustration were a few lovely moments. Pooky the wee sod that he is made back-to-back 2s on the 13th and 14th to bring the match back to all square. The second one dam nearly went in. Still life in the old bugger yet. Belle’s competitive spirit clearly hasn’t left her either; on the 17th and 18th as things were starting to go down to the wire the tone of the match changed ever so slightly. Belle wanted to win, and was very disappointed in Michael and me for taking our stroke (us playing off 2; Pooky off scratch and her off 1) on the Stroke Index 2 17th to win the hole, going dormy 1 up. Justice prevailed when that wee fella chipped in on 18 for birdie, prompting widespread applause, laughter and the odd wry smile. We had a lot of fun.
But we were glad to be in the comfort of the clubhouse after 5 hours of battle. Again the staff couldn’t have been more obliging, and passed around complimentary coffees. Just the ticket as the air had crispened throughout the morning. Belle’s good humoured husband Ian joined us too, as we reflected on what was a fun but trying morning on the links. Ian looked fresh as a daisy; all he’d done was read the paper. But then I guess we can excuse him given he’s 85!
With a 6 o’clock ferry booked (over to Islay) the time soon came to farewell our new friends and get on the road up to Kennacraig. We’d had a famous time in the company of Pooky, Belle, Ian and Jane – so it was with heavy hearts that we pulled away. The Mull of Kintyre had been good to us.
Our ferry trip across to Port Ellen was a nourishing one under the evening sun. Deck 4B was packed with folks of all shapes and sizes and accents, giving a holiday-like atmosphere. It felt like we were off on an adventure. To somewhere far off and unchartered. I stood on the deck for an hour or so, listening to the “Soul Food” playlist on my iPod, and absorbed the mystic beauty of the confluence of sea and coast. I was in another world. As we pulled closer to Islay those famous white buildings (the distilleries Laphroiag, Lagavulin and Ardbeg) glowed luminously on the shore, emitting a magnetic pull. I felt at once relaxed and excited. Enchanting stuff.
Unfortunately however the 2 taxis on the island had been commissioned before we could flag one down. The 5 mile walk to our hotel – The Machrie – wasn’t an enticing one with all of our gear, so we headed to the nearest pub for a pint to ponder our options. Eventually Ian the hotel manager was kind enough to pop down in the van to collect us, thank God for that. Very interesting chap that he is. After his wonderfully welcoming email appeared in my inbox a few weeks ago (“The Machrie Hotel would be delighted to be involved and we will certainly be prepared to put you up in the hotel on a dinner bed and breakfast basis at no charge to yourselves and of course golf too, regards aye”) I was looking forward to meeting the man himself. With a shaved head and hybrid accent he filled us in on the Hotel’s place past and present on Islay, and of course on the delights of the golf course we would discover the next morning. 14 years Ian’s been there; he just loves the place. Over the next 24 hours we’d see why.
JP
First impressions are everything in this world. From the way someone is dressed to the way they carry yourself to the way they speak – our brains in a millisecond compute a picture of that person and make all sorts of deductions therefrom. We do it and we can’t help it. It is, for better or for worse, human nature.
When we roll up to a golf club on a given day, naturally we try to make a good first impression. Most days we’ll pull the tidiest looking polo shirt out of the suitcase; tuck it in, of course; maybe even shave before we leave; then walk upright and tall into the clubhouse, politely asking to speak to the appropriate person. It’s all fairly elementary stuff. On a recent occasion, however, I got it wrong. Badly wrong.
Among the 126 polo shirts I seem to have accumulated this year is a maroon one that my mother brought back from Scotland for me some years ago. It’s embossed with the logo of the football team I used to support as a we’an (Heart of Midlothian FC). And it’s quite smart. I was sporting the shirt in question on Friday when we turned up at Luffness New GC, down the road from Gullane in East Lothian. I had no reason not to. What no one told me though, was that the club steward – who was the first chap I met in the clubhouse – is the biggest Hibernian FC supporter in the world. (Hibs, as they’re better known, are Hearts’ arch rivals, both teams hailing from Edinburgh). Massive mistake.
The Steward (whose name I never caught) looked shocked, almost insulted. “Ye cannae wear that in here lad!” In the moment I wasn’t sure whether his words were hearty banter or serious proclamation. Before I knew it I was marched down to the Secretary’s office (much as I was often marched to the Headmaster’s office at school for being a little toad). The Secretary couldn’t believe it either. How could I have been so ignorant? “Nobody told him” he assumed. No, they didn’t. Well, there was just one thing for it: the Steward disappeared next door only to reappear moments later with a royal blue Luffness New GC polo, the tags on which he promptly cut off (with a touch of venom in his hands). I was told to change and shown to the locker room.
One more thing: “do ye have long socks lad?” No, Sir; sorry Sir. “Well we’ll have to get ye a pair of those too then.” Two pairs of blue woolen knee length socks were tugged from a cabinet by the bar (one for me, one for Mike) and passed to me “courtesy of the club.” A nice touch indeed. And so I was a new man. Having arrived in a maroon polo and navy shorts with invisible white ankle socks I was now a picture of blue. Ready for my first day at school. What an amazing little episode (which, I must point out, was good humoured – although at first I wasn’t so sure).
The golf? What a magical wee track. We’d driven past it a number of times in recent weeks en route to Gullane, Renaissence, North Berwick and Muirfield – wondering whether it was Luffness. It was. A point of clarification, while I’m on the subject. As I understand it, when people talk of “Luffness” they are talking of Luffness New GC. Luffness New and Kilspindie GC down the road used to be part of the same club but then split. Kilspindie then took the (full) name Kilspindie Luffness Golf Club, and wouldn’t allow Luffness New to call themselves just Luffness GC – hence the “New”. Correct me if I’m wrong.
Anyway all that semantics didn’t matter a bit to us; we were just out to enjoy the golf course and hopefully not fall on the wrong side of any other sectarian rivalries. Enjoy it we did. It’s deceptively difficult if you ask me. The first hole looks on paper like a gimme birdie, but Mick and I had to struggle for our pars. At about 260 is a rise punctured with a string of bunkers, the green sitting only 30 yards ahead. We both laid up prudently with long irons, leaving ourselves 60 or so to the stick. I don’t care what anyone says: blind pitches are tricky business, particularly if the greens are running quick as they were on this occasion (apparently they always are at Luffness). Two messy shots were played over the back then a couple of dicey up and downs made. The writing was on the wall: don’t underestimate this place.
The next 4 holes are played on the same side of the road (the 4th being a beautifully simple but in the wind, quite challenging par 5), before you cross over to the bulk of the links. Don’t expect cars to stop for you either when you cross: this is a main thoroughfare along which hoards of keen golfers zip, anxious to breathe in the East Lothian fresh air or at least make their tee time thus avoiding reprimand from the draconian secretaries of these parts. Had I still been wearing my Hearts polo no doubt any Hibernian motorists that saw me would have sped up and taken dead aim.
The lovely thing about Luffness is that the links is more or less all in front of you. A bit like Gullane No. 1 next door (with the exception of the opening and closing 2 holes). A short par 3 (the 6th) is followed by a short, uphill, blind par 4 then a short, downhill par 4. It’s a nice wee stretch that I’m sure the more youthful members could carve up with glee. The 7th tee is also a fine vantage point from which to turn your gaze back west towards Edinburgh and the Firth of Forth. My delight was dampened by the sight of a few Very Dark Clouds heading our way. Don’t you love that sense of inevitability, particularly when you’re on the golf course (the front 9, no less)? Hmmmm. The prospect of escape was a distant one too, given there were a string of fourballs ahead whose combined age in each case would’ve pushed 300.
Just when I was admiring the artwork of the bunkering (they’re perfectly formed much like those at, say, Muirfield, Carnoustie or Skibo), the phone rang (tisk tisk I hear you mutter...). It was a gorgeous sounding lassie called Rebecca, calling from a radio station in Dublin for an interview. I could’ve listened to her talk all day. Irish women have something quite special don’t they? But I digress. Sadly Rebecca’s voice was replaced with that of the interviewer – a sound chap by the name of Anton – and over a few minutes we had a good chinwag about all things puregolf2010. One of the more pleasant radio chats I’ve done.
Along the back 9 we got wet. Very wet. Those clouds I mentioned before held a quite miraculous carriage of H2O, which they in their infinite wisdom decided to drop on Luffness New. Och well, can’t win ‘em all can you? As is often the case however, no sooner had the scoundrel clouds passed over us had the sun reared its bright head with equator-like intensity. Layers were peeled off laboriously but I still couldn’t avoid that itchy-wet sensation (the one you got when your school blazer got wet and gave off that funny smell).
A mediocre round looked like being rescued when I knocked it stiff on the 15th, then did the same on the par 3 16th – that is, until I missed the 2 and a half foot down wind putt!! There’s no fairness in this game. Two very frustrated double bogeys inevitably followed to finish. Such is the way. To rub it in Goldy closed with a fine birdie.
A kind member whose name now escapes me had got wind of our tale and very generously left a tenner behind the bar for us to have a post-match refreshment. To your good self, if you’re reading: thank you. I hope by now though you’ve got your money back from that Hibernian-supporting-miscreant, because all we could stomach was water (on the back of a sociable week in the midst of Edinburgh’s Fringe Festival). Perhaps – as I suggest to y’er man – you could donate the money instead through our website (by clicking the button above) to The First Tee?
Luffness New was a place we had few preconceptions about. It was a very pleasant surprise indeed. The staff (once they put aside their prejudices against my heathen football sympathies) were delightful; and the course was a pure and simple links treat. It might not have the notoriety of Muirfield or even Gullane, but Luffness New stands up there with the big boys as a top drawer golf club. Traditional and unassuming it may be, but under the radar is probably how the members like it. Do go there but don’t wear a maroon polo!
JP
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
Shinnecock
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