We decided not to use this piece last week because we didn’t want to overload our reader and then on Wednesday, an email arrived announcing that there was going to be a bit of  a proclamation in East Lothian the next day.  “Well,” Patricia said to me, ” they’re not going to all this trouble, planning for satellite trucks, wifi access, refreshments and so on and asking reporters not to bother players on the course (Thursday is visitors’ day),  just to say nothing’s changed.”

How wrong could we be!  The change needed a two thirds majority and they nearly made it:  64 per cent to 36.  The Open is now going elsewhere for the foreseeable future after the R and A ruled out venues with no women members (Troon’ll soon be off the rota too presumably).  Also on hold are our congratulations to Henry Fairweather, the captain and all the members for taking the leap into the 21st century. 

Oil and water, cats and dogs, foxes and chickens, the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, aka Muirfield, and women.  There are some things that simply don’t mix and were never meant to be together.  But, halt!  Let me stop you right there.  What was that last one again?

Ah, yes, Muirfield.  A mere 272 years old, a gentlemen’s golf club on one of the premier pieces of golfingscape in the world.  And women.  Not allowed to darken the door of this venerable institution – right?  Well, no. Wrong – or, at least not completely right.  Let me tell you a bit about The Madill Trophy.

Our version of the Claret Jug

It was 1993 and I was recovering from back surgery and wondering when I’d be able to play golf again.  The Open in 1992 had been played at Muirfield and it was at that time my sister, Patricia, met the new Secretary of the Honourable Company, Group Captain John Prideaux, otherwise known as Groupie.  Patricia recalled that first early morning meeting with the succinct, “Every woman should be charmed before breakfast.”

An early match. with PC Brown photographer supreme (thanks for your photos) and John Prideaux, former Secretary HCEG and co-founder of the Madill Trophy match

Groupie extended a warm invitation to me to contact him when I felt able to play again and to bring three friends with me for a bit of a match.  Alas, three feet of snow put a brake on proceedings in the 1993 match but we had a wonderful morning in the clubhouse with our hosts regaling us with the marvellous history of the club and the priceless artifacts therein.  Despite not a single shot being hit the fun, laughter and general bonhomie we shared prompted us to agree to arrange a match for early 1994.  My team were all tour players and schedules were hectic and global.  Couple that with the small matter of Muirfield’s 250 year celebrations and it proved impossible to find a date, so ‘94 proved a non-starter.

The inaugural match for The Madill Trophy took place in 1995 and, with the exception of another snow intervention in 2013, has been played every year since.  We began with four players a side playing a singles match followed by lunch in the local pub.  Over the years we grew to eight a side with 36 holes played – one foursomes series and one singles – with lunch still in the pub.  We now enjoy 36 holes of foursomes and are wined and dined in the clubhouse.  Modesty forbids me to give the overall match score – suffice to say “the lasses” have a sizeable lead!

Stuart McEwen, secretary of HCEG, feels the pain of handing the trophy to winning 2016 Captain, Jane Connachan

When I was writing this, the club was having a postal vote on the proposal to admit women as members.  I had no doubt whatsoever as to the outcome and was astounded and disappointed to learn that I’d got it completely wrong.  Not all dinosaurs are extinct after all and golf in general is not well served by their continued existence.

The lesson seems to be that one woman’s progress is another man’s sticking point.

Our condolences go to the O’Connor family who have lost the two Christys, Senior and Junior, in the space of a few months this year.  Let’s hope the big holes in their lives will be made less gaping by the love and the laughter and the mountain of memories.

Christy O’Connor,  the original and the best, the king of Knocknacarra, Himself to all and sundry, was one of those natural golfers whose swing was all his own but had been honed by hour upon day upon week upon year of practice.  It was not an accident of birth, he did not saunter up off the beach in Galway and onto the fairways of the world fully formed.  He worked and worked and worked and the hands bled as he unravelled the intricacies of shotmaking and scoring.

The result was a swing and game admired far and wide by the great and the good of the game, from John Jacobs, the renowned teacher to Peter Alliss, a devoted friend and admirer, to Jack Nicklaus.  There were few golfing sages who were not in awe of the O’Connor rhythm and his shot-making skills were the stuff of legend, all the better for being mostly true:  drivers off muddy fairways, 4-woods from the boondocks, beautiful wedges from iffy lies, he had done it all long before Seve, another man with magic in his hands, was a twinkle in any eye.

And Christy kept doing it, well into his 60s and even beyond.  On the practice ground at Royal Dublin, before a seniors’ tournament, Tommy Horton, who won more than his fair share, watched enthralled as O’Connor warmed up.  “He is still a magician,” Horton said.  “Every young pro should go out and watch him.”

One young pro who learned more than most, sometimes the hard way, was Christy’s nephew, Christy Junior.  The celebrated uncle was a hard taskmaster, very hot on discipline but with his help and encouragement Junior and his brothers Sean and Frank learned to make their own way and have their own successes in the game.

Senior played in ten Ryder Cup matches and Junior had his moment of glory at The Belfry in 1989 when he hit that 2-iron at the last.  Senior, whose praise was hard won, told Junior before the match:  “You’re playing fantastic.  You’re hitting the ball magnificently.  Swing the golf club.”  Suitably inspired, Junior did just that and afterwards Senior, impressed and proud, said:  “My God, I can’t believe you made such a full follow through on that shot!”

At a more prosaic, personal level, Himself had time for the most lowly players.  In 2013, when I was ladies’ captain at Whittington Heath in Staffordshire, a group of us had a stayaway in Ireland, playing at The Heath and Royal Dublin, fiefdom of Himself.  On a suitably bright, breezy links day, we battled to the turn, where we were taken aback to see a lone man on the 10th tee.  It was the legend himself, still hitting balls but also keen to chat and check that all was well and we were enjoying ourselves.  He posed for photos, acknowledged that he should have won an Open or two and gave us advice on how to play the back nine.  We did our feeble best but for me at least the day was made.

Whittington’s women take Royal Dublin by storm

[Books used:  Himself, compiled by Seamus Smith; Christy O’Connor his autobiography as told to John Redmond; John Jacobs’ Impact On Golf, by Laddie Lucas.]