This is the sport that keeps on giving………….and giving.  A couple of days ago Patricia and I rolled in to Portrush for a day’s golf with great pals, Kath Stewart-Moore and Lilian Starrett.  We were trying to work out when we had all first joined this great club and reckoned it was the late 1960s or at the very latest the early 1970s.  There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since those days and even the odd decade has passed with very little contact, but as we all ease into our retirements we have found it so easy to pick up where we left off.

In the old days we were no slouches.  Lilian was a wonderfully talented “feel” player who got down to scratch by the age of 20 and represented Ireland on several occasions.  She continued her upward trend by captaining her country on three occasions, the most memorable trip being to Moscow which afforded a peep into the privileged existence enjoyed by the high-ups in the Politburo.

Lil – still as loose-limbed and free-flowing as ever.

At her best Kath got down to four and played for Ulster.  Like Lil she also captained Ireland in the shape of two girls’ International sides and she is arguably creeping up on her proudest moment in the game.  In January she will become the Lady President of Royal Portrush Golf Club, a just recognition of her immense contribution to the sport and the club.  Mind you, I was more than a little annoyed to hear she had demoted her victory over me in the 9-hole heats of the Collin Cup in 1982 to second place in her list of proud achievements.

Kath booms one away off the 5th.

Patricia’s lowest handicap was also four and her debut into girls’ International golf was seamless with a 100% win record at North Berwick way back in 1971.  However, when questioned as to her most memorable moment in the game she still resolutely cites witnessing Alison Nicholas’ victory in the 1997 US Open at Pumpkin Ridge.  Alison defeated the US favourite Nancy Lopez in a nail-biting finish and despite covering many of Tiger’s and Jack’s glorious victories for the Times nothing resonated with my sister quite like this.  Her own 3rd place finish in the Heath Scratch Cup, although cherished, didn’t quite cut the mustard.

Patricia in her heyday – both for golf and hair.

So, it was in the company of these three titans of the game, with 164 years of golfing experience between them, that I teed off on Wednesday.  Fresh in my mind was the last time I was on that hole – namely on Sunday 21st July in the pouring rain, waiting for Shane Lowry to take history by the scruff of the neck and win the Open.  We were aghast at his untidy bogey 5 up that first hole but looked upon it more favourably when our best player managed a resounding seven!  I know it was an impossible pin, only ten yards on and front left, but, still – to win the hole with a seven!!!!

The course, obviously, has now been denuded of Open Championship furniture – the grandstands, the signage, the ropes, the camera towers and so on, have all gone.  But, to me, it was so much more like the Portrush I’ve known and loved for so long.  It was a perfect day, weatherwise, if a tad chilly at 4 degrees and, I have to say, the golf (apart from Kath’s) left a great deal to be desired.  However, as always, this has to be the best club in the world for the welcome afforded to golfers at the initial point of contact with the customers.  Gary McNeil, the professional, who so proudly played 36 holes as the marker in the Open at the weekend, runs a tight ship with his staff who are simply superb in the service industry.  It is a pleasure to enter the sanctuary of the pro’s shop.  Time stands still and conversations have time to be enjoyed.

It’s not simply time on the course that counts, obviously, but the time spent together – the “do you remember whens?”;  the piecing together of the collective memories of the same events, some of them widely differing;  the occasions one of us remembers something with total clarity as the other three look on blankly.  It’s all grist to the mill for folk with a united love of golf.

Patricia and Lilian still sharing stories and enjoying the craic after all these decades.

Even when I was younger I was always acutely aware of how fortunate I was to be involved in a sport that tends to be played in beautiful surroundings.  Thank God I wasn’t a swimmer whose playground would have been likely to be a 50 metre chlorinated, indoor pool!  (Do they still put chlorine in pools?  Probably not!)  Not many beautiful, uplifting vistas there, however, to take your mind off poor performance.

As I weaved my way round the links the other day I was able to recall so many of the deft skills Shane Lowry displayed on his way to his greatest golfing achievement.  It was quite something coming down the last in the gloaming to hark back to the tumultous scenes we had all witnessed there in July.  Then, I was totally caught up in the moment, lustily joining in with the thousands of voices serenading the winner with the Fields of Athenry, followed by Ole,Ole, Ole!

One of the Honours Boards at Portrush – pretty cool to get your name on here.

This time there was no singing, rather a weary relief that we could now make our way to the sanctuary of the bar, chew the fat, put the world to rights and gird our loins for our next day’s play.  More beautiful, and changing vistas, to enjoy;  more time with lifelong friends;  a bit of fresh air and exercise and the never-ending challenge of getting the ball into the hole as fast as possible.

How lucky we are.

“Why on earth are you driving all the way up to Cairnryan?” my friends asked, puzzled beyond belief.  “Shortest sea crossing, ” sez I.  “Herself doesn’t want to be on the water too long at this time of year.  And apparently they put on the slow, old ferries now that the season’s over.”  Trouble is, if you live in England, Cairnryan’s a long way up but we made it in plenty of time for the boat, even with a couple of stops, including one at the Cally Palace, one of Mum and Dad’s favourite hotels, in Gatehouse of Fleet.

Mo and I called in for old times’ sake and the place didn’t seem to have changed a bit.  Staff just as pleasant, grounds just as beautiful, with a golf course that’s well worth a visit.

Out the front door of the Cally Pally and there’s a golf course that’s well worth playing. Mum and Dad loved the place.

It had been a bit wet and worryingly windy round about Shap on the drive up but the weather improved the further north we got and, wonder of wonders, the crossing was flat calm.  Even Maureen, far from the world’s best sailor, sat playing patience without feeling ill and was able to drive us off the boat and to our destination (via an annoying diversion that gave us a tour of previously unexplored countryside) without any need to call on the reserve who had been sacked by her advanced driving group at the end of last year.

Crikey. It’s 20p for a lifejacket. Check your purse for change…….Not for the first time Patricia gets the wrong end of the message…..

It was still flat calm when we played Dunluce the next day, perfect conditions for four oldish dolls taking on one of Harry Colt’s masterpieces – don’t forget that Whittington Heath is also a Colt course, less majestic than Royal Portrush perhaps but it has also stood the test of time and is a joy to play.  I digress, as usual but one of the reasons I fell in love with Whittington the first time I played it was because it was fast and hard-running, conditions that reminded me of the links courses I’d grown up on.  Admittedly, Lichfield and Tamworth, distinguished though their history is, are about as far from the sea as you can get but you can’t always have everything.

This week, I, a resident of landlocked Staffordshire, have been getting a life-giving fix of sea air on golf courses that rank with any anywhere in the world.  Yesterday it was the Strand course at Portstewart, the club where Mo and I started the game.  There’s a gala dinner tonight to celebrate the club’s 125th anniversary but busy though they were everybody had time for a chat and it felt as though we’d never been away.

Maureen launches a beauty Into a dramatic sky at the 2nd.

The view from the 1st tee still puts it in the running as one of the most scenic in the world – though the weather was a bit grey and gloomy for it to appear at its most majestic – and the dunes are as massive as ever.  Like Portrush, it’s not a course for the faint-hearted.

Another dramatic Portstewart sky.

All the apps and the forecasts had predicted rain about lunchtime but it swept in for elevenses and a chilly wind didn’t help.  We struggled womanfully to play some canny golf as our hands got colder, our grips wetter and our determination to play 18 holes dwindled to nothing.

Kath Stewart-Moore, whose golfing pedigree is unsurpassed – her father skived off school all week to watch Joyce Wethered win the British at Portrush in 1924 and it would take a whole book to list the extensive achievements of equally extensive S-M clan – parred the 8th and birdied the 9th to square the match, so we took that as a sign to head for the clubhouse.  Time for a Guinness and a toastie or celeriac soup with wheaten bread and a glass of red.

It wasn’t so much the course as the weather that brought us to our knees and when we saw the state of the intrepid souls (or stubborn eejits) who’d played 18 holes, dripping into the lockerroom on the verge of hypothermia, we knew we’d made the right decision.

Another good thing is that I now know that my waterproof trousers are still sound; my waterproof shoes are getting to the stage where the toes are letting in just enough to relegate them to the dry-days-only corner; my water-resistant top can cope with quite a lot of water; thermal underwear is a gift from on high; my bag’s claim to be waterproof is not yet in contravention of the Trades Descriptions Act (is there still such a thing?); and if I will insist on playing golf in the rain, I should stop being so squeamish and invest in some contact lenses…..

Oh yes, and I’ll never again pour scorn on American golfers wearing ear muffs or insulated coats.  Promise.

The aftermath.