Some friends can be very annoying……..and some very persistent…….and some are both – all at the same time.

Gillian Stewart, one of my oldest, longest golfing pals, certainly falls into this category.  She’s been mithering me for a few months now to get myself back on the golf course from which I have been missing for a whole two years.  This is due to ongoing Long Covid battles that have left me with varying degrees of pain throughout my body and with questionable reserves of energy, which have to be carefully nurtured and cossetted like the most precious possession on earth.

Shamefully, I must confess that I made no great strides in this direction over the past season, concentrating instead on managing to work at the Masters in April, the PGA Championship in May and the Open in July.  After the Open I barely left the house for five weeks it took so much out of me – but Gill still wouldn’t let me off the hook.  So we arranged to meet for a five-day break in Gullane, in the very heartland of Scottish golfing territory and we agreed that I’d “hit a few balls”.

With the 270-mile drive behind me we ventured out the next, very stormy morning along the coast to Craigielaw golf club to see if we could use the practice range.  Travelling with Gill to Scottish golf clubs is akin to travelling throughout Ireland with the great Mary McKenna – it’s travelling with golfing royalty and first-class greetings and hospitality are frequently rolled out for us.  And so it was at Craigielaw where we were made so very welcome by Stephen and the golf team.

I found I wasn’t really itching to get out there and started dredging up delaying tactics such as, “Let’s go for a coffee.”  My query of “Shall we have another?” was given short shrift and suddenly there was no turning back.

My allocation was a whole twenty balls and I gingerly started stretching the ole. creaking bod just to alert it that some sort of action was imminent.  Four shanks in the first half dozen balls didn’t make it any easier to disregard the aching limbs, but slow practice swings and a sage piece of advice from Gill and suddenly the wedges were going away like……well, wedges.  Some 7-irons and rescues off the deck followed suit and even a couple of 3-woods off the tee peg went away with a pleasing sound.  The last was a beaut and that forgotten feel of a well-struck shot had me grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.

I had finally made a start.

In preparation for our trip we had decided that it might be prudent to suss out some nine-hole courses, so where better to start than at the oldest course in the world, which neither of us had played?  Time to rectify that huge oversight and gap in our golfing education.

We made our way to the Musselburgh Links, the website informing us that the first documentation of golf being played there dated back to 1672, although Mary Queen of Scots had reputedly played there in 1567.  The course is enfolded into the bosom of the Musselburgh racecourse and with the usual Scottish understatement the signage to the all-important starter’s office was challenging, to say the least.  We made it, however, and Kenny gave us a warm welcome and a starting time for the following morning.

Bright, sunny conditions with very little wind met us the next day and in no time at all we had skipped round the Old Links.  There were even a couple of reasonable shots to be enjoyed, including an up and down from the sand at the last, in amongst the dross.

And boy, was there dross!  No matter.  Gill’s sensible barometer of the whole exercise was simple.  “Do you feel any worse than when you started?” she queried.  The answer was no, so that officially makes the whole exercise a bit of a success.

Next on the list is a morning tee time at Gullane with a friend, but I think that may be a bridge too far for me just at the moment.  Small steps are the answer, I feel, otherwise attempting too much too soon will put me off.  My plan is to plough on, as and when I can, and in a year’s time look back and see if there has been decent progress in energy, pain and skill levels.

Meeting up with friends is such a tonic and the golf world is really a very tiny one.  Mooching about in North Berwick we bumped into Graeme and Catriona Matthew who were being taken for a walk by their cockapoo Rio.

I’d last seen Catriona across the course at Marco Simone at the Ryder Cup but had had no opportunity to catch up with her there.  It was interesting to hear how she was enjoying the world of broadcasting which she has recently joined.  It can be a bit of an eye-opener for many a player to step into the world of media but as with most things, she’s taking it in her stride.  She knows her place, however, and a barked reminder from Rio that he was hungry put an end to our blethering.

This blog is very fond of a dog or two and the sister is always championing the sainted Alice, whose picture has graced many of her blog posts.  So, in the interests of balance, here’s the boss of the Matthew household.

It’s started already.  The pacing.  Well, to be honest (a phrase I’m very suspicious of because it usually means the person uttering it is being anything but honest…), it started a few days ago.  The moment Ireland beat Scotland so comprehensively in Paris last Saturday, I started fretting about the quarter-final and the All Blacks.  For goodness sake, how on earth can the No 1 team in the world (that’s us, glory be) be meeting New Zealand in the QUARTER-finals of  the Rugby World Cup?  Beyond bonkers.

Well, in another phrase that I loathe with a passion:  “It is what it is…”

Ireland, who are beyond awesome at the moment, have never gone beyond the quarters and New Zealand have won the thing three times.  So have South Africa, the holders, who are playing France in the quarters on Sunday.  That leaves Wales against Argentina and England, the only northern hemisphere team ever to the win the title, against Fiji.  Blimey.  This title is anybody’s.

It was bad enough last weekend, which turned out to be fantastic for me from a sporting point of view.  First of all, the beloved Totspurs, with the luck – and no little skill and doggedness – hanging out of them, won 1-nil at Luton, playing with 10 men (there are meant to be 11) for the second half.  That meant we were top of the table!  Admittedly it means nothing at this stage but it’s a joy all the same.

Then Ireland, who have moved up more levels than those of us who go back a long way can quite comprehend, were ruthless in beating Scotland.  Even I relaxed with more than ten minutes to go…!  This team doesn’t go out onto the pitch with the words, “Do you realise this is the 13th consecutive defeat we’ve shared together?” (Cecil Pedlow to Tony O’Reilly before a game against England many moons ago.)

All winning runs come to an end and perhaps ours will this Saturday but it’s not a given.  Whoever loses will be gutted but it won’t necessarily be us.    And the players have more belief than wimps like me.  It should be a cracker. My tee shirt is washed and ready to go.

Just as an aside, I’m delighted that those who lobbied for the haka to be done away with pre-match were overruled.  If I were playing New Zealand and discovered that there was no haka, I’d be really pissed off.  It’s great that all the Pacific Island teams have their own version, their own challenge to the opposition, it all adds to the drama, to the feeling that this is something special.

Judging by the pictures most of Ireland seems to be in France for the rugby but much though I love a comp that requires no nous or knowledge, I’ve still resisted entering this thing that comes up on the screen during every match.  In fact, I’m thinking of asking the radio 4 programme More or Less if anybody really does win and if they do what are the odds.  These things pop up everywhere and the address is always the same:  a PO Box in Derby.

And something similar came up again during Loose Women – I blame the men’s Cricket World Cup for drawing me in to daytime telly; there was that Derby address again.

Should I enter these things?  Would I have a hope in hell of winning?  Hell, no.  Ah well.  I’ll just have to watch the final on the telly – and forget about the million.

Since coming back from Rome, I’ve paid my golf club subs (just under a fiver a day, so still well worth it); cut back the buddleia at the front (hope it comes back, it’s a stunning colour); played 18 holes (blooming hard work but fun); been to the osteopath (amazing how the body contorts itself to accommodate kinks); tidied my desk (no small feat); and toasted those who are no longer with us (a joy to remember the fun and the laughter).

Yesterday a friend sent an email reminding us that it was two years ago to the day that the incomparable Renton Laidlaw had died and suggested raising a glass to him.  From all corners of the globe we paid tribute.

Finally, I’ve been feeling guilty about not mentioning Caroline Hedwall and her amazing win in the singles at the Solheim Cup.  Three down with six to play against Ally Ewing, the Swede, a self-confessed controversial pick, exploded into life with four birdies in the next five holes.  She was, incredibly, one up playing the last and when she blasted her second shot onto the green at the par 5 18th, she had won her point and helped secure the first drawn Solheim, 14-all.  Viva Carolina.