Mary McKenna told me you must always have a plan in life, because if you don’t have a plan, then you can’t change it.  This particular plan all started last Friday with Mary Hafeman.

Mary H is a fine golfer to this very day and we first met when we played on opposing sides in the Curtis Cup (trophy above) way back in ………well, never mind!  Suffice to say, it was quite a while ago.  After last week’s blog, when I shared that I had actually played my first nine holes in two years, Mary sent a very encouraging comment or two, signing off with “Look forward to seeing you at Sunningdale/Curtis Cup next fall.”

Those of you who deign to plough through this blog nonsense on a weekly basis will be aware that I was with my great pal, Gillian Stewart, last week.  Well, Gillian played in that same Curtis Cup match and has played golf with Mary in the recent past when our American friend was over in the UK with a golfing group.

I mentioned Mary’s comment to Gill and we looked at each other.  “Do you fancy going?” I asked.  “Where is it?” said Gill.  “Sunningdale!” was the answer – and no further discussion was required.  It was the prod that I needed, however, because, honestly, I hadn’t looked beyond getting through my small bit of broadcasting this season and then going to Rome with the sister.

Going back to 2020, I had managed to procure a wonderful Airbnb in Conwy marina for five of us for that Curtis Cup and then Mr Covid came along and put paid to all our plans.  When the match did take place in 2021 many folk were still wary of travelling and mixing and so we hadn’t resurrected our group.  Time to rectify things.

Upon my return home I rang the great Mary McKenna, who paused briefly in the car park of B&Q to confirm her inclusion in the scheme and then swept off to buy tiles for the ensuite shower.  (Note to self – book some time with the Great One for a proper, lengthy, catch-up chat.)

McKenna (as she is known to her friends) prefers to spend her time behind the lens of a camera nowadays and she is as talented at photography as she once was with her golf clubs.  This is one of my favourites:-

Sunningdale has a bit of a special place in both McKenna’s and my hearts as we had a lovely run of five or six years playing together in the Sunningdale Foursomes, with a fair degree of success.  What makes this tournament so special – aside from the two great courses, the Old and the New, and the superb half-way sausage hut – is that it’s the only competition in the world where men and women, pros and amateurs, can all compete together.  The amateurs must have a scratch or plus handicap to enter and the field is often graced with Ryder Cup players, sometimes even current ones.

McKenna and I played in three finals, winning once and twice losing on the final green.  In one of our losing finals we played Roger Chapman and a young Ronan Rafferty and when Roger drove into a bunker up the left on the last our hopes of prolonging the match to the 19th rose.  Ronan waded into this deep bunker with a 5-iron and I idly wondered if he’d be able to gain the height required to clear the lip.

Not a problem.  With his wristy pick-up action he clipped the ball away, clean as a whistle, into the heart of the final green and that was that.  A few years later he became the first Irishman to top the European Tour Order of Merit.

Another of my favourite Sunningdale memories comes from the Women’s Open which was played there in 2004.  Karen Stupples was in the final group on Sunday and I was out commentating on her match.  She opened up with an eagle three on the first and then, after a good tee shot down the second, hit a five iron up over the hill and down to the distant, out-of-sight, green.  I was standing level with Karen when she hit the shot and she turned questioningly to me when she heard a roar from the green.  I could hear in my head phones the excited commentary as the ball found the bottom of the cup for a two, signalling an eagle, albatross start.

“It’s in!” I yelled above the noise at which point Karen leapt high in the air and fairly galloped down the fairway.  She held her nerve, held her game together, and four hours later she held the biggest prize of her golfing life, a major trophy.  And for some reason, she’s STILL the only British winner of her home Open in the last forty years not to have received an honour of some description.  My pleas, through this blog, to the various golfing bodies have so far been met with deaf ears.  Perhaps someone will listen and take action soon.

So, in the space of a week – and thanks to Mary Hafeman – I now have seven people confirmed for our house.  As soon as the eighth confirms her presence the search will begin for our accommodation.  There will be four former Curtis Cuppers in the group and, amazingly, we all played in that same match where we met Mary H.

So we WILL see you, Mary, for the Curtis Cup at Sunningdale next autumn.  Can’t wait.

 

 

It’s been a very lowkey, contemplative week in this neck of the woods, so how lucky is that?  Given the murder, mayhem and destruction in various parts of the world, a bit of quiet is not to be sneered at.  There’s no knowing how long it will last, so I’m enjoying it while I can.

Lying low wasn’t difficult because the sniffles I’d been holding at bay for a few days developed into an unpleasant, fully-fledged head cold and I was happy to join the dog walkers – keeping my distance – in the morning, then pootle about inside, taking it easy, albeit making serious inroads on the tidying front.  Please stop laughing there at the back.

When we were in Rome, Maureen and I had plenty of time to chat and the subject of my de-cluttering (or lack thereof) came up – yet again.  “You’ve been talking about that for years,” she said, a touch irritably I thought, “and you’ve done nothing about it.”  A bit harsh perhaps but, on reflection, close to the truth.  “Does it make you unhappy?” she said.

That phrase stuck and when I got home, I considered the question – and the clutter – anew and came up with the answer.  “Yes.  It does make me unhappy.  Yes.  It bloody well does.”

What a relief that admission was, a weight off my shoulders.  And, being a great fan of shows like “Sort Your Life Out” with the irrepressible Stacey Solomon and her crack team, I knew in my heart that I was nowhere near lost enough to need their services.   It would take a while but I could do this…

A few years ago, one of the nearly nieces (cousin’s daughter), who knew that I had a paperback copy of Marie Kondo’s “the life-changing magic of tidying” rather cheekily gave me a hardback copy for Christmas.  She really did know me too well.  The book is much-thumbed but still intact and I’m re-reading it as I make my last push for freedom.

The main problem, if I’ve read the book correctly, is Komono, miscellaneous items and I’ve got plenty of those.  Sorting those is time-consuming and I defy anybody, bar a ruthless, indiscriminate chucker, to make light work of the miscellaneous.  For instance, what about the box painstakingly covered in Japan many years ago, at the Dunlop Phoenix Tournament, alongside Larry Mize’s wife and sons – who are probably both married now with children of their own?  Wonder if they still have their wee boxes – seem to remember theirs were much neater than mine.  The box is bad enough but the contents?  What to do with all the badges and bits of ephemera?

And then, of course, there are the bits of paper, endless bits of paper, not just mine but Dai’s, so the trail goes back years and years and years.  And it takes a lot of reading.  You can’t just pick stuff up and throw it in the recycling, unread.  Can you?  If you did, you’d miss gems like the letter from John Glover, the Rules Secretary at the R and A, who sent a detailed, considered answer to Dai’s question about the match between James Bond and Goldfinger.  Classic.

I’ve also come across old articles by both Dai and me and they’ll have to stay in a box somewhere, to be thrown out by the poor soul who has to clear whatever remains once I pop my clogs.  I do promise them that it’ll all be relatively neat and tidy, with the imp0rtant papers in one place so they can dispose of my sentimental stuff with impunity.  (That’s assuming that I last another week or two!)

After all, who apart from me is going to be remotely interested in the photos from Barbados, where we’re consorting with Kath and Ian Botham (when he was one of the world’s great cricketers but not so good a golfer and long before he became a baron).  It was a long time ago and all I can think is how young we look!

That reminds me, most of the cricket books have now gone to the St Giles Hospice book shop:  Warner, Jardine, Hammond, quite a bit of really old stuff, plus a bit of Bradman, Evans and Cowdrey.  If I’d had the room, I’d have kept them, some fascinating stuff, very readable.  Still, decision made.

The bookshelves have all been tidied, dusted down (no bed bugs embedded, fingers crossed) and most of the books put on shelves and not piled on the floor.  This, believe me, is progress.

There’s still work to be done but the floor and the sofa bed are now visible, which is a huge advance.  Stacey and her team wouldn’t look twice at the remaining clutter.

Marie Kondo’s book has four pages on photographs and how to deal with them, which I’m steeling myself to re-read.  I’ve hundreds of them, from the days when they were sent off to be developed and printed out and who knows if I’ll ever get to grips with them.  In the meantime, here’s one of Dai, from the Barossa a quarter of a century ago, with Elvis, the tame galah, who loved to nip fingers and toes, if he could.  Happy days.