The week has consisted of cancelled flights, lost luggage, neck and back treatments, a barbecue birthday celebration, England football agony, a tractor run and a wonderful dip down to centre court. I’m now officially clean out of energy and fit for nothing more than a few ramblings for your delectation.

It’s so interesting when you are very familiar with one sporting world and the machinations of big tournaments and all that that entails and then you step into a different sport altogether, seeing the organising and the structure simply from a spectator’s point of view.  This was my third or fourth trip to SW19, courtesy of a great pal who receives a couple of member’s guest tickets each year.  Getting the nod to go is akin, I suspect, to getting a wild card pick for the Solheim Cup team – it only comes around every so often and is a great joy.

As ever, with the British summer weather, it’s a challenge to know what to take for the day.  This is where tennis trumps golf hands down.  You are allowed to take a cabin-sized piece of baggage into the grounds to serve your every need.  No ridiculous edicts concerning tiny rucksacks of 12 inches or so which are supposed to serve you well as you tramp round a golf course for five or six hours.

And you can take in your own food and drink!  I saw one guy with two bottles of the finest champagne in his rucksack and he was far from alone.  Nothing like that is allowed at the Open Golf Championship.  I must say I liked what I saw at Wimbledon and it didn’t seem to be massively impacting the numbers who were buying food and drink on site.

Apart from the fun of people watching and just soaking up the sheer beauty of the place, the tennis we saw was mesmerising.  First up was a brilliant Spanish player, Jessica Bouzas Maneiro, who beat the defending champion, Marketa Vondrousova, in the first round singles.  In her post-match, on-court interview she proclaimed that this moment was the highlight of her career so far and we all roared our delight, happy to be able to share in it with her.

Next up was Novak Djokovic, three and a half weeks removed from an operation on his knee – something to do with a misbehaving meniscus I believe.  He was in control from the start so we departed for afternoon tea on the members’ lawn, returning in time to see him polish off his hapless opponent.  We were having the most civilised time imaginable and the ability to close and then open the roof meant that the play skipped along at a merry pace.

Talking of pace, the teams of ball boys and girls moved like lightning round the court, efficient, unobtrusive and oh-so-well drilled.  I found myself watching them from time to time, marvelling at their economy of movement, their synchronicity and uniformity.  It was a joy watching them, never mind the tennis.

Finally, at around 5.30pm, the new British No 1, Jack Draper, came on to centre to commence a stout tussle with Swedish player, Elias Ymer.  Three hours later they were locked at two sets all and the decision was taken to close the roof again, which takes about a quarter of an hour.  We decided to abort and leave in order to make our way to where we were staying with another pal, Janey, who lives in Wimbledon.  And this is where tennis smashes golf into the ether.  We left the grounds, caught a shuttle bus to Wimbledon station and walked 15 minutes to our digs – and we were still there in time to see Draper winning the last couple of games of the match.  The transport links were superb, quick and easy – not words I’ve ever considered using when trying to leave a golf tournament!

Janey’s is a very sporty, active household and golf has been in her life since childhood.  She played for Wales at junior level and still holds down a sub 6 handicap.  The clubs may have been tucked out of sight under the stairs but the cushions in the picture below were, rightly, proudly on display, catching everyone’s eye.  They were made by her North Wales-based sister, Mo, and I think are indicative that golf still holds the number one spot in her heart – just ahead of tennis, pickleball and bridge!

I had been keeping an eye out through the day on who was doing what in the final qualifying for the Open and was thrilled to see Justin Rose had made it.  When I got home the following day I saw he had been recovering from his 36-hole exertions in the royal box on centre court.  The only celeb I recognised when we were there was Jackie Stewart, the legendary Scottish racing driver, who, incidentally, has always been keen on his golf.

I find myself in danger of becoming more like the sister – i.e. in barely giving golf a mention.  I used to berate her for that, pointing out the clue was in the name – Madill GOLF dot com.  She paid no heed, of course, but hopefully she’ll be the one giving you your golf fix this week.

Now, where’s the remote.  Time to see who’s on centre.

 

 

 

Well, what a difference a week makes.  The last blog was done and dusted a day in advance because of having to fly from Charlotte to Dublin and very relaxing that was; must do that again I thought.  So this week it’s back to the same old last-minute effort, starting to write just as the polls close in the UK.  At least that means there’ll be plenty of chat and company through the night, if required.  The exit polls predicted a big win for Labour, so, if they’re right, good luck Keir; you’ll need it.

My eyes are red-rimmed because I’ve just finished watching the tribute to Andy Murray on a packed centre court at Wimbledon after he and his big brother Jamie had been beaten in straight sets in the gentlemen’s doubles by two efficient Australians, Rinky Hijikata  and John Peers.  The great and the good were lined up – John McEnroe, Martina Navratilova and Novak Djokovic were among those there in person – and on film there were lovely tributes from Roger Federer, Rafa Nadal and Djokovic, the three giants of the game who always had to work ferociously to beat the talented, driven Scot from Dunblane and couldn’t respect him more.  He’s raging against the dying of the light but his battered body can give no more.  He’ll now have to learn to settle for being an inspiration.

Wimbledon always makes me think of the Smiths, Helen (née Lennon) and Colm, great friends who are no longer with us but never forgotten.   Helen, who became Ireland’s Federation Cup captain (think it may be called something else now), was good enough to play at Wimbledon and she had the patience to try and teach me how to serve.  Considering I was aced by Dad, whose serve was even more cramped than his golf swing, that was above and beyond friendship.

Even Colm, who covered golf (and rugby and many other sports) for the Irish Independent for many years, was not old enough to be at Portmarnock in 1931 to see Enid Wilson win the first of her three consecutive Ladies’ British Open Amateur Championship titles.  This year, at last, the championship, recently renamed The Women’s Amateur (Championship), was back at Portmarnock and the winner was the American Melanie Green, from Medinah, New York and the University of South Florida.

Green, relatively unheralded hitherto, defeated Lorna McClymont, of Milngavie and Stirling University, by two holes in the 36-hole final, played for the most part in foul, wet, miserable conditions.  McClymont’s mum Gail pulled her trolley throughout the championship but Green insisted on carrying her own clubs from start to finish.  No one I spoke to, champions all, could believe it, especially given the conditions at the end of a long, tiring week.  She turned down every offer of help and that stubbornness and determination could take her far beyond this title.

I have to confess that I spent most of the final in the clubhouse watching on the telly, the weather was so foul and I was ill-equipped for the classic summer weather.  But not everybody was so wimpish and I couldn’t resist snapping three pals, well waterproofed, enjoying an ice cream.  Does anybody still think golf is for old people?

And some proper pics of the proceedings, taken by champion photographer Mary McKenna.  Many thanks Mc – and thanks for the bed when the Are Lingus pilots’ strike kept me in Dublin for two unexpected extra nights.

To the champion go the spoils, not least a place in four majors:  the Amundi Evian Championship, the AIG Women’s Open (at St Andrews no less), the Chevron Championship and the US Women’s Open and an invitation to the Augusta National Women’s Amateur.  The runner-up, gutted, especially after being four up after eight holes and one up with three to play, had to hang around to receive a very grand but unwanted trophy and listen to kind words about what a player she is.  It’s tough to take but the Scottish Women’s Amateur champion will surely be on Catriona Matthew’s  Curtis Cup team at Sunningdale at the end of August.

The day before the final, there was a reception for some of the best women golfers Ireland has ever produced.  It was a delight and I was there, an interloper who knew them all and I’d include some photos if I could find any that featured everybody.  So, sorry, no pics, for fear of offending and omitting.  There was lots of chat and laughter and the catching up and reminiscing could have gone on all weekend and beyond.

An unexpected bonus was a present from Ann Bradshaw, daughter of Cecil Ewing, the king of Rosses Point and one of Dad’s idols when he was growing up.  She gave Maureen and me a copy of a lovely, lovingly produced book:  The WEST of IRELAND Amateur Open Golf Championship, the centenary history 1923-2023, compiled by Brendan Cashell.  It’s a joy and will give us many happy hours of browsing.  Many thanks Ann – and Brendan, brilliant job.

It’s hard to choose which sport to watch at the moment, what with Wimbledon, the Tour de France (vive Mark Cavendish, the pocket rocket from the Isle of Man, who has just won a record 35th stage on the Tour), the football (will England beat Switzerland?) and various elections, perhaps the most competitive beasts of all.  By the time you read this, a lot of fates will have been decided, one way or another.

Finally, just to give you a laugh.  We took our very dusty hire car to the car wash the day before we were due to fly back home and just as we settled in to be thoroughly cleaned, we realised our exit was blocked – by the local septic tank emptier!!  It was quite a pongy wash and we (well, Brian) had to reverse out.  You couldn’t make it up.

The only thing for it was to head to the pub for one last craft beer.