Mary Robinson, former President of Ireland, declared him a “global treasure”.  It’s a term that smacks of gross over-exaggeration – but not in this case.  She was referring, of course, to the one and only Sir David Attenborough who celebrates his 100th birthday today (May the 8th).

Older than the Masters tournament, Sir David first appeared in a programme bearing his name in the title back in the sixties and right from the off, his love for the natural world and passion for the environment shone through.  It wasn’t trendy back then to be “green” but Sir David was like a one-man King Canute attempting, not to hold back the waves, but uncivilised man from decimating the natural world in the name of  “progress”.  He never harangued, never dictated, just gently pointed out the wonderful, captivating world few of us were even aware existed.  And he repeated his message over and over and over across the decades.

He has inspired many; he’s universally trusted; he’s consistent, an example to us all and a breath of fresh air.  Happy, happy birthday Sir David.

By comparison, chasing a little white ball over four miles or so of rolling countryside seems, no IS, a ridiculous way to spend a lifetime.  That can be said about all sport, really, when you think about it.  They are all games that captivated us in childhood and some lucky folk are skilled enough to pursue them into adulthood and make a nice living.

Making more than a nice living at the moment is Nelly Korda who is forging her inexorable way towards the LPGA Hall of Fame.  She won the Riviera Maya Open at Mayakoba last week in Mexico, her eighteenth triumph on the LPGA tour and her third victory this season.  She was particularly delighted with the sombrero – see top picture.  This all means she has now accumulated 23 of the required 27 points to gain entry through those Hall of Fame gates into the rarefied atmosphere of the very best to have played the game.

Nelly comes from arguably the most talented sporting family in the US.  Her father Petr was a Grand Slam tennis champion, her mother competed for Czechoslovakia (now the Czech Republic or Czechia) in the Olympics, sister Jessica has won six times on the LPGA and brother Sebastian is in the top 30 of the world tennis rankings.  Can you imagine the competitive juices flowing over the Christmas game of charades?

Nelly recognises she is living her best life at the moment.  She is happy on the course, happy with her team of caddy, coaches and physio, all of whom are highly motivated and have been with her since her second year on tour.  That’s an eight-year span.  Life is good off the course also – she is engaged to be married and about to become an auntie for the second time.  All of this is translating into superlative performances on the course and watching any athlete at the height of his or her powers is a joy and a privilege.  I look forward to seeing her in the flesh later in the year.

This is the time of year that here in the northern hemisphere the really important part of the game gets going.  By that I mean the amateur game, the bedrock of the sport – not the pointy, sharp bit at or near the top of the pyramid where you find the pros.

Golf is one sport where people like to play it much more than they like to watch it.  Perhaps that’s partly due to having the ability to be a participant longer than in, say, football, hockey or tennis.  I do remember attending many, many Opens (think Royal Troon) in a working capacity and seeing loads of folk heading, not to see Tiger, Phil or Rory, but to one of the myriad of courses next door for their regular fourball.  Absolutely NOTHING was going to stand in the way of that.

It’s interesting, too, to learn how golfers get started in the sport.  I had lunch this week with three pals, all of whom I met through the game and taught back in the day.  One Christmas, some 25 years ago before I knew them, two of them, Sue and Annie, attended a grand charity auction dinner which was raising funds for a worthy cause.  They were perfect guests, partaking freely of a few adult beverages and bidding enthusiastically for various lots.  It was all for charity, after all.

The next morning their husbands informed the girls that they had bid for, and won, a fourball at Gleneagles for the following September.  Now, you’d have thought that as non-golfers they’d have been horrified at this news of the previous evening’s antics, but not a bit of it.  When the New Year dawned they arrived with me for lessons and told me I’d to get them ready to take on the King’s course at Gleneagles.

“What are your handicaps?”  I asked them.  “Ah, we don’t play,” came the reply.  “But, don’t worry, we have until September!”

Sometimes ignorance is bliss. They had no idea how tall a task they had set themselves – or me.  But we did it!  They played the eighteen, enjoyed it, didn’t hold up the whole course and even managed to get successfully off the first under the steely gaze of the starter.  It was a triumph.

Almost up there with winning your 18th LPGA tournament.

 

 

 

Well, would you Adam and Eve it, they’ve only been and gone and done it.  It’s taken a couple of centuries – and then some, 272 years by my calculations – but the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews, founded in 1754, has elected its first woman captain.  Wow.

Many congratulations to Claire Dowling, née Hourihane, on her appointment.  “It’s an extraordinary honour,” she said, “and the reaction has been insane.”

The wee girl from Dublin, who started at the John Jacobs driving range at Leopardstown under the watchful eye of her father Bill, has come a long way.  She had a distinguished playing career, then took to administration – handicapping, course rating, rules, amateur status – and became one of the first ripple of women members of the Royal and Ancient when the club finally entered the 21st century in 2015.

Claire, who’s 68, won the first of her five Irish titles in 1983, the last in 1991 and was British Strokeplay champion in 1986.  She played for Ireland in the home internationals from 1979 – 1992, in the European Team Championship from 1981 – 1991, represented GB and I in the Vagliano Trophy six times and in the Curtis Cup in 1984, 1986 (the famous victory at Prairie Dunes 40 years ago), 1988 and 1992.  She was captain at Ganton in 2000 and that is only a partial list of her achievements.

The blog wishes to claim a bit of reflected glory because Claire made her Ireland debut (full, for the big girls) at Harlech, Royal St David’s, in 1979 with Maureen as her foursomes partner and they started with three birdies, possibly even four.  A few years later, when the internationals were at Whittington Heath, I’m pretty sure I caddied for Claire when Ireland won.

Such traumatic experiences notwithstanding, the most nerve-wracking moment of her playing career undoubtedly lies ahead:    on the morning of Friday 25th September, on the 1st tee of the Old Course, at 0800 precisely, in front of a sizeable crowd, with a cannon firing and caddies waiting to pounce, she will drive in as captain.

Claire and her husband Peter, a retired district judge, became the first married couple to referee at the same Open Championship, at Royal St George’s in 2021.  They were long-time members of Copt Heath in Warwickshire and now live in Devon and play at East Devon, where Claire’s handicap index is 7.6 (at least she will understand the system…)  Her home club in Ireland is Woodbrook, where she’s an honorary life member.

Claire’s appointment might not mark the end of golf being regarded as a game for men only with women unwelcome interlopers but at a time when misogyny is still rife in far too many places where it shouldn’t be, it’s a bloody big crack in the glass ceiling.  Hooray for the R&A, sorry, Royal and Ancient.

 

 

Yesterday (7th of May) was the 15th anniversary of the death of the great Severiano (Seve) Ballesteros and his picture was on the 1st tee at Real Club de Golf El Prat when the Estrella Damm Catalunya Championship got under way.  Quite a few of the players were wearing navy trousers and white shirts, signature Seve, both in Spain and in America, where Rory McIlroy and Justin Rose were two of the Europeans paying their own tribute at the Truist Championship at Quail Hollow.

It’s impossible to exaggerate the Seve effect and probably impossible for those who never saw him in his pomp to appreciate it.  He was, quite simply, magical, incomparable, a joy.  Not perfect by any means but golf’s gift from the gods.

Down here, on planet whatever, my friends and I fear we are in danger of losing the plot.  The other morning, fully awake, or so I thought, I took my hot water bottle – it’s been chilly at night – to the bathroom (in truth it’s a titchy shower room, though the shower is not titchy) to empty it in to the basin…Instead I found myself emptying it in to the wastepaper basket (open weave)…Duh.

Next up, the gardening friend who sprayed her air-fryer-bound veggies with plant food – the bottle looked much the same as the  one containing the olive oil – found herself watering a houseplant that turned out to be artificial….In her defence, it looked so realistic that the rest of us were fooled too – and she’d bought it from the middle of a load of real plants.

The really worrying thing is that we’re still allowed out on our own…Beware.

Notice that there’s been no mention of the dreaded football so far, though I’ve put the Spurs relegation-celebration party on hold because we won 2-1 at Aston Villa last Sunday and looked like a football team with players who knew what they were supposed to be doing.  Long may it last.  It’s the mighty Leeds at our place on Monday night, yet another of those oh-so-sympathetic tee times…

Finally, to cheer me up, one of Mary McKenna’s great photos, a souvenir of her visit to Lichfield.