I’m a little mystified as to how, or when, things began to change but gradually, little by little, I think I’ve been turning in to an old person.

Conversations that used to exasperate me a few years ago no longer do.  Now I happily discuss with the best of them the idiocy of the banning of Cheshire residents from their local tip, which happens to be in Shropshire.  This is our dilemma and an easy, eight-mile drive for us has now become a nightmare of a 34-mile round trip.  Is it any wonder fly-tipping is on the increase?

Recycling seems to be a favourite topic among folk my age, ditto the pros and cons of cataract surgery, night driving and how it really is SO much more sensible to have your main meal in the middle of the day.  And the cost of everything…!!!  A sandwich in a cafe nowadays is half the size that it used to be and double the price.  Tut!  Tut!  And just when did it become compulsory to exhale audibly, and with feeling, every time I sink into a chair or rise from a sofa?

And then, while indulging in that mindless 21st century pastime of scrolling through one’s phone I came across an inspiring little video of the US Senior Women’s Open which was played last week at Barton Hills Country Club in Ann Arbor in Michigan.

Mike Tirico, the peerless American broadcaster with the velvety voice and brain the size of a planet, is a resident of Ann Arbor and was the starter for the final round.  He’s one of my all-time favourites and while it implies a degree of familiarity to say I have actually worked with him I have, indeed, been fortunate enough to be part of the same broadcast team when covering a couple of Masters tournaments.

His calm exterior, easy manner, quick wit and friendliness make all around him feel instantly at home, confident in his handling of entire sports broadcasts with nary a stutter or breath out of place.  It is impressive to watch him on the box but even more so when you are actually there in person witnessing the hullabaloo that surrounds live golf programmes.

So, last weekend there was Mike, doing the starter’s job and in ringing tones announcing lots of my pals and fellow pros on to the tee.  There was Becky Morgan, the defending champion from Wales who was part of my Welsh training squads back in the day;  Trish Johnson was also playing as were Catriona Matthew and Karrie Webb and the obligatory clatter of wonderful Swedish players, one of whom, Maria McBride, nee Hjorth, (see pic at the top) carried off the spoils this year.

Mimi, as Maria has always been known, had a four-shot lead going into the final day but soon relinquished that to the formidable Annika Sorenstam before chipping in for eagle on her ninth hole.  That gave her the belief she needed to go on and cross the line a couple ahead of her compatriot.

Boy, how I envied them all – still out there competing, all with aches and pains no doubt, but all doing their best and having fun.  They are a bit younger than me and the swing speeds aren’t quite as of their youth but the guile, the nous and the determination more than offset the inevitable physical limitations.  Bravo to them all.  As I said, inspirational women, one and all.

The summer is galloping on and the next golf I will be watching in the flesh will be the Walker Cup at delightful Lahinch where the sister and I will be staying with Irish golfing royalty Valerie Hassett.

Valerie is a serial achiever.  A former British Seniors champion, a past president of the Irish Ladies’ Golf Union and an Irish international, Valerie is steeped in the game.  Speaking to her on the phone during the week we were recalling being drawn together for the qualifying rounds of the Irish Close one of the years it was played at Lahinch.  The opening hole was a par 5 for us in those days and we both knocked it on in two and sank our putts for matching eagles!  What a start to the championship.

As an amateur I played countless times at Lahinch and the club had a very reliable, if unusual, means of forecasting the weather.  The club emblem features a goat and back in the day there were three or four goats that lived on the course.  I know you won’t believe me but one of the goats only had three legs.  That piece of info is not important to the yarn, but it is a fact, I promise.

Whenever you arrived at the club and found the goats huddled in the porch it was wise to take heed and not venture out because it meant the rain was on its way.  If you saw them happily out on the course grazing away, you were good to go.  It never failed.  They were never, ever wrong.

It was only years later I learned how this worked.  Apparently, goat’s hair has no lanolin in it which means that rainwater soaks straight through to their skins – and goats do not like being wet!  That explains why they so instantly head for shelter when rain is on the way.  Simple.

On the other hand, sheep’s fleeces do contain lanolin which makes them waterproof and so they will happily endure any number of downpours without batting an eyelid.

I’ll be intrigued to learn if there’s a new generation of goats foretelling the weather for those golfing at Lahinch.

I really do hope so.

 

Well, it had to happen some time and I suppose it became inevitable when I took delivery of an outdoor brolly – patio parasol if you want to be a bit posher – a few days ago.  The sun started disappearing, the breeze got up, then there were rumbles of thunder, scary flashes of lightning and, inevitably, before too long, torrential rain.

The brolly’s now nestling inside but hasn’t yet been packed away in the shed because, ever optimistic, I’m hoping I might need it this coming Bank Holiday Monday.  Yeah, right.  The sun’s going to shine again on a bank holiday!  Perhaps I’ll put it up anyway and find out just how waterproof it is…

There’s been lots of flooding here in Lichfield, with Beacon Park acquiring some new lakes and Severn Trent called out to cope with blocked drains and the often unsavoury consequences.  A couple of my neighbours had to head out early in the morning in search of sandbags and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I stay high and dry.

The sainted Alice is staying at mine for a few nights and the other morning we had to venture out in thunder, lightning and heavy rain for the non-negotiable pee and poo run.  She, being a working lab designed for such conditions, couldn’t have been happier to head out  – me not so much.  I had to root out my waterproof walking boots, my long waterproof coat and a waterproof hat, not forgetting the poo bags and the front door key.  We weren’t out for long.

We did manage a longer walk in the afternoon when the weather eased off a little – and I noticed that the golf at The Belfry, not that far away, had got under way as well.  It’s the Husqvarna British Masters hosted by Sir Nick Faldo and Ulsterman Tom McKibbin, a refugee from the imploding LIV, was leading at five under par after 13 holes.  Play is scheduled to resume this morning at 0730 and the second round won’t start before 1345, weather permitting.

As I write this, the rain is hammering down again and the thunder is rumbling, there’s a bit of lightning and I’m looking out a couple of lifebelts for Alice and me.  Might have to break my Amazon embargo.

This weather reminds me of why I was always delighted that I was never in charge of any golf tournament.  However inconvenient or irritating delays were for the rest of us, it was the poor souls running the event who had the hard work to do.  Ben Groutage, the DP World Tour’s tournament director at The Belfry, described the difficulties:  “We managed to play two minutes first thing this morning before we came off for lightning.  [All golfers take note, this is an absolute must, don’t even think about waiting for a signal to leave the course, head off at once.]

“We got back out there and unfortunately had so much rain that the bunkers became unplayable.  The rest of the golf course is actually very good but we just couldn’t keep the bunkers playable, so it wasn’t fair.  We suspended again.  We were off for nearly four hours and we managed to get back out and play another three.”

I confess I have no interest in who splashes through to victory here or in Atlanta – where I think it’s only hot and sweaty, with a wee bit of rain, for the moment, at the Tour Championship.  That’s entirely selfish because my PYP (Pick Your Pro) choices aren’t playing – well, that’s not entirely true; one of them is playing, just not in the right place.

Alex Fitzpatrick, younger brother of Matt, was my pick for the aforementioned British Masters but he’s had such a good season that he’s playing in Atlanta instead.  Corey Conners, the Canadian I plumped for at the Tour Championship (field of thirty, no cut), failed to make it, so that’s nul points this week.  Since I’m already bottom of the table, my only hope is that I’ll be getting my tenner entry fee back at the end of affairs in November.

I’ve been bottom before but the only time I was delighted not to claim the booby prize – a bottle of champagne, the proper stuff no less – was many years ago at The Oxfordshire, never one of my favourite courses.  I’d had my first – and last – video lesson that morning and was so horrified by what I saw that I could do nothing right out on the golf course that afternoon.  How I managed to accumulate as many as 13 points, only the golfing gods know.

I steeled myself as the booby of the day was announced and prepared a rictus grin and a merry quip…The winner is – name long forgotten – with a grand total of….15 points…

I applauded loudly, more than delighted to forego the bubbles and the humiliation.

My golf’s been a bit better than that these last couple of weeks, though nothing to crow about and there’s absolutely no reason why I should have any expectations at all.  Do I practise?  No.  Do I warm up?  Barely, bar a bit of stretching.  Have I worked on improving my dire short putting?  Ah.  Pass.  That’s another no then.

To finish on a much higher level, Anna Nordqvist, Europe’s Solheim Cup captain, has announced her retirement from the professional grind after this week’s FM Championship in Boston..  At the age of 39, with three major titles to her name and a lot of angst and heartache to go with the successes, she’s had enough and is ready for a different life.

We wish her all the best and wouldn’t it be lovely if she signed off with another Solheim triumph next month, at Bernardus Golf in the Netherlands.