I’ve always loved North Berwick and its old-fashioned, proper golf course with its walls, views of the Bass Rock, a par 3 called the Redan and the bewildering 16th green with what the club’s website calls a “gully” in the middle; it’s a veritable rollercoaster really.  Of course, I’m completely biased because I played some of my best golf there in the junior home internationals and shared some memorable moments with people who are friends to this day.  I think I nearly fell in love that week but was too gauche to realise it let alone make any sort of decisive move.  In my defence it was a long time ago (1971) and I thought that blue mascara was the height of daring raciness – I had a very sheltered upbringing and was unbelievably slow on the uptake!

Whenever the Open was at Muirfield (remember those days?), we’d play at North Berwick early in the morning, then head off to cover the championship.  Madness!  I remember playing the last at just after eight o’clock in the morning and hearing an American playing the 1st say, in awed amazement, “Gee, do you think they’ve played 18 already?”  We had indeed and I played the first few holes like a proper golfer because I was still half asleep and most of my faults were lying dormant.  Magnificent!  Those were the days.  Where has all that stamina and staying power gone?

Still, stamina, stubbornness, endless enthusiasm and sheer bloodymindedness are pretty well essential attributes for all golfers, particularly women, as you’ll discover if you read Ailsa Fortune’s fascinating book Par For The Ladies:  The Extraordinary Story Of The Women Who Golfed At North Berwick.  I thought I’d have a quick skim through it and pass it on but this is a proper book, a real social history written by a woman who specialises in such things and I’ll be sitting down and reading it properly once the pre-Christmas mayhem subsides and the wrapping paper is cleared away for another year.

The photographs are brilliant and so are the names.  For many years North Berwick was the haunt of the rich, the  famous and the regal and was known as the Biarritz of the North.  You’ll learn about Mary Constance Nisbet Hamilton; the Gillies Smith sisters; the Hamilton-Dalrymples; Blanche Anderson; the Hon Miriam Pease; Dorothy Campbell; Catriona Matthew (nee Lambert); Elsie Grant-Suttie and many more.  The battle of the sexes features too, of course, although, as ever, men can be feminists too.  Not all male golfers have to ask advice on how to cope with “the ladies”…..Instead they recognise fellow members of the human race (??!) and fellow enthusiasts for a mesmerising, infuriating game….

North Berwick Ladies’ Golf Club (NBLGC) has been in existence since 1888 but it wasn’t until 2013 that Ailsa began her research, prompted by Anne McCarthy, lady captain from 2012-2014, who thought that a proper written record was long overdue.  She was right and congratulations to everyone who worked so hard to make sure that this terrific book saw the light of day.  It’s published by Stanton Press and is available from them (info@stantonpress.com) or major bookstores like Waterstones.

We wish Season’s Greetings to everyone, bearing in mind that it’s a sad time for people who’ve lost loved ones this year.  Just as I was writing this I heard that Geoff Marks had died, another good man gone.  He was a stalwart of Stone, Trentham, Staffordshire, England and GB and I and respected worldwide as a golfer and a person.  Condolences to his family and friends.

 

Here at last – our week in Paris. This is a tournament both Patricia and I know and love well from a working point of view, but we are experiencing it differently this time around – not a jot of work in sight!.  So, here’s my diary in the lead up to the matches.

Monday

Lightly packed and armed with our 40 Euro Ryder Cup travel passes we were deposited at Manchester airport by my husband Brian who balked at the £3 he had to pay for the pleasure of dropping us off.  Ha!  Wait till he finds out he’s to pay £4 to pick us up!  We navigated having to drop Patricia’s luggage off at a special desk (because it was a soft bag) and managed security relatively unscathed.  My sister has made a lifelong study of packing….. and packing lightly, all centred, of course, round the never-ending search for The Perfect Bag.  The result this week was a check-in bag weighing 8 kilos and hand luggage spilling out of a large looking shopping bag – no travel wheels in sight, of course.  Ah well, her gym sessions will come in handy and the search for TPB continues.!

An easy flight was followed by a train from Charles de Gaulle airport to Saint Michel-Notre Dame and then a metro from there to Boulogne-Billancourt, topped off with a two-minute walk to our hotel.  The travel pass worked perfectly – apparently it will effortlessly admit us on to any train, tram or bus in the Paris region for a week.  So far so good.  Our hotel room is bijou (for that read very small) in the extreme, but what we expected. The beds are comfy and we are within walking distance of lots of restaurants, all non-touristy.  Result!  As long as one of us is on her bed the other can move round the room, no problem.

Tuesday

Our practice day dawns and we are ready for the fray.  Rucksack – check; ticket – check; PGA card with which to gain access to the PGA Members’s pavilion – check; extra coat in case of rain – check; money – check; binoculars – check; periscope – check; money – check; and travel pass – check.  Accustomed as we both are to whooshing in and out of Ryder Cups and majors on media transport this is going to be a little different.  First, four stops on the metro and before we even get started we meet our first glitch.  The all-singing, all-dancing, let-you-on-any-transport-anywhere-within-Paris travel pass denies us entry to the metro!  Merde, as they say over here.  However, a very efficient French ticket officer seemed not at all perturbed and electronically opened the gates for us.  Well, time will tell if we encounter any more difficulties.  On to the correct train which forty minutes later delivered us on to a shuttle bus through an avenue of smiling and heartfelt “Bonjours” enunciated by impeccably dressed Ryder Cup information people.  Sigh – only the French can make standard fleeces and waterproofs look chic.  Years of practising that particular dark art, I suppose.

And so, after a bit of a route march we arrive at the course, Le Golf National.  We have both been here in different lives.  I was here as the Welsh National coach umpty-ump years ago and even further back Patricia was here covering French Opens and, way back in the mists of time, a World Amateur Team Championship.  We reacquainted ourselves with the course, watched the Europeans practise, cast our eye over Tiger and had a couple of delightful meetings with pals from yesteryear.

I met up with former colleagues on the Ladies’ European Tour, Barb Helbig, Sally Prosser and Tracey Craik, who’d just bought her Dad, Derek, a pair of Ryder Cup adorned boxers.  We had managed to resist the temptations of the oh-so-corporate merchandise tent and were returning back to our little hotel near Roland Garros with the exact same checklist you saw above, minus a few euros, of course.

The next two days are to be non-golfy, filled with the sights and sounds of Paris – and, worryingly, they are totally under Patricia’s control.  A little concerning as the last words she has just uttered to me are, ” Ooh, I see we can get 20% off nude massages tomorrow.”  Watch this space!

Wednesday

Our second full day in Paris and the first of two non-golf days.  As I had booked the flights, organised our Ryder Cup tickets, sorted the hotel and worked out our travel routes from airport to hotel ,and then from the hotel to the course, I thought it only fair to tell Patricia she was in charge of the next two days and our Paris sightseeing and shopping.  I had one request – namely, not to walk too much, as I am recovering from what I’m pretty sure is a broken toe.  I walked into the end of the bed about five weeks ago and have suffered ever since.  “No problem,” she obligingly said, secure in the knowledge we are proud possessors of these wonderful travel passes.  So, how come we spent the whole morning walking in the Bois de Boulogne having first visited Roland Garros stadium?  Coffee and water stops were, indeed, aplenty and just when I was wondering where we were going to park ourselves for a lovely long delicious lunch the idyllic Chalet des Iles hove into view.  We had to take a little boat across to it and had a delightful meal outside on the terrace in the sunshine.

Later we made our way down the Avenue Foch to the Arc de Triomphe and from there to the world famous Galeries Lafayette where a teensy weensy bit of shopping was off-set by a cooling G&T on the Terrace Bar looking across the rooftops of Paris to the Eiffel Tower.

Only one small drawback to Patricia’s first day in charge – the small matter of OVER 21,500 steps!!!  Ouch!

Thursday

Bearing in mind the walking we expect to do over the three days of the matches I threatened Patricia with death if I was forced to walk too far today.  The result was a lovely relaxing day spent touring the great Parisian sights from the top of a Hop-On-Hop-Off bus.  Mind you, there wasn’t a great deal of hopping off, but we did spend a lovely couple of hours at Le Petit Palais at the stunning Jakuchu exhibition of painting on silks.  The vibrancy of the mid-18th century Japanese scrolls was breathtaking and well worth the visit.

We had been remarking to each other that there wasn’t a great deal of evidence to suggest the Ryder Cup was even taking place in Paris….and then our bus turned in to the Champs Elysees.  The entire boulevard was adorned on either side with banners of Justin Rose, Rory and Poulter for the Europeans and for the Americans there were huge pictures of Dustin Johnson.  It certainly set my pulse racing and, save for a couple of glasses of vin rouge this evening, our own preparations are now pretty well complete.  The nude massage with 20% off seems, thankfully, to be forgotten, and the travel pass is behaving impeccably. With a mere 8000 steps clocked up today all that now remains is to perfect our rallying cry, “Allez les Bleus”.

 

The spare bedroom, which will be in use in a few days’ time, has become my packing ground as I prepare for the Ryder Cup in Paris – and panic is already setting in, not least because there’s a danger of a semblance of organisation ruling in the Davies household.

The last time I took this much care over my packing I was nearly arrested.  Dai and I were going to Australia and environs for eight weeks, so I took a week to decide what I was taking with me, operating on Dai’s principle that you only needed to pack for a week however long the trip was.  I was chuffed with the results – 12.5 kilos in a not-even-full bright yellow Kipling bag.  That’s right 12.5 kilos including the bag.  Brill, I thought as I checked in.  How long did you say you were going for the check-in woman said.  Eight weeks I said, proudly, oblivious to the disbelieving, nay, suspicious look on her face.

Later, as I presented my boarding card, I was taken to one side by a couple of men with stern expressions.  Special Branch?  Who knows, something similar anyway.  Having Belfast as my place of birth probably didn’t help but I was a bit, as my mother would NEVER have said, affronted.  It’s taken me years of practice as well as a week of assiduous mixing and matching to get to this point I protested.  Plus a much-travelled husband with his 7-day rule.  In the end, they laughed and let me go.

The bag weighed a lot more coming back.

Packing for Paris always does my head in – or it used to until I caught myself on.  It’s Paris, for God’s sake Patricia, you haven’t a hope; it’s full of Parisians, elegant, stylish creatures since they emerged from the womb – or wherever babies come from these days; you’ll never be mistaken for a French person, let alone a Parisian woman of lots more than a certain age, so STOP WORRYING!  Phew.  Great pep talk.  I can relax and pack the waterproofs and the bobbly purple fleece from the 2011 Solheim Cup.

It’ll be chilly in the mornings, though Mo tells me it’ll be warm for the match days next weekend, with no rain forecast.  Huh.  I’ll believe that when the first of October comes and my waterproofs are packed away dry – apart from the odd damp patch from Europe’s celebratory champagne spray!!? – ready for the flight home.

The last two home Ryder Cups I was at I lived in my waterproofs.  To my horror, I realised they were way back in 2006 and 2010.  The K Club was wet, wet, wet, not just from torrential rain but awash with tears as everyone tried to cope with the death of Heather Clarke, Darren’s wife, far too young, from cancer.

Funnily enough, I scarcely remember the rain and mud, though I know that the waterproofs – bright red (well Woosie, claimed by Wales, was the captain) – went on first thing in the morning and didn’t come off until we got home at night.  Every day.  It was much the same at Celtic Manor four years later when my very expensive Dubarry boots proved themselves worth every penny within 24 hours.  Trainers and anything ankle length were liable to be sucked off into the mud, so knee high was the way to go.  Mo wore the Dubarrys at Gleneagles and I’m thinking I might need them in Paris, fair forecast or not.  Cost per wearing after all these years of service?  Minuscule.  Let’s hope Europe don’t need bad weather to win.

There was torrential rain here today, with our friendly match against Sutton Coldfield cancelled, the course flooding and the American Circus big top in Beacon Park, near me, being battered by audience-deterring downpours.  It seemed to be sunny at the Portugal Masters in Vilamoura, with players in their shirt sleeves as they enjoyed a low-scoring day on the Dom Pedro Victoria Golf Course.  Sergio, who might not have made my team for the Ryder Cup circus at Le Golf National, had a 66, five under par, three shots behind the leader Lucas Herbert, an Australian.  Thorbjorn Olesen, the Dane who’ll make his Ryder Cup debut next week, started with a 68.  Fingers crossed he and Sergio will be at the top of their game when it really matters….

One woman who was on top form in testing conditions at Crail, in Fife, was Laura Webb (nee Bolton), who’s just won the Women’s Senior Amateur Championship for the second time in three years.  She had rounds of 67 and 73 for a 4 under par total of 140, nine shots ahead of Sale’s Catherine Rawthore.  Webb now plays out of East Berkshire but she grew up at Cairndhu in Larne and also played a lot of her golf at Royal Portrush, so she knows about bad weather.  Well done Laura, class is permanent.

I hate to finish on a sad note and this could not be sadder but I can’t not mention the tragic death of Celia Barquin Arozamena (1996-2018), who was murdered on a golf course not far from the Iowa State University campus where she was finishing her degree in civil engineering.  The Spaniard, who had been named Iowa State’s Female Athlete of the Year, also won the European Ladies’ Amateur Championship in Slovakia in July.  There are plenty of words that come to mind – heartbreaking, sickening, senseless – but at the moment they’re all inadequate.  Love and hugs to Celia’s family and friends.

 

I’ll leave the last word to Meg Mallon, former US Women’s Open champion, US Solheim Cup captain and one of golf’s great people, who posted this tweet

 

Our condolences go to the O’Connor family who have lost the two Christys, Senior and Junior, in the space of a few months this year.  Let’s hope the big holes in their lives will be made less gaping by the love and the laughter and the mountain of memories.

 

Christy O’Connor,  the original and the best, the king of Knocknacarra, Himself to all and sundry, was one of those natural golfers whose swing was all his own but had been honed by hour upon day upon week upon year of practice.  It was not an accident of birth, he did not saunter up off the beach in Galway and onto the fairways of the world fully formed.  He worked and worked and worked and the hands bled as he unravelled the intricacies of shotmaking and scoring.

The result was a swing and game admired far and wide by the great and the good of the game, from John Jacobs, the renowned teacher to Peter Alliss, a devoted friend and admirer, to Jack Nicklaus.  There were few golfing sages who were not in awe of the O’Connor rhythm and his shot-making skills were the stuff of legend, all the better for being mostly true:  drivers off muddy fairways, 4-woods from the boondocks, beautiful wedges from iffy lies, he had done it all long before Seve, another man with magic in his hands, was a twinkle in any eye.

And Christy kept doing it, well into his 60s and even beyond.  On the practice ground at Royal Dublin, before a seniors’ tournament, Tommy Horton, who won more than his fair share, watched enthralled as O’Connor warmed up.  “He is still a magician,” Horton said.  “Every young pro should go out and watch him.”

One young pro who learned more than most, sometimes the hard way, was Christy’s nephew, Christy Junior.  The celebrated uncle was a hard taskmaster, very hot on discipline but with his help and encouragement Junior and his brothers Sean and Frank learned to make their own way and have their own successes in the game.

Senior played in ten Ryder Cup matches and Junior had his moment of glory at The Belfry in 1989 when he hit that 2-iron at the last.  Senior, whose praise was hard won, told Junior before the match:  “You’re playing fantastic.  You’re hitting the ball magnificently.  Swing the golf club.”  Suitably inspired, Junior did just that and afterwards Senior, impressed and proud, said:  “My God, I can’t believe you made such a full follow through on that shot!”

At a more prosaic, personal level, Himself had time for the most lowly players.  In 2013, when I was ladies’ captain at Whittington Heath in Staffordshire, a group of us had a stayaway in Ireland, playing at The Heath and Royal Dublin, fiefdom of Himself.  On a suitably bright, breezy links day, we battled to the turn, where we were taken aback to see a lone man on the 10th tee.  It was the legend himself, still hitting balls but also keen to chat and check that all was well and we were enjoying ourselves.  He posed for photos, acknowledged that he should have won an Open or two and gave us advice on how to play the back nine.  We did our feeble best but for me at least the day was made.

 

[Books used:  Himself, compiled by Seamus Smith; Christy O’Connor his autobiography as told to John Redmond; John Jacobs’ Impact On Golf, by Laddie Lucas.]