This has been a tiring and emotional week and some of us – not just Rory – are on our knees before the Open’s even got into the second day.  In the run-up to the championship, the first at Portrush for 68 years, in case you’d missed that hiatus, a friend said she hadn’t felt this excited about anything since waiting for Christmas as a child.  So, really, most of us can hardly breathe.

We’re reduced to a one-word answer whenever anyone asks us anything about Open week:  “Unbelievable.”  It’s about all that even the most imaginative and garrulous can come up with.  There’s a lot of head shaking; and an awful lot of smiling inanely.  Is it really happening?  Or are we dreaming?

Well, the dreaming has been done and turned into a reality.  The biggest show in golf really is here.

We got up at 0500 hours to drive to the course, tramp through a muddy car park, queue at security, fretting that we’d be held up too long to make it to the 1st tee in time to watch Darren Clarke, champion golfer of the year in 2011, hit the opening shot at 0635.  He, being the showman that he is, started proceedings with a birdie 3, responding to the audience drawn by the sense of occasion and the desire to be part of history.  The usual handful of R&A early risers and photographers were joined by a standful of people and a long line of fans streaming up the hill towards the green.

Being a golf spectator is not for the faint-hearted and the Dunluce course at Royal Portrush is a workout of epic proportions.  I used to play here a lot but had forgotten just how undulating it is and had to admit wheezingly to myself that my fitness levels are not what they were – or should be.  The two new holes – the 7th and 8th – also played havoc with my sense of where I was (never reliable at the best of times), though you would think that even the mathematically challenged could cope with adding two onto a number…..

There was a brisk enough breeze – Dad wouldn’t even have rated it a zephyr – and some skiffs of rain to keep the players honest and the course showed itself to be every inch the championship test worthy of The Open.  How I ever managed to get round it, even from the forward tees, heaven only knows.  Perhaps I was a demon chipper and putter in those days……

Sitting in the stand at the 18th (which used to be the 16th and was where Maureen lost an Irish final against the mighty Mary McKenna many moons ago), waiting for Darren and co to finish, I thought of Mum and Dad; Zara Bolton, Dorothy Glendinning and all the people who helped and encouraged us juniors; Stevie and his Golf Foundation classes; Max Faulkner, who won the Open here in 1951 and signed my precious programme, shakily, when in his 80s.

I was tired and I was emotional but it was a precious, special moment and Darren recognised it when he raised his putter and turned full circle, saluting us all.

For many of us, this is a week for enjoying the company of friends from all over the world and every corner of Ireland, for going with the flow, ripping up the timetable and watching the golf that appeals most without the tyranny of deadlines and meticulous research.  Maureen may have opted for a work-free major but she hasn’t neglected the blog and has done a tip which will appear as soon as I can work out why it’s decided to be uncooperative and make itself unavailable.  Normal service will resume as soon as possible.

The photo stream is undiluted, however and I can’t resist sharing some of my favourite snaps.  The montage of the AGW (Association of Golf Writers) dinner was put together by Mary McKenna, who is as talented a photographer as she was a golfer.  I hasten to add that she is not responsible for the photos, they’re all my own work and all the flaws are mine.

There are those who may accuse me of family bias for using the following photograph but it’s a tribute to those brave souls at Portstewart Golf Club who continue to work closely with our cousin John Breadon and to all the unsuspecting spectators subjected to his marshalling on the 1st hole.  John (right) is kept up to scratch by long-suffering son Patrick……

 

 

Finally, it’s always good to promote a good cause, especially one that features a five-time Open champion and a decent pic of the White Rocks with Dunluce Castle just visible in the background.  This year the Open Water initiative is tackling the problem of single-use plastic water bottles by encouraging people to use stainless steel bottles and refill them at water stations around the course.  At a conservative estimate that’ll be 120,000 bottles saved.  All we have to do is remember to keep our reusable bottles with us.  The Open ones are a snip at £4.50 but other bottles are allowed in…..

 

 

It was, as they say over here in Ireland, a gas.

More than 200 of us gathered at Grange Golf Club in Dublin yesterday to play in the inaugural Therese O’Reilly Fourball Trophy and commemorate a woman who died, far too young, nearly 11 years ago.  She was a force of nature, at the centre of every gale of laughter, kind, compassionate, shrewd and a heck of a golfer who gave the ball a lash.

Nee Moran, a member of a formidable sporting clan, Therese had only herself to blame for the nickname ‘Tiny’.  She decided, in her wisdom, that Mary Gorry, a small but formidable fellow member of Grange who represented Leinster and Ireland with great distinction, should be known as ‘Midget’.  The thinking was straightforward:  MG equals MG Midget equals Midget or Midge.

If that’s the case, Mary responded, looking up at her tall and formidable friend, you can be Tiny.  And that was that.

If you’re expecting a coherent account of yesterday’s proceedings, this is the wrong place to look.  This half of the blog, having found its driving licence (but not its passport), is now on Irish time and that means sitting down to write at about two in the morning, having fitted in copious chatting and socialising and catching up with people not seen for far too long.

There was a bit of golf too, partnering the FBG, aka Mary Culliton, nee Governey, a wonderful hostess when Whittington Heath visited The Heath on my ladies’ captain’s stayaway a few years ago.  The Fine Big Girl, thus christened by an admirer in those far-off days before the phrase “politically correct” was invented, hit some fine shots at the end, so we won the money – all of two Euros – from Rita McGoldrick (nee Walsh) and Mairead Browne (nee Mullins).

We were never in danger of winning the trophy and found Grange’s undulating greens a bit beyond our current skill levels.  No wonder Paul McGinley (ne McGinley), one of the club’s many distinguished members, had no trouble holing that putt at The Belfry to win the Ryder Cup.  The greens there were wee buns to a man brought up holing out at Grange.

The FBG and I hit two good shots down the 18th, short of the evil, devilish ditch that protects the green, not a piece of land that looked in need of such extra protection.  Rita and Mairead hit their second shots into the ditch and I then shanked my third, from pretty well position A, into a wall and the ball ricocheted back into position Z+++ ad infinitum.  Seve at his peak would have been tested to the limits of his skill and imagination to hit the green and I gave up the unequal task and played out sideways.  Suffice to say that it was left to my partner to save the day.

Pontificating later, I gave my considered opinion that it would only rarely be worth going for the 18th green with your second shot, the lay-up being the wise, percentage option.  A friend looked puzzled and double-checked that she was thinking of the right hole, the last, right?  Right.  “I hit a drive and an 8-iron,” she said.  “No bother at all.”

Ah.  Well, in my heart I’ve known the truth for a while.  I play a form of the game with which even seniors are not familiar.

My thanks to the indefatigable Sheena McElroy (nee O’Brien-Kenney), who was one of the many people who put a huge amount of time and effort into organising the day, for lending me clubs vastly superior to my own.  And to Mary McKenna, great golfer turned fantastic photographer, for a driver that worked surprisingly well most of the time.  And to everyone for the fun, the laughter and the love.

Finally, congratulations to Ireland, Scotland and England for making it into the top eight at the Women’s European Team Championship in Italy this week and to Shanshan Feng, one of my favourite golfers, for winning the Thornberry Creek LPGA Classic in Wisconsin last Sunday in dramatic style.

I headed off for the home of golf yesterday morning – sans clubs since I’d sworn I’d never take them on a train again and was going to a 90th birthday bash that was being held indoors.  Lichfield was bathed in sunshine and already hot as I walked, laden and a little leaden-footed, to the station.  A taxi might have been the prudent option – not much more than a fiver – but I decided I needed the exercise.  Still, did I really need four pairs of shoes for a two-night trip?

The itinerary gives a snapshot of the country’s current railway system:  Trent Valley to Crewe via West Midlands Trains; Crewe to Preston (Lancs) with Virgin Trains; Preston (Lancs) to Haymarket on the racily-named TransPennine Express; then Haymarket to Leuchars on ScotRail, with no stops in between.  It all worked and I got a seat on every train.

Left Lichfield at 0918, arrived Leuchars at 1425 as billed.  Not only was it chillier in Scotland (no surprise) but it was raining quite heavily at Leuchars as a St Andrews bus pulled away before we had time to reach the bus stop.  Our outrage subsided when we realised that there was indeed some sort of system because another St Andrews bus arrived within minutes.

It’s still a thrill to come in to St Andrews past all the familiar sights and even better when you can haul out the raincoat that you remembered to pack along with the over-optimistic sleeveless linen top and summer skirt.

I’d like to do the eco-friendly thing of travelling by train and boat to Ireland next week for a very special tournament (about which much more in due course) in Dublin the week before the Open at Portrush but it’s more than a tad complicated to sort out and adds days to the journey.  To add to the complications, I have no idea where I’ve hidden my passport and can’t find my driving licence either.

The other day a friend told me that a policeman she knew had advised her not to carry her licence with her because it has the address on it and you’re given 24 hours to produce it if required.  “Good idea,” I said and tucked it away so securely that I now have no idea where that is either……There seems to be a bit of a worrying trend here.

At Crewe, where I was thinking of all the hours Mum and her sisters must have spent waiting there during WWII on their way home on leave, I stretched my aching bones (too many shoes, a bottle of wine for my host, laptop, water bottle, it all weighs you down) and the woman next to me smiled.  “You, too?” she said.  She’d been to the chiropractor the day before and we discussed posture, ears over shoulders, that sort of thing.  She now knows about Esther Gokhale and 8 Steps to a Pain-free Back.

Fewer shoes next trip perhaps but the walking shoes were needed for all the tramping about; the Prada sandals go with the dress; the black dancing shoes don’t go with the dress or the white legs but it’s a Scottish shindig so there’ll be a lot of lepping about on the dance floor; and the flat sandals are for slopping about, hopefully in the sunshine.

There was too much sunshine for me last Saturday in the first round of the club championship.  It was more than 30 degrees, not my sort of weather at all and after a respectable front nine, I limped home – more or less literally – and finished with an inglorious 10 (that included a rather impressive left-handed shot with my sand iron) for a round of 101.  At least I had a birdie 3 at the 6th, which should help the eclectic and one of my playing partners, unaffected by my travails, thank goodness, went on to win the title the next day.

Heaven help my partner at the Grange next week, she’ll have to do all the work.

Finally, more congratulations are in order, to Luton Town stalwarts Holly Kemp and Ben Valentine, who got married last month and are united by many things, not least a love of football.  Perhaps Holly should be taking England’s penalties!

Perhaps it’s an age thing but I’ve lacked what might be called focus this past week.  Admittedly, focus has never been one of my strong points – I blame my mother for my butterfly mind, flitting here, there and everywhere but at the great age of whatever it is I have just become, it’s a bit of a cop-out to keep blaming your parents, no matter what Philip Larkin might have written.

Belatedly perhaps, I looked up “focus” in my trusty Chambers dictionary – one of those old-fashioned book things – and realised that it was never liable to be one of my strengths.  Here’s a sample:  “a fixed point such that the distances of a point on a conic section from it and from the directrix have a constant ratio (geom); a point in which rays converge after reflection or refraction, or from which…they seem to diverge (optics)…….”.  I never knowingly studied optics but I did once get 75 per cent in a geometry exam and I didn’t cheat; it was a fluke of epic proportions, never to be repeated, though I did pass maths O level in the days when it consisted of separate papers in geometry, algebra and arithmetic.

Eventually, hidden in the small print were the words “to concentrate”.  At last.  That’s what I thought I was meaning.

Does being 3 up with 4 to play and losing the 15th, 16th and 17th indicate a lack of concentration or a lack of skill or a doughty opponent playing well?  Or a combination of all three, plus a lack of fitness?  When you’ve been trying to play golf for as long as I have, you know that anything can happen and take nothing for granted.  Six up at the turn?   All over bar the handshake, surely?  No way.   If I can win six holes in such short order, I’m damned sure my opponent can.  And there was one excruciating occasion when he did.

I was playing one of the brothers-in-law at his home course and was 6 up very quickly, playing gratifyingly well, much to my surprise and delight and his horror.  In those days he wasn’t much of a golfer but he was always a competitor and a grafter – still is – and I wasn’t that good, so he clawed all the holes back and might even have gone 1 up.  I tried not to panic but the situation was dire.

If I lost this match, I’d have to give up golf; there was no way I could ever have appeared on a 1st tee anywhere ever again.  The ignominy was beyond imagining.  He was that bad.

I tried a bit of gamesmanship but, though I’d been well trained in the Stephen Potter dark arts, my heart wasn’t in it, not least because my man, versed in the art of coarse rugby, recognised it for what it was and laughed it off.  I was a woman scorned – and increasingly desperate.  He holed an outrageous putt, downhill, for a par 3 at the 17th and I had to hole a nasty, slippery 5-footer across the slope for a half.  Looking back, it might have been the best putt of my life.

And those Ryder and Solheim Cuppers think only they know what real pressure is!

It was getting dark by this time and, praise be, I won the last because he hoicked his third shot well left of the green into a massive hedge and never found the ball.  Face saved.

I tripped over the missing ball as I made my way to the car park but my conscience remained clear because it was so close to the hedge that it was unplayable; even so it was many months before I returned the ball to its owner……

There’s really nothing as nerve-wracking as matchplay.

James Sugrue, from Mallow, county Cork, who has just won the Amateur Championship at Portmarnock, was 5 up after 9 in the 36-hole final against Euan Walker of Kilmarnock Barassie and 3 up after 18.  By the 33rd hole it was all square and Sugrue admitted he was worried.  However, he regained the lead with a par 4 at the 35th and was conceded the last when Walker got into bother.

The Women’s Amateur at Royal County Down was another tense affair, with Emily Toy, from Carlyon Bay in Cornwall, beating Amelia Garvey of New Zealand by one hole.

Good luck to Toy and the rest of the Great Britain and Ireland team who today take on the Continent of Europe in the biennial Vagliano Trophy at Royal St George’s in Kent.   It’s a big ask for Elaine Ratcliffe and her side because the Europeans have won the last six matches and GB and I last won at Chantilly, near Paris, in 2005.

Bonne chance.