There’s something very soothing about lying in bed with Petrochemical (the machine, not being Cornish, couldn’t cope with Petroc) Trelawny on a rainy morning, listening to radio 3 and being educated.  For instance, when Alice Roberts announced that she was going to marry Edward Elgar, a musician, unknown, penniless, eight years her junior and a Catholic, her parents threatened to disinherit her.  Dear reader, she married him.  And they cut her off.  Good on you, Alice.

Fortunately, not all of Elgar’s success was posthumous and he was knighted in 1904, well before Alice died and later became Master of the King’s Musick.  His wife was his business manager, social secretary, tireless promoter, perceptive critic and manager of moods.  In her diary, Alice wrote:  “The care of a genius is enough of a life for any woman.”

After her death, Elgar allowed himself “to be deflected from composition” (many thanks to Wikipedia for the phrase and a lot of the info).  His daughter Carice noted that he was reluctant “to settle down to work on hand but could cheerfully spend hours over perfectly unnecessary and entirely unremunerative undertaking.”  Never has this plodding, not-quite-tone-death blogger felt closer to a musical genius…

The trouble is that this blog is an indulgence – a bit like professional tournament golf – and is of no use whatsoever to man nor beast unless it entertains and, every now and again, informs or intrigues its audience.  At least, in the blog’s defence, it’s usually difficult for the reader to anticipate what’s coming next, which blind alley we’ll all be meandering down to no end whatsoever.

It could be, if you’re watching the early stages of the Cazoo Open de France with fellow golf tragics, a chat about the origins of the term “dormie” (or, perhaps, dormy) – and its subsequent demise for no good reason that a quorum of experienced (old?  Us?  Not yet!) swingers could ascertain.  And while we’re at it, we don’t like tying replacing halving; score becoming status; and as for making a claim instead of asking for a ruling. PUH-LEEEZE (or similar).  [Decided against a wheen of quotation marks for aesthetic reasons – ed (not Elgar).]

The last time I was at The Northumberland Golf Club was for Commonwealth Tournament, consigned to the dim and distant, so long ago that no one I spoke to remembered it!  Turns out it was indeed more than 30 years ago, in 1991 and GB won what is now the Astor Trophy.  The team was Elaine Farquharson, Linzi Fletcher, Julie Hall, Catriona Lambert and Vicki Thomas and if I had to hazard a guess (no reference books immediately to hand and brain fog setting in), I’d say the captain was the quietly formidable Liz Boatman, who hid her competitiveness in a velvet glove.  The following year, at Hoylake, she led GB and I to victory in the Curtis Cup.  Happy days.

This week, Catriona, long since Mrs Matthew and an honour-strewn professional (Solheim Cup and the Women’s British Open), is playing in the resurrected Women’s Irish Open (KPMG are the title sponsors) at Dromoland Castle Golf and Country Club in county Clare, not that far from Ennis, Shannon and Limerick.  Looking it up on t’internet, I spotted Spiddal, county Galway, where Maureen’s and my maternal grandmother was born.  I feel a trip coming on.

Catriona won the last Women’s Irish Open, at Killeen Castle, in 2012, so she’s defending her title.  “It’s lovely to be back in Ireland,” she said, “I’ve got some great memories playing here.”  The Scot, distinguished though she is, recognises that she is not the big attraction, with Leona Maguire the main draw.

“It’s fantastic for the event having Leona playing after her Solheim Cup debut last year [unbeaten as Europe, captained by Matthew, inspired by Maguire, won in Toledo, Ohio] and then winning on the LPGA Tour this year.  She’s the star player here this week and the one everyone wants to come out and watch.  It’ll be fun playing with her….though I don’t know if I want to be in a marquee group myself with my golf as it is…”

It’s always instructive to watch a consummate professional at work, whatever state their game is in and Matthew, a quiet, private soul by nature, remains a shining example and inspiration for many a European golfer, an example of what a player can achieve when talent is allied to dedication and determination.  Golf is mostly a game of grit, not glamour and it’s as well to realise that early on.

This week I’m staying with what many would have us believe is an increasingly rare being:  a devotee of the European (DP World) Tour.  She even relishes the first two days before the cut and her knowledge of the players is little short of encyclopaedic, shaming me for my lack of devotion.  So I laughed out loud when I read this in, I think, Golfweek’s daily bulletin:  “The focus of the golf world is squarely on Quail Hollow Club in Charlotte, North Carolina, as the 2022 Presidents Cup gets under way…..”

Not here in the north east it isn’t.  And as Jordan Spieth, one of my favourites I have to admit, teed off, employing a bit of body Texan as his opening drive sailed off towards a hospitality unit, we shifted our focus squarely to the LET in Ireland.

Europe rules OK

To brighten up a dank old day and apropos of nothing very much, except to cheer us up, here’s a glorious photo from Brian and Maureen’s niece Emma, who was in Noosa in Queensland.  No more words needed.

I’m not much of a monarchist and my republican (small ‘r”) friend pours scorn on all notions that the royal family beats a president into – what?  A cocked hat?  A diamond-encrusted crown?  She’s even reluctant to concede that Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II was a boon, doing a brilliant job – perhaps not faultless but brilliant nonetheless – for 70 years.  And she got better as she aged, more sure-footed and publicly funnier – beat Bond and Paddington if you can.  There’s a lot to be said for stability – and a sense of humour.

On Sunday, friends and I queued at Lichfield Cathedral to sign the Book of Condolence and become a minute part of history.  The pages will be bound into a Staffordshire volume – or volumes – and “will be retained in the Staffordshire Archives as a record of Staffordshire’s collective respect for Her Late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II”.  I just wrote “Thank you” but made sure I included my maiden name and home town of Portstewart as well as my married name and current home town (sorry, city – it’s a cathedral thing) of Lichfield.  Think I had in mind far-distant episodes of “Who Do You Think You Are?”  And the pen was fine, no ink flying everywhere, no excuses for my poor plebby signature; although at least it was more than an ‘X’ marking the spot.

After signing and ensuring that the young woman struggling to juggle a photo of the Queen, a wee Paddington and a lighted candle in her left hand as she attempted to take a photo with her phone in her right hand had not burned down the cathedral, we repaired for a coffee and a cuppa  before the next ceremonial.

That was the proclamation of the accession of Charles III, with various local dignitaries, clergy and most importantly the town crier and quite a few citizens in attendance.  There were introductions, including a misplaced mention of the late Queen when it was time for the King  but that was inevitable after decades of nothing else; she’s engrained.  Then the crier, at his most mellifluous and voluble, did his stuff, the assembled multitude sang “God Save The King”, gave three cheers and that was that.

It felt historic, not least because Lichfield is one of the earliest centres of Christian worship in the UK, dating from 700 AD.  There have been a few lumps, bumps and destructions since then and the place was besieged three times in the Civil War.  The cathedral is famous for its three spires, known locally, apparently, as the “Ladies of the Vale” and is pretty impressive, even though Matthew Engels and Simon Jenkins have called it second-rate (I think they might even have relegated it to third…).  St Chad must be turning in his proverbial.

Given my recent experience of trains and their lack of reliability, there’s no way that I was going to be tempted to head to London (or Edinburgh) to join a queue and am content to be impressed by the endless pageantry on the telly.  I have to confess it also persuaded me to renew my NOW tv sports subscription, just for a change of pace.

Friends are always asking me what I’ve been up to, how I’m passing my time and I shrug, not quite knowing how the days rattle past so quickly.  There’s football; motorway exploring; golf; tai chi; singing; lunch with friends; bridge; blood doning; worrying about all the important things I should be doing and am not (insulating the attic, fixing the bifolds, the front door); cooking (well, cobbling together something to eat); shopping for veg; sending birthday cards or greetings…

I’m always writing lists, then forgetting to look at them or losing them, so to find a list that was completed, eventually, over a period of several days, possibly weeks, was a triumph.  I cheered – and took a photo.  It’s a better result than Spurs managed in Lisbon on Tuesday.

I see I have walking on my list of things to do and that’s in addition to tramping around the golf course, a very long way these days, thanks to HS2-enforced changes.  Nice to know the government continues to waste billions on a white elephant that’s going, if not nowhere, then not very far.  And I see La Truss is giving the thumbs up to fracking, putting goodness knows how many fingers up to the world’s eco warriors and advocates of gentler forms of renewable energy.  Her conversations with Charles III should be interesting.

Dogs, I forgot to mention dogs but I’m being trained up by the dog walkers and every bag I own, every pocket of every garment, every receptacle is now stuffed with poo bags, mostly not very bio-degradable because they’re the cheapo rolls from Wilko but a vital bit of kit nonetheless; I even came to the rescue of a young woman with two dachshunds who was scrabbling frantically with a couple of tissues; goodness me was my halo glinting in the evening sunshine….

My latest house guest was Barney (no pic because he’s sensitive about his image rights and wouldn’t stay still enough to show his best side), whose owners were taking part in the Great North Run and he and I looked for them in vain on the telly.  Turns out they started after the coverage finished but they completed the course in very respectable times and Barney and I were proud as punch.  Well done Sophy and Liz.

 

 

 

My friends shake their heads in disbelief, unable to comprehend why on earth I don’t just watch it on the telly (or, if truth be told, why I bother with it at all); whatever the subscriptions necessary, it’d be a heckuva lot cheaper and less stressful than schlepping up and down to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium by a variety of routes and modes of transport to watch the mighty Spurs attempt to live up to the long-gone Glory Glory days.

Like all football fans I live in hope – although I have a suspicion that I’d be derided as a wimpish non-fan because I don’t really hate Arsenall (it IS great when they lose) and I’m still baffled as to why we and West Ham are bitter, bitter enemies.  The other day an Arsenal fan told me that not so long ago several Spurs fans hurried to speak to him, feeling safer there than anywhere near the Hammers’ fans who were in the vicinity at the time…

And, I have to confess, I go to games wearing very boring, neutral gear and with my Spurs clear plastic duffle bag (a pretty naff bit of kit admittedly) in a TK Maxx bag that has seen better days.  I’ve yet to find a Nike-free Tottenham top that fits, so that’s another excuse.  It’s a bit sad that I feel it’s safer to go incognito, I’d never dream of doing that going to a rugby match; which reminds me, must check that my current Ireland shirt fits.  At least I know where the hat is and it’ll certainly fit; quite a lot of me is getting bigger but not my head – must be learning sense and perhaps perspective and I still have no idea about punctuation, so there are enough gaps to keep one humble…

For a variety of reasons – Commonwealth Games, dog-battered knee – my first home match of the season was to be Fulham last Saturday, at three o’clock, very old-fashioned, very traditional.  I decided to drive because I was playing golf in Essex on Monday morning and thought I’d stay down, perhaps catch up with friends, that sort of thing.  I had a plan:  drive to Cheshunt and catch the overground train to White Hart Lane station, hard by the ground.

It didn’t work.

At all.

Instead of cheering my boys on to a hard-fought 2-1 win, I spent the day testing the motorway system (and my patience) to its limits and improving my geography no end but too late to help me reach N17 in time (no satnav, just an old-fashioned map to counteract a sense of direction best described as dodgy).

It went wrong from the start.  There was a big hold up on the M42 south and, really, that was that.  There’d been a nasty accident on the northbound carriageway that had damaged the central reservation, hence the crawl southbound.  I stopped moaning and groaning and cursing the moment I passed the mangled wreckage.  Missing the kick-off or even the whole match seemed unimportant:  there were people having a much worse day.

The M40 then started grinding to a halt and I was sure I saw an electronic sign saying M25 100 minutes – it wasn’t that far – so I panicked and whipped off at the adjacent junction.  Next choice:  Aylesbury or High Wycombe; oh no, where the hell is Aylesbury and is HW any use at all in these circumstances?  And there’s a car behind me; left it is and I’m on my way to Aylesbury, which proves to be no blooming use at all.  But at least I have a better idea of where it lies in the scheme of things.

And I got to drive through Princes Risborough for the first time ever and realise why friends have lived there for years – it looked lovely – and was tempted to swerve off to Great Missenden to visit the Roald Dahl Museum.  In desperation I followed the signs to the station in PR but it turned out to be 55 minutes to Marylebone, utterly useless for my needs.

I tacked across some delightful countryside in the vague direction required, thinking I might make the second half but by the time I’d hit the North Circular and yet more jams, I gave up the ghost and ended up in a  very pleasant Spurs-supporting caff in Southgate.

I went home via the M1 and M6, heard we’d won 2-1 and was entertained by a cracking game between Villa and Man City on 5 Live.  Lasagna and red wine with friends as we listened to Proms In The Park restored my equilibrium (too dark for pics) and set me up for the drive to Essex late on Sunday afternoon – M6, A14, M11 this time.  It’s all becoming a bit of a whirly blur or a blurry whirl and I haven’t even started to regale you with Wednesday’s trip (by train) to watch Spurs against Olympique de Marseille in the Champions League.  Beware of taking the last train home – you might never get there; they might just expunge your station (Second City be damned) from the timetable.

Quick, must mention the golf before it’s too late.  The 44th edition of the TCP (not my antiseptic of choice but the Tom Clarke Putter) at Thorndon Park (the very grand building at the top of the piece is behind the 18th green) was a congenial affair with the sort of memorable outcome that befits a classic contest on a classic course.  None of the distinguished journos present – Tom is a former sports editor of The Times and the Daily Mail and still moves in rarefied circles – could have scripted it better.

The winner, with a mind-boggling 47 points off a 24 handicap – on his home course, admittedly – was Jim Caulfield, a Roscommon man long settled in Essex, having a day of days.  He modestly said that he hadn’t played that well for at least 20 years and confirmed that, yes, indeed, it was true that he had celebrated his 88th birthday.

Many happy returns from all us youngsters left floundering in his wake.

 

Phew, it’s that time again, the time when I should be winding down for bed but instead am winding up to write the blog.  At least I have an excuse for this particular late start – I was playing golf!  And at times it was even recognisable as such.  Looking at the card, I can hardly believe my eyes because I had eight of those par things – EIGHT.  And six of them came in the space of seven holes.  Sadly, the shock proved too much, and my partners and I tailed off towards the end but we still more than held our own in the Captains’ Charity Am-Am on a bright and very breezy day.

No wonder most proper golfers go to the gym and flog away on the treadmill or the jogging track, lift weights, do stretches, all that sort of stuff.  Playing good golf is not nearly as knackering as playing bad golf but you have to be fit to keep swinging and concentrating until the last putt drops.  One of the guys behind us hit a majestic second shot to the long, uphill 17th – a 3-wood from 240-odd yards to 10 feet from the pin – and then realised that he’d left his wedge by the 16th green, a heckuva long way away thanks to more high speed diggings.  He legged it back down the hill, across the diggings, retrieved his wedge and puffed his way the 500-plus yards up the hill to his ball.  He missed the eagle putt.

“I hadn’t really done any running for 40 years,” he said when I asked him if he’d got his three.

On reflection, it’s a miracle we amateurs play as well as we do, given our lack of prep.  It was my second 18 in three days and at least it confirmed that the dog-bashed knee had recovered its equilibrium.  We were also an all-female four, playing off the red tees but using the men’s stroke index, plus one courtesy shot.  That makes the last – a par 5 for us normally – a par 4 and a tough reach, especially into the wind.  Oh, for a bit of extra strength and length.

Perhaps I’d better try those Body + Soul exercises in The Times.  Did you see them?  How many press-ups can you do?  (None.)  Stand on one leg for ten seconds.  (Not bad.  Thank goodness for tai chi.)  How many times can you sit and stand from a chair in 30 seconds?  (Tougher than it sounds and a great indoor exercise.)  Get up from sitting on the floor without using your hands.  (No chance.  Getting down to the floor is hard enough.)  How many animals or fruits can you name in 60 seconds?  (A friend just worked her way round Twycross Zoo!)  Walk as far as you can in six minutes.  (Thank goodness for golf.)

I see that not only is the sainted Rory playing in the BMW PGA Championship at Wentworth next week (with a load of LIVers – should be feisty) but he’s also playing in the DS Automobiles Italian Open the following week, at Marco Simone Golf and Country Club.  That’s where the Ryder Cup is being held next year (September 29th – October 1st).  Luke Donald, Europe’s Ryder Cup captain and his vice captains Thomas Bjorn and Edoardo Molinari will be there too, alongside US Open champion Matt Fitzpatrick, the 2018 Open champion Francesco Molinari, Victor Hovland and the Hojgaard twins Nicolai, the defending champion and Rasmus, plus many other Ryder Cup hopefuls.

Donald has six picks in his gift, so he’ll be a popular man for the next few months and his diplomatic skills will undoubtedly be tested to their limits.  The former world No 1 said all the right things when he was first appointed to replace Henrik Stenson when the Swede defected to LIV:  “It is truly one of the greatest honours that can be bestowed upon a golfer, to lead a team of your peers and be an ambassador for an entire continent.  I feel extremely privileged to have been given that responsibility and it is a responsibility I do not take lightly.

“Some of my best experiences in golf have been in the Ryder Cup and I would not swap those for anything.  It is an event like no other and I cannot wait to create more special memories in Italy next year.  I love everything the Ryder Cup embodies, from the camaraderie and companionship of being part of a team, to the history of the contest but most of all playing for something bigger than yourself.

“Rome will be a fantastic host city and I have always enjoyed spending time there.  It is a city rich in history and hopefully we can create some of our own next year.”

Well, let’s hope we’ll all be there cheering a fantastic contest between two talented teams but who knows exactly where men’s professional golf will be by then?  Perhaps the Colosseum could host a contest to end all contests…

On a more joyful note, a belated happy birthday to the legend that is Jill Thornhill, who hit a number last month that she usually avoided on the golf course.