It’s hard to know where to begin this week but I’ll start at the top, with Trish Johnson, still competing fiercely in her 50s and winner of the inaugural Senior LPGA Championship at French Lick in Indiana.  It’s a tough Pete Dye course and Trish led from start to finish after an opening round of 67, five under par, in tough conditions.  Only she and Michele Redman, who finished second after the 54 holes, were under par at the end, with TJ on 212, four under, three strokes clear.

First prize was $90,000, which is not to be sneezed at.  “It feels fantastic, this is the reason you play golf,” Trish said as she clutched the trophy, proving that true competitors never die until they stop holing putts.  Laura Davies, as excitingly erratic as ever, shared third place, recovering from a 1st round of 79 with a 3rd round of 68.  Alongside her were Helen Alfredsson and Wendy Doolan.  Liselotte Neumann was also up there, in sixth place..

Davies was the first Englishwoman and European professional (see Lacoste, Catherine, amateur, for an earlier, equally stunning champion) to win the US Women’s Open, in 1987, followed by Neumann, the darling of Sweden, in 1988.  The incomparable Alfie really should have won the title at Crooked Stick in 1993 and what they all showed us was that Europeans could be not just good but world class.  It was probably the beginning of the end of the American dominance of women’s golf because the rest of the world began to believe in herself.  The Americans were still good but Annika Sorenstam arrived; and Se Ri Pak; and Karrie Webb; and so it goes on.

Lorena Ochoa, Inbee Park, Suzann Pettersen, Yani Tseng, Shanshan Feng, Lydia Ko and Ariya Jutanugarn are just some of those girls who’ve grown up to show that golf, much maligned and mocked and, apparently, on its last legs, is a global game.  The LET, reportedly in its death throes yet again, may be limping along but a few days ago the tour hit the headlines when a 14-year old Thai schoolgirl called Atthaya Thitikul won the intriguingly titled Ladies European Thailand Championship, to smash Ko’s youngest-ever-winner label.  (The New Zealander was 15 plus when she won her first LET event.)  I’m not a big fan of prodigies – feels a bit creepy at times, to be feting tots just because they’ve qualified for a golf tournament; I keep my fingers crossed, reserve judgement and hope that they’ll mature into vaguely functioning adults.

One of the best examples of how to do it is Nancy Lopez, who is now 60, a grandmother (gasp) and recently married again, to Ed Russell, a long-time golfing buddy.   Not long ago I mentioned her in glowing terms and was horrified when the person I was talking to looked at me blankly (not unusual) and asked, “Who’s Nancy Lopez?” (gobsmacking).  Where to start?   There have been better golfers – not many better people – but she’s on a par with the late, great Arnold Palmer when it comes to charisma and the effect she had on her sport.  It’s also a bit alarming to realise that it’s 20 years since one of my all-time favourite moments in golf, when Nancy, darling of the home crowd at Pumpkin Ridge in Oregon, failed yet again to win the US Women’s Open title she craved.

Sounds cruel, doesn’t it?  To be glad that Nancy, one of my all-time favourite people, lost her last chance to realise a lifelong dream.  Like Sam Snead she was never to win her national Open.  I’d have been delighted if Nancy had won because it would have been the stuff of fairy tales.  She was cheered on by a huge, supportive, emotional crowd on the final Sunday but she came up against an implacable opponent who had her day of days and produced a performance  that matched the major championship heroics of Jacklin, Faldo, Ballesteros, Woosnam, Langer, Olazabal, Rose, McIlroy, any US-major-winning European you care to mention.

Alison Nicholas, known as Big Al because she was, at most, 5-foot tall, was born in Gibraltar, brought up in Yorkshire and lived in Birmingham (West Midlands).  She was a mainstay of Europe’s Solheim Cup team and by 1997 was a tough, experienced competitor who remained calm in the middle of the mayhem and held Lopez at bay.  The American, three shots behind after three rounds, had three birdies in the first four holes and made up no ground.  Nicholas had a birdie and pitched in for an eagle three at the 4th.  Game on.  As the round wore on, I ditched my neutrality and admitted that I really, really wanted Al to win.  Nancy’s status as a legend was already assured but this was Al’s big moment and she proved up to it, taking home a trophy that was nearly as big as she was.

This week the US Women’s Open Championship is at the Trump National course at Bedminster in New Jersey and the golf has already been overshadowed by talk of the potential presence of the POTUS.  He’s expected to hotfoot it from France, where he’s been doing a bit of state visiting, so keep an eye on Twitter for the latest score on the presidential front.  You may have to dig deeper for details of the golf but give it a go:  try the USGA, LPGA and Golf Channel websites.

Finally, and on a different level altogether, I’d like to remember Louise Solheim, who has died at the age of 99.  Wife of Karsten, inventor of the Ping putter, Louise was the Solheim family’s rock, a wonderful woman, kind, astute, quietly formidable and beloved by all who knew her.

For the second week in a row I feel completely redundant.  Maureen had, as usual, got her blog in first, I read it and thought: can’t do better than that, she’s said all I wanted to say, with passion, panache and photos.  Time to put the wine away and go to bed.

None of us has ever seen Portstewart the way it is this week.  No cars on the beach for a start, unheard of in the summer but a real bonus for the photographers, with the sand at its most pristine.  You have to drive past the golf club to get to the beach and this week, with the European Tour at its biggest and best in town, you probably have to be Rory McIlroy to drive onto the sand – or a policeman on a quad bike.  I’d have taken a photo but he’d zoomed off before I could press the requisite buttons.  Too slow on the uptake as usual, which is not such a problem for us scribblers who can arrive late on the scene and still catch up.

Mind you, it’s still nice to be on the scene, if only to try and puzzle out later what on earth was happening before your very eyes.  I tootled round the first nine after a leisurely breakfast of seafood chowder and wheaten bread by the world’s best 1st tee and realised again just how beautiful the place is.  Did we really grow up here?  How lucky were we?  Aren’t all golf courses like this?  And Portrush?  And Castlerock?  The short answer is no.  Not only are our home courses some of the best in Ireland, they’re some of the best in the whole wide world.  So why shouldn’t Justin Rose, the Olympic champion, be striding down the hill at the 1st?  Or Hideki Matsuyama, who must surely become the first Japanese to win a major and open the floodgates?  Or the latest explosive Spanish talent that is Jon Rahm?

Chema, Jose Maria Olazabal, twice Masters champion, one of my favourites, is here and I’m ridiculously delighted to think of him, the man from Fuenterrabia, at Portstewart.  Wee places that can launch people out in to the wider world.  The place is littered with them this week:  wee boys – and girls – who had big dreams and discovered they really could take on the world.  Some go on on to believe their own publicity and think they’re better than they are but a goodly number remain grounded and, mostly, level-headed whatever the adulation  and remember that they’re human.  They’re the ones who are loved and respected, faults, foibles and all.

“Rory’s a bit grumpy this week,” someone who failed to get an autograph said, before adding, “Beef has time for everyone.”  Yeah, but.  Beef (sometimes aka Andrew Johnston) is not hosting the event on his (more or less give or take a few miles) home turf, trying to be all-singing, all-dancing, all-things-to-all-men-and women as well as all-swinging.  He only has to concentrate on his golf – and selfies with one and all, including fellow beardies.  Rory, the defending Irish Open champion, is donating his prize money this week to the Rory Foundation and he’d really rather like to make the cut.  As it is, he’s lightly golfed this season and his practice time is limited by the nature of the week. Even for a young, fit human dynamo, something’s got to give and if he had any sense, he should just check out Mo’s “Drive Up, Drive Off Sandra” tip and forget about the practice ground altogether, though that goes against the professional grain.

Of course, he could also read Be A Player, Pia Nilsson and Lynn Marriott’s latest book, as insightful, thought-provoking and full of good sense as ever.  Or, even quicker, he could talk to Jude O’Reilly, Ireland’s answer to Pia and Lynn.  If you’ve dug enough dirt and made the hands bleed enough, making the mind work better is the final frontier.

Mention of the mind brings me to Padraig Harrington, who has his own unique way of thinking and is warming up for Birkdale, where he won the Open so magnificently in 2008.  I was on the spot yesterday when Padraig launched his drive at the 7th (his 16th) well left into thick, tangly, inhospitable rough.  He took a drop, hammered his recovery well up the fairway and narrowly missed his putt.  Wonder what that added up to, I thought.  Nothing more than a par 5 according to the scoreboard.  Huh?

I bumped into Caroline Harrington at the next hole and she explained that it was a free drop because the ball was plugged.  Not only that but the spectators, being helpful, had picked up the ball to identify it and then diligently stuffed it back into the rubbish to try and ensure that it was lying as it had been.  So there is such a thing as the luck of the Irish!  And nothing like being there to see it.

 

 

 

 

Ok, I admit it: I HATE dress codes. That’s not to say that I, a natural scruff who has learned to scrub up well enough if the occasion demands, disapprove of all dress codes but when it comes to golf and dress codes, my blood starts to boil. I love this game but sometimes the people who play it do it – and themselves – no favours.

The last time my club revised the “dress standards” I was on the sub-committee but my influence was minimal after I suggested that we abolish the dress code for a year and wait for the sky to fall in….No one else was willing to take the risk, preferring instead to devote a large chunk (that nearly came out as junk!) of their time to devising an up-to-date list (denim allowed but no stonewashed or torn jeans, no matter how expensive the label or how stylish the wearer) that is long, comprehensive and, frankly, smacks of control-freakery.

 

It’s probably preferable that most of us wear clothes on the course but, honestly, what is it with all this micro-managing?  This obsession with the minutiae of socks (length, colour), collars (more or less the sine qua non if you wish to play golf at most clubs), flip-flops (not plastic or rubber, so vegans beware), shorts (tailored, not baggy, sports or beach).  All men must wear their shirts tucked in – a hard ask for a lot of them, especially in the heatwave conditions the other week – and of course the shirts must have sleeves.  Women are permitted to wear shirts outside their waistband only if said shirt was designed to be worn in that manner and we are allowed to go sleeveless, even if our upper arms have given up the unequal struggle against gravity.

One must, I suppose, be grateful for small mercies.

Like Maureen, who gets even hotter under the (apparently obligatory) collar on this subject than I do, I think that the only thing that really matters is that people behave civilly on the golf course and in the clubhouse.  And that has very little to do with what someone is wearing or how many tattoos they have.  I’d replace the pompous, long-winded dress code notices with large-print notices quoting the etiquette section from the Rules of Golf.  Adhere to those, repair pitch marks, rake the bunkers – and leave the rakes somewhere sensible, NOT plonk in front of the bunkers whatever you do –  and show a bit more courtesy to your fellow golfers instead of wasting your time finding fault with the attire of others.  Celebrate diversity in golf instead of insisting on your own version of uniformity.  Park your preconceptions and prepare to be pleasantly surprised.

When I was ladies’ captain (they were desperate), I toyed with the idea of having a “bring your goth grandchild to golf day” but we couldn’t round up enough goths to make a go of it.  I’m sorry about that.  And I’m sorry I couldn’t invite the two lads who played behind Dai and me in Tahiti.  Dai was in his shorts (tailored), long socks (admittedly sensible, for the protection of pale calves) and collared shirt (don’t believe he owned a tee shirt).  Behind us were two good-looking lads giving this game of golf a go, hitting the ball miles, not necessarily in the right direction.  They were wearing singlets, shorts (beach variety) and flip-flops and they looked more at home than we did.

Dai and some of his mates were once thrown off the course at Boldmere (a Birmingham muni) because one of them was wearing wellies – it was very wet – and the pro objected to this desecration of his sacred turf.  Actually, what he really objected to was the racket they made on the 1st tee when the wellie wearer, later our man in Venezuela (or somewhere South American) but no golfer, took his opening swipe and the ball, following a hitherto unknown golfing trajectory, ended up in one of his wellies.  Collapse – and ultimate dismissal – of all parties.

I have friends – including at least one late-to-golf brother-in-law – who couldn’t disagree with me more on this subject – and will no doubt be appalled that the speaker of the House of Commons has just said that it’s no longer essential for MPs to wear ties (women of the House rejoice).  A sign of standards slipping (order, order) or just a recognition of changing times?

There’s nothing welcoming or encouraging about the Talibanesque “no this, no that, no the other” approach of the typical golf dress code and who’s the real loser if a family coming home from a day out – or the supermarket – keeps on driving past the golf club because they’re wearing jeans, trainers and tee shirts?

 

 

I was going to boast about my active day yesterday (cycling to the golf club early doors, 10,000 steps by 10 a.m. followed by tai chi and more pedalling) – but I’m too exhausted.  And it would be shameful when there are two people who gave me – and everyone else at Whittington Heath – the runaround.  Mike Raj, our head professional and Dan Whitby-Smith, one of his talented assistants, were busy setting a new Guinness world record for the most holes played in 12 hours.  It’s subject to ratification but Dan and Mike played 320 holes – playing foursomes, in buggies, holing out every time – to overtake the old record of 290, set at West Kent GC last year.

As they do every year, the boys had devised a fiendish, physical challenge to raise money for the captains’ charity and this year it’s Acorns Children’s Hospice that’ll benefit from their exertions.  They started at 0730 and finished at 1930, dusty and weary but triumphant.  They’ll be sore today – and so’ll their drivers – because Whittington is all subtle humps and hollows, not ideal buggy terrain, more of a rodeo ride than a smooth tarmacademed trip.  Fortunately, it was the day after the longest day that was also the hottest since 1976 (or whenever), so no one was going to collapse with heat exhaustion or dehydration and we ageing, ball-spotting foot soldiers could cope without water-soaked hats. sunbrellas and, for a while, breakfast.

It was just as well the temperature was kind because there was a lot of scuttling about as the main protagonists hurtled round.  “They passed us five times,” one member said.  “In the time it took us to play nine holes they played 36!  Amazing.”  One buggy gave up the ghost altogether; there was a flat tyre; a tight hamstring; three rounds of the almost 18 played were in the 60s; there were consecutive 2s at the 14th, where Dan holed out with a 9-iron for an eagle and the par 3 15th, where Mike holed from 12 feet for the 2.  It was a magnificent effort.  And it should raise a lot of money.

In fact, it’ll have to raise a lot of money because according to Sarah Vowron, Acorns community fundraiser, it costs £850 to provide specialist palliative care for a child for 24 hours and £7,000 a day to run a hospice with 10 beds.  Expensive but a little bit less than the billions it’ll take to build HS2, the high speed railway line which is moving ever closer to cutting a swathe through our precious piece of Staffordshire heathland.  But I digress.

The day belonged to Mike and Dan and if you’d like to donate anything, you can go to the Acorns Children’s Hospice Trust page on justgiving.com.