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.

 

 

 

Once upon a time the World Amateur Team Championships were big news in the global amateur golf world so I was shocked to learn they almost tiptoed past me unnoticed in the last couple of weeks.  Unfortunately, nowadays lack of coverage tends to be the lot of most golf tournaments that don’t reward the players with wheelbarrow-loads of cash.

The women and men play in successive weeks over the same venue.  This year France were the hosts and utilised two courses for the championships – Le Golf National (2018 venue for the Ryder Cup) and Golf de St Nom-la-Breteche, both in tip-top condition.  Teams of three play 72 holes of strokeplay with the best two scores counting each day.

Massive congrats must go to the Italian men’s team for winning the Eisenhower Trophy for the first time in their history – in fact it was the first time they’d had any kind of a podium finish and last week they came top out of 60 teams, edging the Swedes by a shot and consigning multiple winners, the United States, to the bronze medal position.  The best of the four home countries was a highly creditable tied eighth place for Wales.

In the women’s battle for the Espirito Santo Trophy Sweden prevailed (see pic at the top) with the USA second and Germany third.  The best showing by one of the four home countries was tied seventh for Scotland.

Back in my day, England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales made up one team, Great Britain and Ireland.  I did make the team on one occasion and had the unforgettable thrill of playing Pinehurst No 2 in North Carolina.  Patricia was there covering the men’s and women’s tournaments for Golf World magazine and, if I recall rightly, it was one of her first, if not THE first-ever golf writing assignment.  I’m not sure we gave her too much to write home about that year but nothing daunted, she stayed on for the Eisenhower Trophy the following week, meeting both her future husband and best man.  It’d be interesting to look back at her reports from that week to see if she’d been inspired or, more likely, was lacking in concentration!

There’s no doubt the Italian success reflects a quickening of the golfing heartbeat in that country, which is surely only set to continue as we begin the lead up to the Ryder Cup in Rome in twelve months’ time.

I see the European captain Luke Donald has reinstated a GB&I versus Europe team matchplay event, namely The Hero Cup, to be played in Abu Dhabi in January.  Reminiscent of the Seve Trophy, this contest will feature ten players a side with all ten playing in each of three sessions of foursomes, fourballs and singles.  It’s great to give players the opportunity to tee it up, knowing they are on the radar of the captain and it will be invaluable for Donald and his assistants, who this year will have the luxury (or is that headache?) of six picks.  It’ll certainly be a very different-looking European team with Sergio, Casey, Poulter and Westwood almost guaranteed not to feature.

Changing tack completely, we have a new member of the family, whom we have also called Donald.  No, not a nice, bouncing, friendly dog that requires lots of walking.  This Donald is not quite so welcome, being some sort of semi-tropical amoebic parasite discovered in my blood about a month ago, although goodness knows how long he’s been there, lying dormant, waiting to be triggered by Covid.  Well, if you have the kitchen sink thrown at you, post Covid, at my age, they’re bound to come up with something!  It’s apparently not possible to catch Donald in this country but it is in some parts of the United States, so that seems to be where I met my unwelcome friend.  The fact that he is likely American, extremely unpleasant and pretty difficult to get rid of all contributed to his naming.

It’s odds-on now that I’ll see this year out without playing a single hole of golf and that set me thinking as to what I might do or what hobby I could take up if my playing days are, indeed, over.  I don’t have to look too far to see what friends and some colleagues from earlier tour days have done.

One has become a real cycling aficionado, filling Facebook with wonderful pictures of 80 – 100 mile daily rides in the most stunning scenery.  Not sure I could ever get my behind into the sort of shape that would tolerate sitting on those razor-like saddles for that length of time.  Another has taken to the hills, rambling and learning about the countryside while others have taken to painting, sculpture and all sorts of tasks that require dexterous skills with the hands – skills which I definitely do not possess.  One famous friend has become a wonderful photographer and, as most of you know, we feature her pictures regularly.

Please do flood me with ideas and recommendations.  I really would welcome your input but don’t suggest gardening – not user-friendly for my creaky back,  What would YOU do if you stopped playing?  And would you/have you missed golf?

I’ll leave you with a little test.  Here’s a photo of two great pals of mine, both of whom played International representative golf.  They are both still playing golf, but tennis is a great love of both of them.  Here they are playing at Wimbledon the other week – can you identify them?  And which country/countries did they represent?  Answers will be provided next week.

There is obviously so much more to enjoying life than playing golf and honing in on a complete year without playing I’m beginning to understand exactly what one pal said to me some years back – it’s a very easy game not to play.  There’s something inside me, though, that says I shouldn’t give in without a bit more of a fight.

Thoughts?

 

 

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.