“Why on earth are you driving all the way up to Cairnryan?” my friends asked, puzzled beyond belief.  “Shortest sea crossing, ” sez I.  “Herself doesn’t want to be on the water too long at this time of year.  And apparently they put on the slow, old ferries now that the season’s over.”  Trouble is, if you live in England, Cairnryan’s a long way up but we made it in plenty of time for the boat, even with a couple of stops, including one at the Cally Palace, one of Mum and Dad’s favourite hotels, in Gatehouse of Fleet.

Mo and I called in for old times’ sake and the place didn’t seem to have changed a bit.  Staff just as pleasant, grounds just as beautiful, with a golf course that’s well worth a visit.

It had been a bit wet and worryingly windy round about Shap on the drive up but the weather improved the further north we got and, wonder of wonders, the crossing was flat calm.  Even Maureen, far from the world’s best sailor, sat playing patience without feeling ill and was able to drive us off the boat and to our destination (via an annoying diversion that gave us a tour of previously unexplored countryside) without any need to call on the reserve who had been sacked by her advanced driving group at the end of last year.

It was still flat calm when we played Dunluce the next day, perfect conditions for four oldish dolls taking on one of Harry Colt’s masterpieces – don’t forget that Whittington Heath is also a Colt course, less majestic than Royal Portrush perhaps but it has also stood the test of time and is a joy to play.  I digress, as usual but one of the reasons I fell in love with Whittington the first time I played it was because it was fast and hard-running, conditions that reminded me of the links courses I’d grown up on.  Admittedly, Lichfield and Tamworth, distinguished though their history is, are about as far from the sea as you can get but you can’t always have everything.

This week, I, a resident of landlocked Staffordshire, have been getting a life-giving fix of sea air on golf courses that rank with any anywhere in the world.  Yesterday it was the Strand course at Portstewart, the club where Mo and I started the game.  There’s a gala dinner tonight to celebrate the club’s 125th anniversary but busy though they were everybody had time for a chat and it felt as though we’d never been away.

The view from the 1st tee still puts it in the running as one of the most scenic in the world – though the weather was a bit grey and gloomy for it to appear at its most majestic – and the dunes are as massive as ever.  Like Portrush, it’s not a course for the faint-hearted.

All the apps and the forecasts had predicted rain about lunchtime but it swept in for elevenses and a chilly wind didn’t help.  We struggled womanfully to play some canny golf as our hands got colder, our grips wetter and our determination to play 18 holes dwindled to nothing.

Kath Stewart-Moore, whose golfing pedigree is unsurpassed – her father skived off school all week to watch Joyce Wethered win the British at Portrush in 1924 and it would take a whole book to list the extensive achievements of equally extensive S-M clan – parred the 8th and birdied the 9th to square the match, so we took that as a sign to head for the clubhouse.  Time for a Guinness and a toastie or celeriac soup with wheaten bread and a glass of red.

It wasn’t so much the course as the weather that brought us to our knees and when we saw the state of the intrepid souls (or stubborn eejits) who’d played 18 holes, dripping into the lockerroom on the verge of hypothermia, we knew we’d made the right decision.

Another good thing is that I now know that my waterproof trousers are still sound; my waterproof shoes are getting to the stage where the toes are letting in just enough to relegate them to the dry-days-only corner; my water-resistant top can cope with quite a lot of water; thermal underwear is a gift from on high; my bag’s claim to be waterproof is not yet in contravention of the Trades Descriptions Act (is there still such a thing?); and if I will insist on playing golf in the rain, I should stop being so squeamish and invest in some contact lenses…..

Oh yes, and I’ll never again pour scorn on American golfers wearing ear muffs or insulated coats.  Promise.

 

 

 

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…..

 

 

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!

Given the unrelenting rain we’ve been having for days on end in this part of the world, the blog decided to lighten the gloom by starting with a photograph (golf related) from sunnier climes.

Many, many years ago, I was due to play a round at Pebble Beach – and I cried off.  I had a stinking, streaming cold, the sort that makes it hard to lift your head up – maybe not such a problem for a golfer – and helped Kleenex make billions.  I thought that I’d play Pebble another time, when I was feeling better and could enjoy the experience.

I’m still waiting.

Ah well, you can’t win ’em all.  (Although I suspect that Brooks Koepka and Tiger Woods didn’t get where they are today by thinking like that.)

On reflection, I don’t regret not playing that day because it would have been hideous for me and unpleasant for my playing partners.  What was the point?  Simply so I could say that I’d played Pebble?  Was it wonderful?  No.  It was bloody awful!

And of course it is wonderful, as the pictures from this week’s US Open are already proving.  Jack Nicklaus once said that if he was told he had only one round left to play, he’d head for Pebble.  If you get a chance to play it, do.  Even if you have to save up for the flight, accommodation and the $500 plus for the green fee, caddy, tip and so on.  Mind you, with that sort of outlay, you want to feel in good enough shape to hit the odd decent shot and appreciate the view.

Anyway, at least I’ve played Cypress Point.

And I’m pretty sure that, even better, I beat Dai comfortably.  (One of the few bonuses of being a widow is that your husband’s no longer around to contradict you.)

I’ve rooted out my faded but still wearable Pebble Beach windcheater – it is flaming June after all, so the summer gear has been folded away again.  Many thanks to Suzanne Rundle, WHGC’s multi-talented ladies’ captain, for taking time out of her busy schedule to snap the photo that graces the top of this piece, known in blog circles as the featured image.  You can tell the top is old, an antique really, because the (non) logo is so tasteful as to be nearly invisible to the naked eye.  Those were the days.  The top is also reversible and will be making another appearance, in its more garish guise, at a later date….

This half of the blog makes a habit of staying up late on a Thursday – usually well in to Friday morning, if the truth be told – so the 8-hour time difference between here and California is not too much of a problem.  Admittedly, the lack of sleep can play merry hell with my bidding – always inclined to be dodgy – at beginners’ bridge on a Friday morning and this week there’s the additional consideration of a family curry night.  Followed by ladies’ captain’s day on Saturday, with a shotgun shot at 1000, weather permitting…….Could be a bit of a groggy, soggy weekend.

On a more optimistic note, as the rain hammered down last Sunday (the 9th of June), a friend reminded me that it had snowed on that day in 1976 and that summer had turned out to be one of the hottest on record.  She remembered the date because it was her mother’s birthday and she and a friend were on their way to a county match.

Maureen, who’s also good at dates, announced that last Sunday was exactly 40 years since she’d won the Ladies British Amateur Championship at Nairn.  Mum and Molly Boyd, always up for a jaunt, had travelled to Scotland with Mo but Dad and I had to hurtle to Aldergrove airport in my Renault 4, taking most of the corners on two wheels, fly to Glasgow, then Inverness, to make the final.  Dad, who’d been at work, had only the brown suit he’d travelled in, so on the morning of the final Mum’s main concern was taking him to the pro’s shop to get him kitted out in more suitable golf-watching gear.

Fortunately, we didn’t realise until afterwards just how good Jane Lock, Mo’s opponent, a much-decorated Australian, was.  Mo, very much an outside bet, had a bit of a Spieth week on the greens and it’s not too much of a stretch to say that it was a week that changed her life.

This year’s championship, now known as the Women’s Amateur, which finishes tomorrow, is at Royal County Down and whoever the champion is, she’ll always be able to say that she won her title on one of the world’s great golf courses.  Not sure though, Northern Ireland being a bit of a throwback in far too many respects, that she would be able to join the club as a full member.

Must also check that we women are now on an equal footing at Portrush.  And has Portmarnock, which hosts the Amateur Championship next week, changed?  Seem to remember that it wasn’t that long ago that the club manned the barricades and went to court to maintain its antediluvian attitudes towards women.  It’s hard to keep up and I suspect I must be lagging behind the times because otherwise, course quality notwithstanding, why would the R&A be holding three of their most important championships at these places?

Answers welcome.  Am always happy to be dragged, kicking and screaming, back into the loop.

Ending on a less contentious note, I’ve got to mention the RBC Canadian Open at Hamilton Golf and Country Club in Ontario, which was an unadulterated Irish triumph.  Rory McIlroy, who won by seven shots, was majestic, finishing with a round of 61 that had 59 written all over it until two late bogeys; Shane Lowry shared second place with Webb Simpson, who holed an outrageous chip at the last; and Graeme McDowell, who needed to finish in the top 10 to qualify for the Open, did so by holing a par putt of at least 30 feet on the last green.

McDowell, who’s from Portrush, couldn’t bear the thought of missing out on the biggest party in golf and admitted he was “hugely relieved” to claim his spot.  “It’s going to be epic on that 1st tee,” he said.  “The fans are going to offer huge support and they are excited to have the best players in the world come to Portrush.  It’s going to be very special.”