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.”

Boy, am I glad I’m not a proper journalist!  Once again the empty screen is looking blankly at me (or should I say I’m looking blankly at it?) and it’s time for another blog.  Ho hum!  Those of you who have faithfully followed us for over the last three years deserve a medal – hopefully you’ve had a wee bit of entertainment along the way as a reward for your persistence.

As I write I’ve not even been home two weeks from the USPGA, the second of the men’s majors, and I’ve to gird my loins and have my bags packed so I can head off at the weekend to Pebble Beach (above) for the US Open.  “Oh, shame.  Poor you,” I can hear you cry in a tone dripping with sarcasm.  Yes – I deserve that but it doesn’t change the fact that the thought of more hours at an airport is not an exciting or attractive proposition any longer, never mind what it’s doing in terms of carbon footprints and destruction of the planet.  Is it old age creeping up on me, I wonder, or perhaps the cumulative effect of having constantly travelled for more than 40 years?  Perhaps a bit of both, but I think it’s also that I’ve just had such a lovely last week/ten days that it really is becoming increasingly hard to head towards an airport.

The week kicked off with a lovely fourball at Delamere Forest, my home club.  This was my second round of golf since my back decided to play silly buggers with me out in South Africa in early February and I felt I’d been released from prison and was once again breathing fresh air.  Isn’t it amazing how your perspective of a good day’s golf changes over the years?  Once, long ago, my pleasure from the game was all outcome driven – it was the result, the score which was the only thing that mattered and if the score was bad, it had been a bad day.  I suppose that that’s understandable from an ambitious youngster who wants to represent their country and see how good they can be.

Now, however, it’s the company, the course and perhaps also the weather that are important to me.  After that the pleasure of one or two satisfyingly struck shots will be enough to bring me back out the next time, in my, now, tempered yet still ambitious, intent to play as well as I can.  I’ve learned not to let poor golf (inevitable when you don’t play that often) get in the way of my enjoyment.

After Delamere my next treat was 27 holes at the wonderful Royal Porthcawl in South Wales.  The Saturday was amazingly warm and sunny and I joined forces with two old buddies of mine – Julie Thomas and Pam Chugg, both former Welsh champions and internationals and members of the club – for a round full of laughs and the odd birdie or two.  In all my visits to Porthcawl this was the best weather I had ever encountered but the following day was nasty enough to curtail a keen Irish versus English/Welsh foursomes match to nine holes.  Ah, well that’s golf on this little island of ours.

The week was also fun, and hugely memorable, for other reasons.  Two events took place that hadn’t occurred once in the last 30 years.  The first was meeting up for lunch with my old friend Lisa Isherwood, another former Welsh international player who is now a Professor of Theology at the University of Winchester.  I think I may have mentioned elsewhere in this blog that in 1977 Lisa and I were the first two women from these shores to go to the States on a golf scholarship.  Something that is now commonplace was unheard of then and I suppose in our own little way we were trailblazers.

Upon returning home, eventually, our paths diverged and we lost touch, but this year a mooted golf reunion back in Texas sent me off sleuthing and we have reconnected, determined now not to lose touch again.  Our lunch resulted in four hours of non-stop chat and catch up (well, 30 years IS a long time) and the next date is in the diary.  I’m fully aware of, and thankful for, all my parents did for me in my life, but possibly their biggest single gift to me was introducing me to golf.  That’s the glue that binds almost all the meaningful strands of my life together.

Finally, for the first time since I was last an amateur (back in 1986) I played in a club Invitation Day!  My pal, Annette Stroud, invited me to her club Dunham Forest, near Altrincham in Cheshire.

I have played there before and the welcome is always second to none.  Paul Dennis, the club professional and a very respected teacher, is a most impressive first point of contact for visitors to the club and that quality of friendliness continues from the rest of the club staff, and, of course, from the members themselves.  We got out of jail with the weather, only getting wet on the last four holes which, given the forecast, was a minor miracle.  Still, I would play through any – and I mean ANY – conditions to reach the sanctuary of the clubhouse and the wonderful food supplied by chef Lesley Saxon.  I told her I have never eaten any food to equal hers at any golf club I have ever visited, anywhere.  And I stand by that.  Simply delicious.

The lady captain Susan Lentin presided perfectly over a great day – a lovely golf course and outstanding food.  What a winning combination!  Thank you Annette.

And now what, after such a super week?  Oh, no!  Back to the packing and the airport.

Destination Pebble, though.  Bring it on.