My three-week drought of golf was broken last Monday at lovely Enville Golf Club, home to two beautiful courses, right on the Staffordshire/Shropshire border.  It was where Diane Bailey (nee Robb) played a great deal of her golf and is rightly an honorary member.  Diane, now an MBE, was a British Girls’ Champion, an England International, a Curtis Cup player and president of the Ladies’ Golf Union but she will mostly be remembered for being the first to captain a winning British and Irish team (male or female) on American soil.  That was in the 1986 Curtis Cup at Prairie Dunes in Kansas – unforgettable for many, including Patricia who was there covering the match.

The Enville club is buried in a rabbit warren of lanes and this week plays host to the Girls’ Under 16 Amateur run so ably by the R&A Championships division. Nowadays everything in junior golf seems to be organised into age groups, which trebles the workload for the organising bodies, of course.  In my day everyone under 19 years of age was lumped in together in the one tournament, which was quite daunting if you were playing in your first Girls’ Championship at a measly 13 years of age.  That was when I had my first foray into British Girls’ championship golf, which took place at North Berwick, Catriona Matthew’s home club in East Lothian.  The Girls’ was preceded by the junior home internationals so I had the opportunity to watch great players like Mickey Walker, Josephine Mark and Cathy Panton, all of whom went on to represent Britain and Ireland and two of whom became top professional players.  They were certainly inspiring to me and my path wouldn’t have crossed theirs at all if I had been restricted to an age category tournament.

It’s interesting to ponder which is the better approach as regards bringing on youngsters in the game.  At 15 Rory McIlroy was teeing it up in a professional European Tour event, something hard to imagine happening had he been restricted to playing in age appropriate competitions as opposed to skill appropriate ones.  Tiger always felt the best way to develop was to win at every level, which he did, of course, but he wasn’t restricted from playing against boys a lot older.  I’m pretty sure the current system will encourage many more very young ones to get involved.  Being solely with their peers will probably mean they’ll keep going for longer, not get too discouraged and hey presto, before they know where they are the bug has bitten!  And that may just keep them in the game for life.

Anyway, back to my own age appropriate threeball at the start of the week.  Patricia (sister) and Anita (friend and member of Enville) and I managed to dodge most of the rain and, despite claiming never to have played a skins game before, Anita swept the board with Patricia being her closest challenger.  I was a distant third.  This didn’t bother me unduly until we returned to the clubhouse.  First, Patricia disappeared in the rain to rummage in the bin at the first tee where she had inadvertently jettisoned a pair of earrings along with a pocketful of broken tees.  No sooner had she triumphantly returned with said earrings than we had to undergo an entire emptying out of the handbag by Anita in search of missing car keys.  Ten minutes later these were located resting innocently on a bench in the locker room.

I was laughing at the pair of them and shaking my head at their senior moments when I realised that these were the very folk who had absolutely trounced me on the golf course!  “And I used to be quite good,” I thought.  A chastening moment.

Anyway, I plan to return during the week to see the girls and how it ought to be done!

The past week has seen wonderful tributes pour in from all over the world for Renton Laidlaw, broadcaster and writer extraordinaire on many subjects, but specifically on golf.  Renton would always have been on my list of favourites to have as a dinner companion.  Be that as it may, I have one Renton tale which I would like to share with you.

Forty years or so ago I was working for a golf promotion company which organised pro-ams in the winter in the south of Spain.  I was a general dogsbody in the running of the tournaments and I am hazy as to how it came about but I actually caddied for Renton in one of these 54 hole pro-ams.  He had arrived out in Spain, a member of well-known professional David Huish’s team.  David was a terrific player and a great ball striker – we were, after all, only a handful of years removed from when he had led the Open at Carnoustie after 36 holes.  To David’s horror Renton had come armed with a new set of John Jacobs’ clubs which claimed to be anti-slice.  David had completely dissed these clubs in the press, totally rejecting, at that time, that clubs should be tinkered with to mask skill deficiencies in the player.  And boy, had Renton skill deficiencies!

Anyway, Renton and the clubs (and I like to think the caddy also) performed like a dream team.  Drives were straight and true, no trademark deviation to the right-hand side of the course, and a final triumphant chip in from off the final green sealed the win after three tense days of competition.  It was hilarious, one member of the winning team claiming victory despite the anti-slice clubs and another claiming victory precisely because these new weapons had been in his bag!

We had a lot of fun that week and Renton certainly had the last laugh.

Our ten days in the Emerald Isle have come to an end and the first half of our trip left no doubt at all in our minds as to just why this island is so green.  However, we were blessed with an Indian summer ending and a millpond crossing back to North Wales and on to our home in Cheshire, which was a lovely way to finish our “special K” holiday In Ireland – other cereals are available.  We christened our holiday that because, rather bizarrely we stayed in a total of four places and all their names began with a “K” – Kildare, Kenmare, Kinsale and Kilkenny.  Only one of these destinations was actually planned – the rest of the time we just went where the fancy took us – or should that be where the knotion took us?

The golf clubs had been thrown in the boot but alas, never got an airing, walking and cycling getting the exercise nod instead on this occasion.  But, hey, it’s good to keep your options open and I always think a wee break now and then from this infuriating game helps to keep the enthusiasm levels high.  It means that when I play next Monday at lovely Enville with Patricia and Anita, a long-term pal of mine, I’m sure to be reminded of that old adage that “every shot is a surprise”.  Dad used to modify that into one of his favourite golfing sayings which was, “every shot is a joy to someone!”  How true that is – particularly in match play!

It’s hard not to think of my parents a great deal when I’m back in Ireland.  There’s scarcely a corner of it we didn’t travel to in my and Patricia’s amateur days, starting from the age of 11 or so, and everywhere we went over the last week and a half had many happy associations and memories.  It’s a bit of a shock to the system, though, when you want to check a fact or ascertain the veracity of a bit of golfing folklore and you realise with horror that there’s no one around any more to ask about it.  Why, oh why didn’t I pay more attention to the generation ahead of me?

One such incident occurred this week when I received a question on Twitter, along with the accompanying photo from Jen, a member of Greystones Golf Club.

“Hi there.  Am a member of @GreystonesGolf and there’s an old picture on the wall of the ladies’ locker room of the Irish Ladies’ Golf team – 1920 at Newcastle.  Included in the line up is one Mrs Madill…..any connection to you?  Curiosity finally getting the better of me!”

To my shame, I couldn’t immediately come up with an answer to Jen’s question but cloudy memories began to surface of a distant relative called Georgie Madill, whom I believed had married one of Dad’s uncles.  Patricia proffered the suggestion that she was the one married to the Rear Admiral of the family, but digging back into family history on my return home proved that Georgie, nee Lauder, had married one of my grandfather’s other brothers, David.  Ivan Morris’ excellent “History of Women’s Golf in Ireland” confirmed that Georgie was one of three Lauder girls, all connected with Sutton Golf Club, and that Georgie “had an international career that lasted until 1933”.

My interest in the team photo was further piqued by two additional members of that 1920 team – May Fitzgibbon, back right, and Violet Hulton, second from the right in the front row.

Jen had referred to her fellow club member, Miss Fitzgibbon, as “a legend in Greystones”.  Well, my whole family had the pleasure of meeting the Greystones legend in 1970 when we travelled to the club for the Irish Girls’ Championship.  Along with the redoubtable Audrey O’Donohue of Dun Laoghaire, May Fitzgibbon ran the Girls’ Championships for all the years of my eligibility as a junior golfer.  She and Audrey handled everything as regards running the championships and organising consolation events for those beaten early on.  I do remember May having to organise a search party for me and Sheena O’Brien-Kenney after we had failed to appear back in the clubhouse after one of those consolation events.  We had been chatting nineteen to the dozen, had grown a little weary of all the shots we were hitting and had simply parked ourselves in the rough to continue our chatting as we made daisy chains!

Audrey and May were a fount of all information, educating the parents as to the best events to enter their offspring into, where to stay and so on.  They did the lot and were a comforting fixture of my junior days and I doubt any of us ever had the faintest idea that between them they had played for Ireland for a total of 18 years.  In fact, it is believed May was the first left-hander to play international golf for Ireland.  Alas, as is often the way, it was only in later years that we realised those two doyennes of Irish golf had probably forgotten more than we could ever aspire to know about the game.

In the front row of the photo is Mrs Hulton.  Violet Hulton was Violet Hazlett, one of the famous Portrush golfing sisters who seemed constantly to vie with each other for British and Irish titles in the early part of the 20th century.  May Hezlett was undoubtedly the star of the show but her siblings were all international players as well.  After Ireland won the women’s home international series in 1980, (their first victory for 73 years) Mrs Hulton, the sole surviving member of the victorious team from 1907, wrote me a note of congratulations.  It’s one of my most prized possessions and I was honoured to strike up a bit of a correspondence with her before her death at the age of 99 in 1982.

I do treasure the connections across the generations and especially those connections that have been forged through golf.  Up and down the land in dusty corners of clubhouses and locker rooms there is a wealth of pictures of those who have enjoyed success in this game, sometimes at the highest level.  Dust them off and hang them in pride of place. They are fellow members, fellow golfers and why not bask a little in their reflected glory?

 

I had people round to mine for bridge on Wednesday evening (which meant I missed tai chi but sometimes something has to give).  It was lovely, a really happy occasion, with lots of chat and laughter, some intense but not entirely classic play, some serious discussion and a warm realisation that there’s nothing like friends for making life worthwhile.

We at the AGW (Association of Golf Writers) have been losing friends hand over fist recently – I suppose we’re that sort of age – but the good thing is that the sadness is tempered with memories of lots of laughs and lives well lived, giants of a golden age of golf.  There have been some wonderful tributes to Renton Laidlaw, whose picture (technical glitches permitting) appears at the top of this piece.  Renton, who has just died at the age of 82, started out at the Edinburgh Evening News (his first Open, pre his official appointment, was Muirfield in 1959, sending in the scores); became well known on local telly; moved to the Evening Standard in London; then really made his name in television and radio – he was BBC radio’s golf man for many years and thanks to the World Service his warm, Scottish voice was recognised all over the globe; then the Golf Channel made him a star in America.

I always remember a stint he did on ITV – their foray into golf, an expensive sport to cover, was brief – and there was some sort of major delay, weather or whatever and Renton filled majestically – on live TV.  It was a real tour de force, typical of the man whose speeches were always fascinating and enlightening but never renowned for their brevity.  In his considerable, enduring heyday – he became the first European journalist to cover 40 Masters – he was non-stop, criss-crossing the globe as though he were a shark that would stop breathing if it stopped moving.  He was here, there and everywhere, knowledgeable, informative, respected and loved by the great, the good and the rest of us.  His work for the AGW was immense:  secretary from 1978-1995, chairman from 1995-1998 and president from 2004-2015 (thanks to Alistair Tait’s lovely tribute – one of many from all over the world – for the dates).  We were so lucky to have him.

Renton never married – he had some near misses I was told but charmingly dodged and weaved his way into the wide, blue yonder, leaving a bruised heart or two in his wake.  He hadn’t been that well for the last few years and had given up the travelling but he kept going cheerfully, keeping tabs on things from his home in Drumoig, near St Andrews, where he lived with his sister Jennifer, a wonderful support and foil.  Condolences to her and love and hugs.

On Sunday, my friend Sue, owner of the sainted Alice and I took the train up to Manchester – all up to time, no dramas, no replacement buses, wonder of wonders – to see the Grayson’s Art Club exhibition at Manchester Art Gallery.  It didn’t disappoint.  It was just as wonderful as the telly series, hosted by Grayson Perry and his wife Philippa, that kept us going during lockdown.

Neither Sue, who is an artist (amateur) and can paint, nor I (no artist, a drawer so inept that Dai and I fell off a log laughing at my efforts to draw said log as we waited for a boat on the Marquesas) submitted anything to the programme but nearly 10,000 people did.  Many of the results were stunning – and moving, as people tried to cope with lockdown and the pain of the pandemic.  The exhibition is free, though you have to book a time and it is on until the end of the month.  If you can get there, do.  It’s worth the detour.  And, like us, you might discover Adolphe Valette.  Awesome.

On the golf front, Jon Rahm didn’t manage to bag his third consecutive Spanish Open title but fellow Spaniard Rafa Cabrera Bello won his national championship for the first time, beating compatriot Adri Arnaus at the first hole of a play-off.  It was Cabrera Bello’s first European Tour win for four years and completed his set of Spanish national championships, amateur and professional.  “I’ve always dreamed about holding this trophy,” he said.  “It was definitely on my bucket list…..I came here in probably the worst shape I have been in in the last decade, close to say and to walk out of here with a win, it’s very special.”

At WHGC, the ladies/women/whatever we are these days battled it out in the captain’s versus vice’s match and it ended in a draw/tie/half, trophy shared.  My partner and I, playing for the captain, lost on the 17th after a ding-dong game, though am sorry to report that my new woods are struggling to cope with the vagaries of my swing…Ho hum, not really a surprise, I suppose.

On the journey home from Manchester we encountered loads of weary but happy-looking bods wearing medals.  They’d just completed the Manchester marathon and it reminded me that I hadn’t paid proper tribute to Andy, a near-nephew (technically I think that by marriage – his – he’s something like a first cousin once removed; whatever, he’s lumbered as a relly!) who completed the London Marathon while I was watching Spurs beat Villa 2-1.  Can’t mention either of those results too often.

Well done Andy.

 

 

 

 

Whenever people ask me what I’ve been up to over the last few days, I tend to panic and my mind goes blank.  What on earth have I been doing?  Nothing much really, the days just go and suddenly another week has passed and we’re hurtling through another month.  It’s amazing how a mad whirl of golf, bridge, singing, tai chi, WhatsApping (when global glitches allow), visits to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium and Bath, via assorted diversions, eats up the time.

Last week was quite hectic, with singing (or an approximation thereof from me) and tai chi on Wednesday; golf at Delamere on Thursday, a shotgun start in aid of Stick ‘n’ Step charity.  A lovely day on a lovely course, breezy and mostly bright, until the final downpour that had us dripping our way to the car.  The four of us had a nearest the pin and birdie 2 between us, enough for three balls each and assorted goodies but not enough points to challenge the top teams – the winners had well over 100 points.

On Saturday, with a full tank of petrol thanks to Morrisons and a tip-off from a friend (crisis, what crisis?), I set off for Maidenhead in the pouring rain, holed up in a faded but friendly Travelodge and on Sunday morning caught the Spurs supporters’ coach to Tottenham.  This season ticket business is a bit of a logistical challenge but we managed to beat Villa 2-1, so at least I’ve got the bragging rights for a wee while.  The programme commemorated the incomparable Jimmy Greaves, who died last month and it would have been quite something to see him in his prime.

Steve Perryman, who was at the start of his career when he played with Greavsie, was in awe of his talent and said:  “He was a professional goalscorer.  That was it, from start to finish – he knew how to score a goal.  He didn’t really want to run about but he ‘thought’ the game and he floated over the grass. Can you imagine how bad those pitches were?  He floated over them, he glided over them and when defenders like me were running through the ground, he was floating on top of it.  What a player.”

Running was not his thing, though.  “He definitely did not enjoy training,” Perryman said.  “Anything to do with running, he wasn’t involved….His game was built on that first two or three metres.  He was very single-minded – his job was to be on there and score a goal.  He lived for scoring goals….”

Whether or not his work rate would pass muster with today’s coaches, it’s hard to argue against the Greaves strike rate:  266 goals in 379 appearances for Spurs between 1961 and 1970 and 44 goals in 57 games for England.  He also scored 41 goals for Chelsea in the 1960/61 season, still a club record.  Phenomenal.

Ignoring all the Nike stuff in the Spurs shop (their sponsorship is saving me shedloads of money), I took a detour to look at an art exhibition called Balls.  Every work is based on the shape of a football and there’s a plea in capital letters:  PLEASE DO NOT KICK THE ART.

Where to next?  Ah yes, Bath for a lovely couple of days – although  I think I might let the train take the strain next time I go there:  it is not a car-friendly place.  Luckily enough, the weather was bright and breezy, with no rain, so I swirled round the city in an open-top bus, soaking up the architecture and the atmosphere.  Fantastic.

At this point, Mo might be saying that there’s not enough golf in this piece, so she’ll be glad to know that we passed very close to what is known as “the most dangerous place in Bath” with a warning to beware of “low-flying golf balls”.  It’s a wee golf course for beginners and just down the hill from the timeless elegance of the Royal Crescent is a playground for the pre-beginners.

On the real golf front, Jon Rahm, the world No 1, is back in Europe, in Madrid, attempting to win his national championship, the ACCIONA Open de Espana presented by Madrid for the third time in a row.  Only Seve has won the title three times but even he did not manage three in a row and Rahm is well aware that he has the chance to achieve something special.

“It would be very unique,” he said.  “It doesn’t matter what event it is, not many people have been able to win one three times in a row so I’m hoping I can get it done – it would truly be my honour.”

Finally, there’s a big boost for the women’s game with a new sponsor for the first major of the 2022 season.  The Chevron Championship will replace the ANA Inspiration for at least the next six years.  The prize money has been increased by a whopping 60 per cent, to $5 million and after 2022 the tournament will move from Rancho Mirage to a new home, yet to be decided but probably in the Houston area and a new, slightly later date.

It’ll be a bittersweet occasion, leaving Mission Hills Country Club behind but there’s no doubt that the tournament that once led the way when it came to prize money had been lagging behind its peers for far too long.  Chevron’s involvement is a giant leap for women’s golf – perhaps even for womankind in general.  Time will tell.