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.

Portstewart strand at its most pristine

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?

All the fun of a big event

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.

Something on this week?

Last weekend I was anxious to see if Ireland’s Leona Maguire, world amateur No 1, had managed to win the Ladies’ British Amateur Championship which was being played at Pyle & Kenfig Golf Club in Wales.  So I turned to the ever reliable irishgolfdesk.com and Brian Keogh to find out, (the R&A website had frustrated me all week), and there it was – a victory by 3 and 2 in the final against Spain’s Ainhoa Olarra.

Just what I wanted to read, but one other fact mentioned in Keogh’s opening sentence stopped me in my tracks.  Leona had become the eighth Irishwoman to win the title.  Eighth?  Was that all – in 114 playings of the championship?  Indeed it was.  The first two winners were Portrush based – May Hezlet triumphing in 1899, 1902 and 1907 and Rhona Adair in 1900 and 1903. The fifties brought two Irish victories – Tullamore’s Kitty McCann in 1951 and her great rival, Philomena Garvey, who swept all before her in 1957.  Both were incredible golfers but Phil’s legacy goes well beyond her prowess on the course for it was in 1958 that she withdrew from the Curtis Cup side because the Union Jack was the only flag on the team blazer.  Nary sight nor sign of an Irish tricolour, so Phil downed clubs and told them to get it sorted.  And they did!  To this day the Union Jack and Irish flags figure jointly on the Great Britain and Ireland international blazers.  It was quite a stand to make at the time and a proud moment for Irish golf.

Sandwiched by two of Ireland’s greats – Phil Garvey (left) and Kitty McCann

That brings us to Yours Truly, the next Irish winner in 1979.  So many things remain etched in my memory from that unforgettable week.  The absolute downpour that drenched the course in the second qualifying round; being 3 down after 8 holes in my opening match; getting the better of the English champion in my second match; beating my great pal and legendary player Mary McKenna on the final green in the semis and then bursting into tears because I was sorry she’d lost; and then hearing my final opponent ungraciously saying that any decent championship should have a 36-hole final – this after I’d beaten her on the 17th of our 18-hole final!  Sore loser, or what?

A treasured programme

My caddy was a great fan of Arnold Palmer, so was known to his friends as Arnie and he helped us load the huge trophy in its own special box into the car for the journey back to Portstewart.  Nowadays the winners do not get to keep the trophy for the year but we had the pleasure of having it, firstly, at home and then in the golf club where it was lovingly polished and kept looking pristine by Bridget.

No texting or emails in those days!

On that memorable journey home from Nairn Mum and I, along with Molly, a great family friend, drove down to Troon to stay overnight before catching the ferry to Larne from Stranraer the next day.  We lugged the huge box up the stairs to my room and put it at the bottom of the bed.  After a hearty dinner we all fell into bed exhausted but I woke early and lay there for a while looking at the unfamiliar surroundings.  “Gosh, I dreamt I’d won the British,” I thought to myself.  I sat up, leaning on one elbow, and saw the big box at the end of the bed.  I stared at it for a few moments and then bounded out of  bed to touch the box.  It was amazing – it WASN’T a dream.  I couldn’t believe it!  From there it was back to Portstewart Golf Club for a huge impromptu party and shortly afterwards another big shindig at my other club, Portrush.  One thing about the Irish – they know how to celebrate and have a party and their generosity of spirit is legendary.  It’s only now, looking back across the decades, that I can begin to appreciate the pleasure my win gave to so many people – and that’s humbling.

Ending a 22 year drought for Ireland.

Seven years on and in 1986 the incomparable ball striker that was the Royal Curragh’s Lillian Behan lifted the cup at Ganton.  It then took until 2012 before Stephanie Meadow conquered all at Carnoustie and she is now making her way on the professional tours in the States.  I expect great things of her.  And now it’s Leona Maguire, all conquering US collegiate player, hooverer-up of endless titles, and at last the big one.  For these last two players I don’t expect this title to be their greatest accomplishment in the game, but I trust they will come to have a little bit of the sense of the history of the group they have joined.

The new British Champion with Mum, Breda.

I’ve just realised with a jolt that I am the oldest living Irish winner of this title!  Help!  That photo of me with Kitty and Phil is one of my greatest treasures.  I am proud to have a connection with them.  Time, I think, to sort out a pic with Lillian, Stephanie and Leona.  I’d be proud to be in that photo too.

Out in Wisconsin, at Erin Hills, some of the players preparing for the US Open moaned about the rough and the USGA took the mowers to the fescue, much to the horror of Rory McIlroy. The Ulsterman didn’t seem to have noticed it, except perhaps for its aesthetic qualities, all waving wispiness.  “We’ve got 50 to 60 yards to aim at,” he huffed. “If we can’t manage that, we might as well go home.”

Well, by now all will be on the way to be being revealed and we’ll see who’s avoiding the penal stuff most of the time and who isn’t.  You have to be careful with rough, whether you’re the USGA, who specialise in lots of it or a day-to-day club who should bear in mind the relative lack of skill of most of its members and visitors.  Those members and visitors may say they want to be tested but mostly they want to be able to get round the course without losing too many balls or straining too many wrists and if possible they want to come in and talk about their good shots and the odd par or birdie rather than the brilliant hack out of the rough at the 3rd.

Lichfield Cathedral, famous for its three spires.

I played at Castle Stuart, near Inverness, last weekend, in the Spire Trophy – as a resident of Lichfield I felt a bit bereft that there was only the one spire because we’re used to three – and I couldn’t have had a better time.  In the fourballs my partner and I proved overmatched against superior opponents who played well and we were hammered, by the old dog licence.  Even so I really enjoyed it.  The weather was grand, so there were stunning views of the Moray Firth and the Black Isle, the company was good, I hit a lot of decent shots but I was clumsily clueless around the greens.  The lines, read by my caddy Stuart, were fine but my inability to gauge the pace was frustrating.  I nearly started laughing at one point because I thought of Bernard Darwin lamenting that his partner, the incomparable Joyce Wethered, was tied to a turd.  Nothing like delusions of grandeur!

They’re very clever at Castle Stuart because they set the course up to appeal to every level of golfer, bar absolute beginners.  There are plenty of hazards and rough but it’s not really what you see from the tee.  You see a playable golf course that is not too narrow, with no wasp-waisted fairways, no monstrous carries and rough that is subtly graded.  If you come from a well-grassed, parkland course (which I don’t), it’ll all be a bit alien to begin with but it’s worth persevering and discovering the joys of using putters and rescues from well off the greens to negotiate the ‘umps and ‘ollows.  Bliss, really.

Sometimes you do put your partner in trouble, just so she can show off her skills.

In the foursomes on Sunday, my partner, the incomparable Gillian Stewart, and I came back from two down with five to play to halve the match and the overall match was also halved, for the first time.  Smiles all round.

Inverness is a long way up – more than nine hours on the train from Lichfield, though planes are an option if you can stand airports – so it’s worth considering staying a while and not just confining yourself to marquee names like Castle Stuart, Nairn and Royal Dornoch.  Don’t overlook unheralded northern gems like Fortrose and Rosemarkie (all one course), Tain, Brora and Golspie, to name just a few.  Scotland almost rivals Ireland as a golfer’s paradise….Play away please.

Captains Stuart McColm (left) and Simon Chapman share the beautiful Spire Trophy.

I was going to write, and doubtless rant, about dress codes this morning – and that is still in the pipeline – but I’m on the train to Edinburgh en route to Inverness, via changes at Haymarket and Perth, so my thoughts have turned to

Player and course (Little Aston) looking immaculate.

luggage (which makes a change from mush).

There was a time when I was a pretty good packer, accustomed as I was to hopping on and off aeroplanes but I don’t do that any more and travelling by car is not good for encouraging minimalism – better take that extra jacket just in case; throw in the extra golf shoes; plenty of wine for the hosts; a brolly; big bottle of sunscreen; woolly hat; spare this; another that; laptop and leads, all higgledy-piggledy, stuffed into a corner; those letters I meant to answer; bank statements I was going to study forensically; that library book on A Day In The Life Of The Brain; no need to pack neatly; and golf clubs?  No problem at all.

Except that I baulked at driving to Inverness on my own – I did St Andrews not so long ago and that was bad enough and did nothing for my golf.  My game is an unpredictable, rather delicate flower that needs nurturing and tlc (tender loving care) not dlz (driving long distances like a zombie).  So, lacking a chauffeur or, even better, a spare helicopter, I opted to let the train take the strain.

Alas, that also means me taking the strain, even if I was using wheels, which I’m not because I have some vague notion that I’ll go trekking round South America before too long and need to practise travelling really light and be prepared for all terrain.  Notions and delusions! Anyway, even with wheels, there’s a fair amount of lifting and straining involved in travelling with luggage, especially when you include golf clubs in the mix.

Not that train companies seem to cater too well for baggage these days.  Are there still baggage cars?  Maybe I missed it. Or have studies shown that people using trains are a non-travelling species who don’t carry stuff, that all those bags and suitcases are an illusion?  The designated space for luggage in my carriage had a blooming great pole up the middle, making storing your stuff a bit of a Krypton Factor-type test of your spatial awareness and ingenuity.  Thank goodness the train wasn’t too busy and the rucksacks going to the Lake District could be accommodated on spare seats.

Good thing train not busy. Luggage for three.

Overhead – although this seems to vary from carriage to carriage, train to train – there was barely any space even for fishing rods, some of which can be broken down, or, more likely, broken, and as for golf clubs, well, good luck.  I’d been persuaded to bring my own clubs instead of hiring a set at Castle Stuart, my ultimate destination.  Bad decision.

The good thing was that it did give me the chance to rail-test a neat tube of a bag that I bought at Valderrama (at some expense, natch) many years ago.  It was when Nick Faldo was in his heyday, so the bag has spent many years indoors (cupboard, garage, shed) housing a couple of refugee persimmon drivers, a battered baffler by Cobra and some putters.

Now, this bag, designed by Bally and endorsed by Faldo is tough and resilient and holds my small set – big-headed driver, 5-wood, rescue, irons 7, 8 and 9, wedge, sand iron and putter, plus a towel and a bottle of kefir nice and neatly. The fatal flaw, which turned it from being the ideal holiday bag into a blooming nuisance, was that it hadn’t been endorsed by Fanny, Faldo’s caddy.  The bag has a long carrying strap but it’s useless because the balance is all wrong; it’s an ill-thought out adjunct designed, presumably, by people who had no idea that golfers ever carried their own bags on the golf course or might desire to do so.  Still, dispense with the strap and just use the handle and it’s grand as a protective container, if still a bit of a fag for train travel.

Changing at Haymarket

On mature, aching reflection, I realised that my adviser was a professional player whose equipment matters to her because she knows what she’s doing and likes to know what her clubs are likely to do.  That’s not so necessary at my level; I rarely know from one shot to the next what I’m doing, so I suppose my clubs are versatile and prepared for anything.  They’re also an ageing mishmash and it was a mistake not to take the chance of trying out a newer, swankier set.

I’m probably ready for a change but Maureen insists I have a course of lessons first, to make sure it’s worthwhile.  Hope I have a patient partner this weekend!

Nearly there?  Perth. Only a couple more hours to Inverness. Scotland goes up a long way. Should have been playing at Blairgowrie or Gleneagles perhaps!