I was delighted, of course, really I was, to see that Royal Troon had ditched years of tradition and voted to accept women as members.  I think I heard the captain on the radio saying that many moons ago it had been the women who’d taken themselves off to set up their own club, so really, for once, it wasn’t the men’s fault after all.

Be that as it may, I have to confess to being a tad disappointed that good sense prevailed because Troon were always my favourite misogynists, way ahead of Muirfield, who are lagging behind in the voting but will be trying again to persuade their more recalcitrant members to let the women in.  A choleric friend had a lot of a rant the other day about the hypocrisy of people who were happy to have single sex clubs for women but not for men but, as so often, he missed the point.  Muirfield and Troon have elevated themselves beyond being simple members’ clubs and with that status comes a certain responsibility to reflect the way their world is now.

My mate wasn’t impressed.  “Huh,” he said.  “How many women have ever played in the Open anyway?  I’ll tell you.  None.  None.”

He wasn’t to be persuaded that Troon hadn’t capitulated to the barbarians, so I’ll tell you why I put them top of my list of champion chauvinists.  It started with the late Winnie Palmer, wife of Arnold, swashbuckling saviour of the Open who had just won the title for the second year in a row.  With Arnie clutching the Claret Jug, Winnie needed to spend a penny (it was 1962) and after a quick committee meeting – it had to be quick – she was permitted to enter the clubhouse, escorted by a policeman.  Apocryphal I hear you cry.  Don’t be so sure!

Sadly, I arrived too late to witness the moment when the golf correspondent of The Daily Telegraph (then the paper of choice for most golfers) and the editor of Golf Monthly, the longest surviving golf magazine in the world, whirled in through Troon’s revolving front door only to be whirled swiftly out again and directed to a poxy little side entrance.  You’ve guessed it; their mistake was that they were women, albeit women who were part of the press contingent invited to play the course.  Unaware of the kerfuffle, I arrived and swanned in the main entrance but was swiftly hustled along a corridor to join my colleagues.

Golf Monthly’s editor, a handy golfer, was so incensed that it took her nine holes to hit a decent shot but the DT’s correspondent and I finished first and second.  That’s the danger of letting us in I suppose.

Still, my favourite Troon story, also true, is when I rang up to ask about tee times, prices and so on for visitors.  A charming Scotsman gave me all the details, then I revealed that it would be a mixed group.  “Ah well,” he said, “the ladies can walk round and look decorative.”

I couldn’t believe my luck, I punched the air, thanked him politely, put the phone down and cheered in a very unladylike fashion.

[Above and right, one of my favourite golfing cartoons, by Frank Harris, from Golf World in 1984.  Still has the ring of truth!]

To finish, let’s move from Troon to Tenby, where Lydia Hall, who’s now attached to Hensol Golf Academy, Mid-Glamorgan, became the first woman to win the Wales National PGA Championship, the PGA’s oldest tournament.  In fact, Hall, who won the ISPS Handa Ladies British Masters on the LET (Ladies European Tour) in 2012, is the first woman to win a PGA national tournament full stop.  Many congrats to Boom Boom Shake The Room (Hall’s nickname in her younger days when she hit the ball miles).

A victorious Lydia Hall (Photo courtesy of Julian Herbert/Getty Images)

Back in the day – before amateur golf acquired a wraparound season just like the pros – the women’s amateur golf scene kicked off in earnest in April with the Helen Holm tournament at Troon.  It was – and still is – a testing 54-hole stroke play event with two rounds on the Portland course and the leading qualifiers playing a final round on Royal Troon, home of this year’s Open Championship.  It was a treat to play two such fine courses even though, more often than not, we were blown to pieces by late equinoctial gales or flurries of snowstorms.

Royal Troon

My relationship with the 8th hole, nicknamed the Postage Stamp, had always been reasonably cordial – mostly 3s and 4s and even the joy of a couple of 2s – until one fateful day.   There was what my father would have described as “a bit of a breeze” but was,  in fact,  a veritable gale.  By the time I got to the elevated tee of this most famous of par 3s, there were also hailstones.  And there was a hold up, with two groups waiting to tee off ahead of us.  My mother, who was caddying, and I hunkered down as best we could behind the brolly and slowly turned to ice as the minutes ticked by.  I was well in the hunt for the famous old trophy having started the day in the third last group out and, despite the conditions, I had only dropped one shot in the opening seven holes, so I was reasonably confident I was in or near the lead.

Finally, it was our turn.  Squinting through the driving rain, fingers frozen to the bone and with a drip on the end of my nose I took out my 6-iron and fashioned a rigor mortis type action which was designed to produce a bit of a windcheater of a shot over the 123 yards.  It almost worked.  The green is surrounded by a necklace of five bunkers but my ball was flying, crouched down, towards the putting surface.  It landed, briefly, on the green but inexorably began the slide back down the steep slope into the front right-hand bunker.  Not to worry, I was a good bunker player – or so I thought.  I descended gingerly into the the depths of the bunker not realising I would be there for some time.  Several swipes later and the ball was nestling deep in one of my own footprints.

My mother, heaven help her, decided that this was the time to speak up:  “How many’s that?”  When she received a strangulated snarl in response, she decided to take charge:  ” For goodness sake, pick the blinking thing up and come on out of that.  You’re holding up the entire course!” (This, as you may guess, has been modified a teensy weensy bit).  She was right – the final two groups were up on the tee – but if I could have got my hands on her I swear I would have strangled her.

The Postage Stamp – unlucky for some!

With one final, desperate effort, I extricated the ball from the sand and it went off like an exocet missile heading for deep rough on the way to the 9th tee.  It clattered full bore into Molly, a family friend, who was the only spectator on the entire golf course in those conditions.  Molly, bundled up like the Michelin man, felt no pain and dutifully stayed there to mark the ball as I raked the decimated bunker and Mum crossly pulled the trolley into the deep rough.  Soaking from head to toe, I had a lash from the rough and sent the ball back from whence it had come.  Down once more into the bowels of the bunker and after a short prayer I got the ball on the green and staggered in a second putt of a yard.

Thirteen it came to.  A decimal bogey?  I doubt that that term exists but murder was still on my mind and caddy and player negotiated the remaining ten holes without a syllable of dialogue.  I didn’t drop another shot and with the par then being 75 it all added up to 86.

Afterwards in the clubhouse, the waiting press turned away disinterestedly when I revealed my score.  “But I had 13 at the Postage Stamp”, I piped up.  They reporters turned back, notebooks at the ready.  John Campbell of the Daily Telegraph informed me that that was only two short of the record of 15, set by Hermann Tissies, a German amateur. “I can’t believe loads of people haven’t taken more than 13,” I said.  “Course they have,” he replied, ” but they always give up before they’re finished”.

Role reversal – me caddying for Mum

The beautifully atmospheric and scenic St Pierre Golf & Country Club in Chepstow was the setting for the 1980 Curtis Cup.  It was my sole, yet much cherished, appearance in the biennial contest between the best women amateurs of the United States and the best from Great Britain & Ireland. We were totally outclassed by an American side that included an inspired Patty Sheehan, a future Hall of Famer and we suffered our heaviest defeat on home soil by 13 matches to 5.  What was so memorable about that?

For me, it was the realisation of a dream.  I had been taken as a ten-year old to the 1968 matches at Royal County Down,  had been totally mesmerised by the Americans  in their red bermuda shorts and had sensed the fun and camaraderie between all the players.  I wanted to be part of that and twelve years later I was.

Partner Carole Caldwell and I meet Judy Oliver and Carol Semple Thompson

The 2016 edition of the match features three Irish players and so did our team in 1980.   Claire Robinson (nee Nesbitt)  and I became the first two Ulster representatives in the match and we joined the evergreen legend Mary McKenna on the first occasion that the Emerald Isle had supplied a trio of players.  That was special.

Alongside two of Ireland’s greats, Claire and Mary

Also special was our captain – Cheshire’s Carol Comboy, later to become a close family friend.  One of only a handful of captains not to have played in the match, she nevertheless struck the perfect balance between work and play, seriousness and fun.  She was a class act in every way.

Short on leg length but certainly not on talent

The American team had come over to these shores with an impressive range of uniform including very nifty checked woollen trousers which they had worn in practice.  As the week continued and the temperatures remained stubbornly low the players realised the only trousers they possessed that were warm enough were the aforementioned all wool ones.  So one of their officials was detailed to get the team’s trews laundered.  She took them to the dry cleaners and every pair shrank to three quarters, if not half, mast.  You’d get away with the three-quarter length nowadays but not back then!  The opposition laughed about it as much as we did and sportingly posed for the accompanying photo.

Olfactory overload!

The teams faced one of their most serious challenges of the week at the flag-raising ceremony.  We waited to march out behind the ceremonial band who had brought along their mascot for the occasion.  Said mascot was the regimental goat, uninspiringly named Billy, magnificent in his own uniform, and remarkably placid.  What was not placid was his rear end!  A succession of noisy and pungent explosions meant a quick jockeying for position by all the players and officials.  Those placed upwind of Billy steadfastly refused to swap places with anyone.  Another  unforgettable and hilarious snapshot of a great week.

Yes, it was a drubbing in sporting terms and dwelling on the result is not a particularly happy pastime.  But the friendships formed, the connections with players and captains, past and present, and the feeling of membership of a special club are priceless.  As so often in sport, if you focus only on the result you may find yourself spectacularly missing the point.

Maureen and I decided to start this blog – not another golf blog, what madness – for entirely selfish reasons, for our own amusement, to voice our opinions, to keep in touch with our friends and to make sure that we kept seeing each other regularly (they’re now called editorial meetings) after Dad died.