We don’t have long to save the planet, so it behoves us golfers, irrespective of whether we have children or grandchildren, to do our bit, don’t you think?  The other evening I caught the tail end of a programme about the damage that fashion – yes, clothes, shoes, the sort of thing all of us wear every day – does to the environment.  Setting aside the exploitation of many of the people who work long hours in rubbish conditions for very little pay so that we can buy tee shirts for tuppence halfpenny (or fippence, as my Spiddle-born Galway granny used to say, well ahead of decimalisation), it’s the tsunamis of water used in the making of garments, the grunge from the dyes discharged into rivers that turn into death traps rather than life-savers that pollute more than almost anything else.  Fracking?  Not in the same league.  Coal?  Ditto.  You get the picture.

For instance, have you ever given a single solitary thought to the provenance of your golf glove?  No, neither had I.  And that’s not just because it’s many years since I’ve worn one.  That was not a case of social conscience, more lack of funds allied to congenital meanness, big hands and a dodgy grip (despite the best efforts of some very sound teachers).  It was hard to find one that fitted properly, they didn’t last long and they cost a lot.  I moved onto Elastoplast (think that probably needs a trademark sign despite having achieved the status of a generic term for plasters), then gave that up and relied on skin and battled through the pain of the odd blister.

As usual I digress.  It may be different now but at one time, not so long ago, a leather glove’s life started in Africa, on the stomach of a young goat – yes, a kid, a mere baby – before being shipped to the creme de la creme of tanners in Somerset; then it travelled to Taiwan, to be stitched by nimble-fingered seamstresses, perhaps with state-of-the-art machinery; after that it was off to the United States (it was the days when they always won the Ryder Cup, so they were probably great), where it was packaged and shipped off across the world to wherever, including your own professional’s shop, should you deign to support her or him – cheaper from the high street golf shops perhaps or tax giants like Amazon.

That got me thinking about that magic material Gortex and all the wonderful, easy, stretchy things we wear nowadays as a matter of course.  Those things that mean I don’t have to own an iron or ironing board.  How are they made?  What damage do they do?  Does that make us all culpable?  Guilty of turning a blind eye to our part in buggering up the planet?  How many millions of us are there?  If we all did one little tiny thing to change, we’d make a difference, if we all made the same tiny little change at the same time, we’d be dangerous!

I used to think that I wouldn’t mind if Florida, which is only a few feet above sea level after all, sank but then, as it started being battered by storms, I started to think about all the friends I had who lived there and I realised that, selfish git though I was, Florida mattered to me.  Admittedly, I cared more about my friends and the manatees than the golf courses but the health of Florida is important to the health of the planet and the more Floridians who wake up to that fact the better.  The golf courses, sensitively and ecologically managed, could be a big force for good.  And I think that goes for everywhere in the world.

It’s a bit scary to think that what we do, every single one of us, makes any difference whatsoever but, inescapably, it does, we do.  Can we cope with the responsibility?

This week, on a less global note, the redoubtable women of WHGC (Whittington Heath GC) took on the seniors in our annual match.  As usual, we lost, but this time only narrowly 3 1/2 – 4 1/2.  Seniors are sensitive souls – I suspect it comes with age – so we don’t like to beat them up too badly, if at all.  We’ve now got a very equitable format –  stableford match play, with the men playing off their card and we women playing off our stroke index.  As a rule it makes for close, competitive matches.  My partner and I won on the 18th – she holed a bit of a monster putt to win the 16th to get us back to all square and then won the last, where she had a shot, with an immaculate par, for three points.

The next day we were off in a coach, to Blackpool, for a tea dance at the legendary Tower Ballroom, the mecca of ballroom dancing.  It was brill.  It was just wonderful to see so many people of all ages and stages swirling around with a smile on their face, loving every minute.  My partner and I, who must still rank as 35-handicappers at best, can now say that our dance shoes have set foot on one of the most hallowed floors in the world – think St Andrews, Augusta National, Royal Melbourne.  And the good thing about Blackpool is we didn’t take any divots…..

FAB-U-LOUS.

 

 

 

 

 

The spare bedroom, which will be in use in a few days’ time, has become my packing ground as I prepare for the Ryder Cup in Paris – and panic is already setting in, not least because there’s a danger of a semblance of organisation ruling in the Davies household.

The last time I took this much care over my packing I was nearly arrested.  Dai and I were going to Australia and environs for eight weeks, so I took a week to decide what I was taking with me, operating on Dai’s principle that you only needed to pack for a week however long the trip was.  I was chuffed with the results – 12.5 kilos in a not-even-full bright yellow Kipling bag.  That’s right 12.5 kilos including the bag.  Brill, I thought as I checked in.  How long did you say you were going for the check-in woman said.  Eight weeks I said, proudly, oblivious to the disbelieving, nay, suspicious look on her face.

Later, as I presented my boarding card, I was taken to one side by a couple of men with stern expressions.  Special Branch?  Who knows, something similar anyway.  Having Belfast as my place of birth probably didn’t help but I was a bit, as my mother would NEVER have said, affronted.  It’s taken me years of practice as well as a week of assiduous mixing and matching to get to this point I protested.  Plus a much-travelled husband with his 7-day rule.  In the end, they laughed and let me go.

The bag weighed a lot more coming back.

Packing for Paris always does my head in – or it used to until I caught myself on.  It’s Paris, for God’s sake Patricia, you haven’t a hope; it’s full of Parisians, elegant, stylish creatures since they emerged from the womb – or wherever babies come from these days; you’ll never be mistaken for a French person, let alone a Parisian woman of lots more than a certain age, so STOP WORRYING!  Phew.  Great pep talk.  I can relax and pack the waterproofs and the bobbly purple fleece from the 2011 Solheim Cup.

It’ll be chilly in the mornings, though Mo tells me it’ll be warm for the match days next weekend, with no rain forecast.  Huh.  I’ll believe that when the first of October comes and my waterproofs are packed away dry – apart from the odd damp patch from Europe’s celebratory champagne spray!!? – ready for the flight home.

The last two home Ryder Cups I was at I lived in my waterproofs.  To my horror, I realised they were way back in 2006 and 2010.  The K Club was wet, wet, wet, not just from torrential rain but awash with tears as everyone tried to cope with the death of Heather Clarke, Darren’s wife, far too young, from cancer.

Funnily enough, I scarcely remember the rain and mud, though I know that the waterproofs – bright red (well Woosie, claimed by Wales, was the captain) – went on first thing in the morning and didn’t come off until we got home at night.  Every day.  It was much the same at Celtic Manor four years later when my very expensive Dubarry boots proved themselves worth every penny within 24 hours.  Trainers and anything ankle length were liable to be sucked off into the mud, so knee high was the way to go.  Mo wore the Dubarrys at Gleneagles and I’m thinking I might need them in Paris, fair forecast or not.  Cost per wearing after all these years of service?  Minuscule.  Let’s hope Europe don’t need bad weather to win.

There was torrential rain here today, with our friendly match against Sutton Coldfield cancelled, the course flooding and the American Circus big top in Beacon Park, near me, being battered by audience-deterring downpours.  It seemed to be sunny at the Portugal Masters in Vilamoura, with players in their shirt sleeves as they enjoyed a low-scoring day on the Dom Pedro Victoria Golf Course.  Sergio, who might not have made my team for the Ryder Cup circus at Le Golf National, had a 66, five under par, three shots behind the leader Lucas Herbert, an Australian.  Thorbjorn Olesen, the Dane who’ll make his Ryder Cup debut next week, started with a 68.  Fingers crossed he and Sergio will be at the top of their game when it really matters….

One woman who was on top form in testing conditions at Crail, in Fife, was Laura Webb (nee Bolton), who’s just won the Women’s Senior Amateur Championship for the second time in three years.  She had rounds of 67 and 73 for a 4 under par total of 140, nine shots ahead of Sale’s Catherine Rawthore.  Webb now plays out of East Berkshire but she grew up at Cairndhu in Larne and also played a lot of her golf at Royal Portrush, so she knows about bad weather.  Well done Laura, class is permanent.

I hate to finish on a sad note and this could not be sadder but I can’t not mention the tragic death of Celia Barquin Arozamena (1996-2018), who was murdered on a golf course not far from the Iowa State University campus where she was finishing her degree in civil engineering.  The Spaniard, who had been named Iowa State’s Female Athlete of the Year, also won the European Ladies’ Amateur Championship in Slovakia in July.  There are plenty of words that come to mind – heartbreaking, sickening, senseless – but at the moment they’re all inadequate.  Love and hugs to Celia’s family and friends.

 

I’ll leave the last word to Meg Mallon, former US Women’s Open champion, US Solheim Cup captain and one of golf’s great people, who posted this tweet

 

Even at my lowly level it’s important to try and concentrate on the course.  “Have you ever played this game before?” my sister, exasperated, said.  I think I’d asked her to remind me of her tip on marking the ball properly, having forgotten to check it out again before our game at Delamere Forest, in Cheshire, yesterday.  She automatically assumes that I’m trying to wind her up but it was a genuine request.  In any case, there’s no need for me to make any effort to wind Mo up on the golf course; put her out with anyone else and she’ll be Zen-like calmness personified; put her out with me and I only have to breathe to deeve the life out of her.

We’ve both been playing golf for more than 50 years but at Delamere we were introduced to a format that we’d never played before and, appropriately, given that it was three old birds playing, it’s called the perch.  To get on the perch, you have to win a hole outright and since I had a par 5, nett 4 at the 1st, I was first on the perch.  Once on the perch, if you win another hole outright, you win a point but that’s not as easy as it sounds because the trick is staying there, with two other people trying their damnedest to knock you off.

Pam Valentine, who introduced us to the format, was the overall winner with a sole, solitary point.   Un point.  She ascended the perch (for the first time) thanks to a birdie 3 at the 14th, gained her point with another birdie 3 at the 15th (where she had a shot anyway) and was knocked off by my par 3 at the 16th.  That didn’t put me on the perch, it just knocked Pam off and when the 17th was halved, she couldn’t be overtaken.

It may sound confusing but it was great fun, kept us all interested and involved and if you’re playing for a penny a point, doesn’t cost you too much.

Delamere was my fourth course in four days and I confess I won’t be touching the clubs today, except, perhaps, to give them a proper scrub.  On Monday morning I played, in undistinguished fashion, in the Charles Heeley (stableford) at Maxstoke Park in Warwickshire (the course is in the grounds of the grand castle at the top of the blog} and did something that I can’t recall ever doing before:  I teed up outside the markers – not in front of them but in line, on the tee,  beyond the second marker.  As my partner put her ball down, in between the markers, I realised what I’d done.  Ah.  What’s the penalty for that?

Draconian, that’s what.

I was penalised two shots and had to play another ball from the correct area.  Not surprisingly I blobbed.  If it had been matchplay, I wouldn’t have lost the hole or been docked even a single shot.  I’d have been allowed to carry on, unless my opponent recalled the shot and made me tee a ball up again in the right place.  Huh.

On Tuesday I was playing at home in Staffordshire in our open day Texas scramble.  There were three of us and my main concern – I, heaven help us, was in charge of the card – was to ensure that we had five drives each, including a short hole.  It was an opinionated threesome and there was the occasional frank discussion as to whose shot we should take but our downfall was that we hit too many poor shots at the same time and didn’t hole enough putts.  Our nett 71 was a mere ELEVEN shots behind the winners, who obviously holed plenty of putts and, presumably, had at least one person hitting a good shot every time.

Oh yes, and there was yet another dozy Davies faux pas, this time on the green at the 7th hole, where I had to putt first and forgot to put a marker down so the others knew where to putt from…..I putted past the hole, realised what I’d done – or not done – and called a summit meeting.  In the end, texas scramble or not, we decided approximation was not good enough and continued with my ball.

Sometimes it’s just too much to golf and think at the same time, especially if you’ve been trying to do it for more than half a century.

On Wednesday, at Little Aston, Staffs, one of my favourite venues, it was a 3-ball alliance, two scores to count, stableford, shotgun start.  We started at the 16th, a tough hole, where I had what I think was my first ever par 4 there.  That was my highlight, though our hostess played beautifully and we struggled womanfully to support her as best we could.  The good thing about starting where we did is that you get the devilish 17th and difficult 18th out of the way early on and it’s not too far to walk back in and change from golfers to ladies-who-lunchers.

There were so many of us that we were allocated the (men’s) visitors’ locker room to change in and I was gratified to see that, although it was on the spartan side, there were a couple of hairdryers installed.  Tommy Fleetwood would no doubt be pleased.

And, on reflection, the utilitarian austerity makes sense.  Who needs colour and comfort in the locker room when the bar and the dining room beckon?

I was going to mention the Evian Championship, the last major of the season but when I tried to find the website to study the scores, this is what I came up with…….

I’m a bit out of my comfort zone this week because I’m sitting writing this in the press room at the last Ricoh Women’s British Open (new sponsors to be announced in due course) at Royal Lytham & St Annes, not at the dining room table at home.  It’s late afternoon, not after midnight, The Proclaimers are not belting out at full blast and there’s no sign of the red wine writing mixture.

It’s hard to believe that I used to spend my life in places like this, not many of them as posh as this one, hammering away on the keyboard, battling to control my tendency to convolution and convey a flavour of the day in the required number of words (not many usually) and trying not to panic at the thought of the looming deadline.  Deadlines always loom don’t they?  It’s the nature of the beast.

 

I’m keeping an eye on the golf, I have a vague idea who’s leading, who’s already heading for home and who’s still in the thick of things despite an untimely glitch – usually, at Lytham, bunker related – but the relaxing thing is that I really don’t need to know very much at all.  This blog is often a fact-free zone and so far this week, I’ve been catching up with friends I haven’t seen for a while at a venue that is one of my favourites.  Lytham is SUCH a good golf course, a fierce test even when the weather is relatively benign and there are always loads of people here, in a part of the world where golf is a long-established passion.

This championship, which started in 1976, was first held in this neck of the woods in 1979, at Southport & Ainsdale (S&A), just down the road and I remember Alison Sheard, of South Africa, holding up her Pretty Polly candlesticks (the winner’s trophy) in front of hordes of people.  Maureen played as an amateur and I was impressed by the numbers who turned out to see the women play.  Our friends Hilary and Michael Edwards lived nearby and Michael, who had played for Ireland, caddied for Mo.

I seem to remember that Michael made his debut at Muirfield in the early 1960s and in the foursomes was paired with the great Joe Carr against Reid Jack, a formidable Scot who’d been Amateur champion and another luminary.  Michael, the rookie, recalled that the rough was waist high and by the turn Joe, who could be wild, had lost four of his (Michael’s) golf balls.  That was in the days when balls were precious items, not handed out like sweeties on the 1st tee and I fear Ireland did not win that match.

Anyway, I digress but I did bump in to someone who goes back as far as I do and well remembered Alison and her candlesticks.  Jane Allen, who’s from Royal Portrush, also confirmed her great age by mentioning the name Barry Edwards, the man who was in charge of what is now the LET (Ladies’ European Tour) in the days when it was sponsored by Carlsberg and there were numerous tournaments all over Britain and Ireland.  Jane remembers tournaments at Portstewart and Portrush and organising a last-minute birthday cake for Sheard.  The baker came up trumps with a South African theme that reduced the birthday girl to tears.  Bet she still remembers that.

There have always been prodigies in golf, kids who’ve been brilliant little and have lived with great expectations.  Some live up to them and train on after burning brightly early, others don’t and struggle to cope with the adult game.  Some, like Michelle Wie, blow hot and cold, winning the odd big thing but fighting what seems to be a losing battle against injury.  The Hawaiian pulled out on the 12th hole in the first round because of a painful wrist injury that wouldn’t sit nag, nag, nagging away in the background but erupted onto centre stage, refusing to be ignored.  Like many sports people she’s a one-person A&E, accommodating aches and pains to achieve her dreams but such single-minded dedication takes its toll, physically and mentally.

For other people success comes a little later in life and, if I’m in charge of the trophy, even later than it should.  Colin Callander was, in his heyday, one of the AGW’s (Association of Golf Writers) better golfers and has won most of our trophies many times.  Last November, at the sainted Brancaster, Royal West Norfolk, he and his wife Jill won the coveted Pat Ward-Thomas Trophy, a foursomes event.  Colin has won the title many times but it was a first for Jill and she was denied the glory of receiving the silverware at the time because no one knew where it was.   To my shame – because I’d denied all knowledge of its whereabouts – the trophy turned up at Maureen’s, so I polished it up  and, very, very belatedly it was presented to one half of the winning team.  Sorry you weren’t there Jill but congrats on the arrival of Clara, the first grandchild.

Footnote (literally):  Being in need of new golf shoes – my current ones are falling apart at the seams – do I play safe or do I spend a small fortune on a swanky, swoon-inducing, swing-enhancing Italian pair…..A dilemma for the weekend.