fWhen we were in North Carolina last month the locals were complaining bitterly about the weather.  More precisely, they were bemoaning a prolonged and unbearable heatwave which saw temperatures hit the mid-nineties day after day after day.  Normal temps are early 80s Fahrenheit for the second half of June.  Since our return to these shores we find the locals here are also complaining about the weather –  and just as bitterly.  Day after day of grey skies, relentless rain and very cool temperatures have left most of our friends and neighbours uncharacteristically downbeat.  One couple, who escaped to France in search of elusive sunshine, reported in an anguished WhatsApp, “It’s raining here too!”  followed, of course, by the relevant emoji.

It’s well, therefore, that we all have lots of sport on the box to keep us occupied and we can let ourselves be transported to a world away from the greyness outside our windows.  I’ve been following the European football, Wimbledon, the rugby from the southern hemisphere, the Tour de France, Formula One and various Olympic trials for various hopefuls.  Oh yes, and the golf.

It may surprise you that I don’t always feel like following the golf but oh, how I enjoyed Leona Maguire’s win at the Centurion Club in the Aramco Team Series presented by PIF-London last Sunday (see pic above).  She’s partial to a grandstand finish, isn’t she?  Holing from ten feet or so for an eagle on the last to snatch a one-shot victory over Maria Hernandez was reason enough to match the roar from the gallery with one of her own.  It was brave, it was gutsy and it was historic, because in rolling that putt home she became the first Irish player to win on the Ladies’ European Tour.

Away some 150 miles to the north-west of that final green I was also roaring with delight and happily exclaiming, “At last!”  Some 35 years after my last runner-up position on the tour a player from the Emerald Isle had ascended the top of the podium.  Happy, happy days.  Talented players from my home shores  – think Lillian Behan, Yvonne McQuillan, Debbie Hannah and Lynn McCool among others – had all done their best but we’d come up short.  No need to feel sorry for us – we had a grand time trying but with a bit of luck the floodgates will now open.

Well done to Leona – to be the first to do anything is pretty special and I look forward, sooner rather than later, I hope, to saluting her first major victory.  Why not start this week at The Amundi Evian Championship?  This is a course that does not require long-hitting, rather guile, patience and an exquisite short game – all qualities Leona has in abundance.  And if that doesn’t work out, there’s always a gold medal to target a couple of weeks later in Paris.

Here’s to more firsts.

A couple of important appointments were announced this week.  Martin Slumbers’ successor as CEO of the R&A is Mark Darbon, a veritable youngster of 45 years, which should lower the average age of the ruling body somewhat.  He’s a product of numerous different sporting worlds (the latest with Northampton Saints rugby) and recipient of universal approbation from the corporate sector.  We will no doubt become better acquainted with him as he gets closer to taking over towards the end of the year but he has declined interviews so far, seemingly wishing to remain, for now, in the background.

Bounding into the foreground, however, is Keegan Bradley who has just accepted the PGA of America’s invitation to captain the 2025 United States Ryder Cup team.  It’s taken a few months for Tiger Woods formally to decline the captaincy and Keegan has been given the nod.

I do not wish to be a purveyor of doom and gloom but I feel this may be something of a poisoned chalice for both Bradley and the European captain Luke Donald.  I have huge misgivings about the choice of venue for next year’s contest – namely Bethpage Black in New York.  I attended the 2019 PGA Championship at Bethpage (won by Brooks Koepka) and experiencing the New York crowd was quite an eye-opener.  I can’t say the loud, raucous, aggressive, challenging attitude of the fans was enjoyable.

Remember, that was an individual major – goodness knows what a Ryder Cup vibe will bring.  Having attended the last two home-based contests, in Paris and Rome, there is definitely an increasing lack of sportsmanship on the part of the fans and ugly, boorish behaviour is more prevalent.  One of my American colleagues asked me a couple of months back if I really would consider going to Bethpage Black.  My response?

“Not in a million years.”

I really do fear that the 2025 Ryder Cup may herald an all-time low for our sport – unless the powers-that-be take the sensible action of putting a time limit on alcohol sales.  More drastic action would be to ban alcohol altogether but the enticement to the organising bodies to fill their coffers will be too strong, I fear.

I shall watch from the safety of my living room and pray fervently that I’m wrong.

That’s all for another day, however, so we’ll turn our eyes to this week and the women’s fourth major in beautiful Evian and Rory McIlroy’s defence of his Scottish title at the equally, but differently, scenic Renaissance Club in North Berwick.  And after that, there’s nothing separating us from the big one at Troon – the Open.

Please, please may the weather play ball.

 

 

The week has consisted of cancelled flights, lost luggage, neck and back treatments, a barbecue birthday celebration, England football agony, a tractor run and a wonderful dip down to centre court. I’m now officially clean out of energy and fit for nothing more than a few ramblings for your delectation.

It’s so interesting when you are very familiar with one sporting world and the machinations of big tournaments and all that that entails and then you step into a different sport altogether, seeing the organising and the structure simply from a spectator’s point of view.  This was my third or fourth trip to SW19, courtesy of a great pal who receives a couple of member’s guest tickets each year.  Getting the nod to go is akin, I suspect, to getting a wild card pick for the Solheim Cup team – it only comes around every so often and is a great joy.

As ever, with the British summer weather, it’s a challenge to know what to take for the day.  This is where tennis trumps golf hands down.  You are allowed to take a cabin-sized piece of baggage into the grounds to serve your every need.  No ridiculous edicts concerning tiny rucksacks of 12 inches or so which are supposed to serve you well as you tramp round a golf course for five or six hours.

And you can take in your own food and drink!  I saw one guy with two bottles of the finest champagne in his rucksack and he was far from alone.  Nothing like that is allowed at the Open Golf Championship.  I must say I liked what I saw at Wimbledon and it didn’t seem to be massively impacting the numbers who were buying food and drink on site.

Apart from the fun of people watching and just soaking up the sheer beauty of the place, the tennis we saw was mesmerising.  First up was a brilliant Spanish player, Jessica Bouzas Maneiro, who beat the defending champion, Marketa Vondrousova, in the first round singles.  In her post-match, on-court interview she proclaimed that this moment was the highlight of her career so far and we all roared our delight, happy to be able to share in it with her.

Next up was Novak Djokovic, three and a half weeks removed from an operation on his knee – something to do with a misbehaving meniscus I believe.  He was in control from the start so we departed for afternoon tea on the members’ lawn, returning in time to see him polish off his hapless opponent.  We were having the most civilised time imaginable and the ability to close and then open the roof meant that the play skipped along at a merry pace.

Talking of pace, the teams of ball boys and girls moved like lightning round the court, efficient, unobtrusive and oh-so-well drilled.  I found myself watching them from time to time, marvelling at their economy of movement, their synchronicity and uniformity.  It was a joy watching them, never mind the tennis.

Finally, at around 5.30pm, the new British No 1, Jack Draper, came on to centre to commence a stout tussle with Swedish player, Elias Ymer.  Three hours later they were locked at two sets all and the decision was taken to close the roof again, which takes about a quarter of an hour.  We decided to abort and leave in order to make our way to where we were staying with another pal, Janey, who lives in Wimbledon.  And this is where tennis smashes golf into the ether.  We left the grounds, caught a shuttle bus to Wimbledon station and walked 15 minutes to our digs – and we were still there in time to see Draper winning the last couple of games of the match.  The transport links were superb, quick and easy – not words I’ve ever considered using when trying to leave a golf tournament!

Janey’s is a very sporty, active household and golf has been in her life since childhood.  She played for Wales at junior level and still holds down a sub 6 handicap.  The clubs may have been tucked out of sight under the stairs but the cushions in the picture below were, rightly, proudly on display, catching everyone’s eye.  They were made by her North Wales-based sister, Mo, and I think are indicative that golf still holds the number one spot in her heart – just ahead of tennis, pickleball and bridge!

I had been keeping an eye out through the day on who was doing what in the final qualifying for the Open and was thrilled to see Justin Rose had made it.  When I got home the following day I saw he had been recovering from his 36-hole exertions in the royal box on centre court.  The only celeb I recognised when we were there was Jackie Stewart, the legendary Scottish racing driver, who, incidentally, has always been keen on his golf.

I find myself in danger of becoming more like the sister – i.e. in barely giving golf a mention.  I used to berate her for that, pointing out the clue was in the name – Madill GOLF dot com.  She paid no heed, of course, but hopefully she’ll be the one giving you your golf fix this week.

Now, where’s the remote.  Time to see who’s on centre.

 

 

 

A friend expressed surprise that Maureen and I were still blogging (talking?), even though we’ve been on holiday in North Carolina for a couple of weeks but we’re a dedicated duo and America is pretty good at Wi-Fi.

It seems to be bloody useless at recycling – or we were hopeless at tracking down the requisite bins – and as plastic-free July looms in the UK, perhaps we should be switching from upping our recycling efforts to ensuring that we stop using Himalayan-sized mountains of plastic packaging in the first place.  Goodness gracious me, I can hear the long-suffering loyal reader sigh, she’s off again, here comes another rant.  Well, no, not really but I have found the whole thing unutterably depressing.

An American pal who would not dream of NOT recycling was sure that “an earthy crunchy town like Asheville” must offer recycling and suggested Googling it.  Trouble is, Asheville is nearly an hour’s drive from where we’re staying and our rustic digs didn’t have a single word on separating plastic, glass, aluminium, paper and cardboard.  Apparently, in some rural areas recycling bins can be found at fire stations but even I am not going to be driving around with the car filled with rubbish looking for the proper bin.  This would-be eco-warrior has her limits.  Perhaps that’s part of the problem.

 

Brian, who is a recycling cynic (with good reason I’m beginning to fear), is, however, fond of a road trip and likes driving, especially when he can set the satnav to go off grid and avoid interstates, tolls and the like.  The lanes he really loves are meandering rural ones taking you through parts of the state that not many North Carolinians will have travelled. We crossed the entire state, from near Swansboro in the south east to near Asheville in the west, not too far from Tennessee and the Appalachians.  (Think I also mentioned the Blue Ridge Mountains but looking more closely it’s more like the Great Smoky Mountains and Bald Mountains.)  The journey took a tad longer than nine hours, with one longish stop (for homemade breakfast pancakes at The Farmhouse Cafe and Bakery in Newton Grove) and two shorter ones.

Just like in the UK going north/south (or vice versa) is more straightforward than going east/west and having been instructed to avoid Charlotte, our gizmo took us on an early higgledy-piggledy adventure through little country lanes, made more mysterious because of the early morning fog.  We just hoped we wouldn’t meet any of the monster trucks that are a speciality over here or super-sized farm machinery looming out of the gloom.  Not every driver gave a toss about headlights so our driver had to be wide awake and fully alert from the off.  Fortunately, he’d had his breakfast and coffee early.

In times past, you used to study the map before your journey but now you tap in the instructions and follow the machine until it tells you to stop.  Brian has it all linked up to his hearing aids so he doesn’t need any helpful advice from his passengers; in fact I’m not sure he hears any of the advice coming his way from Mo (in the back because it’s more comfortable for her ailing neck and shoulder) and me (in the front trying not to interfere – insert whatever emoji seems appropriate).  Specs were needed to keep track of where we were because a lot of the places were in tiny print – if in print at all.

There seem to be more churches than there are places in this neck of the woods, mostly some variety of Baptist but there was Maysville Methodist Church, White Oak Missionary Baptist, Maple Grove Baptist, Lamie’s Chapel Christian Church, Rivermont Holiness Club, Deep Run Church of God, Zion Methodist Mount Olive, Eureka Christian Church, Pentecostal Free Will, to mention but a few and on and on.  Plus a sign or two saying “America Needs To Repent”.  Well, there was no shortage of places to stop by and confess all.  The first – and only – Catholic Church we spotted was in Asheville and it was Korean Catholic.  Think there was a Korean Methodist just up the road.  Bible Belt anybody?

On Monday the 24th of June, I hit 70 and celebrated by opening all the birthday cards I’d brought with me and having a cup of Irish breakfast tea on the verandah, wearing the birthday jim-jams given to me by a kind friend who wasn’t enamoured of my rudimentary running repairs on my previous pair – they wouldn’t have been appearing in any photos shoots.  Thanks to everybody for their kind wishes and thanks to the Naughties for the big party we Noughts had at WHGC on Friday 7th June, the day before I flew to Dublin for the start of this trip.  It was ace.  Apologies but I don’t seem to have any decent pictures of the occasion – there must be some somewhere.

As well as churches there are oodles of craft breweries here and we rooted out a few.  Our driver had to be very abstemious but he could well be back – with a chauffeuse.  Slainte.

 

And, finally, this is where all the rubbish will be going.  Note the chain but do you really think it would worry any self-respecting scavenging bear or crittur?

 

 

There’s no golf on the agenda for the blog this week, except on the telly and I wasn’t even going to mention Bryson, Rory and the US Open but how can I not?  Hadn’t I schlepped round Pinehurst No 2 in the heat and the dust, getting goosebumps at the chants of “Rory, Rory” as he pulled away and Bryson wobbled, then watching in horror as it all went horribly wrong at the end.  Except for Bryson.

I was gutted.  Then I was very, very disappointed when I learned that Rory had rushed off the way he did.  A usually classy person behaving in a way that lacked class.  Somebody mentioned that Lewis Hamilton, when he was pipped to the title by Max Verstappen in decidedly dubious circumstances and was heading for the hills, was stopped by his Dad, who said:  “You’re going to shake Max’s hand, look him in the eye and say ‘well done’; then you’re going to shake his Dad’s hand; then you’re going to do the press stuff; and then you can leave…”

Too late now.  In that hideous phrase, “It is what it is.”  Or should that be, “It is what it was.”   Whatever, it’s still one of the (sporting) world’s most irritating sayings and I hate it.  Yuk.

As for Rory’s golf, it seems to me, no expert that I am, that there’s very little wrong with it, no need for root and branch reform.  However, I’m resigning myself to him not overtaking Harry Vardon as the European man with the most majors – a person needs to get to eight for that and to get to six to equal Sir Nicholas Alexander Faldo’s more recent tally.

Well, at least one Holywood golfer had a lovely day on Sunday.  Tom McKibbin, a lanky lad following in Rory’s footsteps, birdied the last hole last Friday to make the cut and in the last round he was paired with Scottie Scheffler, the world No 1.  Ace.  A dream draw.  They both finished with a 72, two over par and shared 41st place with Frankie Capan III, Harris English, Jordan Spieth, Tim Widing, Emiliano Grillo, Billy Herschel and Luke Clanton, an amateur, on 288, eight over.

I can’t resist sharing four more photos from Pinehurst, from the 14th green, even though they’re not very good – about up to my usual standard – because they encapsulate just how devilish and mind-boggling the greens are and, of course, no one does frustration and gobsmacked amazement quite like Tyrrell.  I miss him.

Pic one is to give some idea of the slopes around the green as Tyrrell, in the dark outfit, surveys the contours on the green.

Pic two, left arm out in astonishment, how can that be?

Pic three, right arm right out, giving it the full Shakespearean.

Pic four, flag back in, hole done, very glad I was far enough away not to hear a single word.

Sorry they’re not the best photos but it’ll give you some idea and you don’t really need words when Tyrrell ‘Mad Hatter’ Hatton is about.  He’s with the LIV lot now and I believe they’re just next door to North Carolina this week, in Nashville, Tennessee.  Saturday is sold out apparently but at the time of writing you could still get a grounds pass for Friday at $54.14 (not sure what the total is with taxes and so on).  Club 54, which seems to be unlimited eating and drinking by the 18th green, is $675.40 (including service fee of 37.59), plus sales tax of 65.85.  It’s an expensive place these days, America.

And I still think LIV should set a proper example and pay us spectators to turn up and make the show.

I was going to have a rant about the USGA’s ludicrous bag policy – the beyond idiotic 6 inches x 6 inches x 6 inches.  For a day’s golf watching?  You’ve got to be kidding.  I know a lot of organisations and tournaments take their lead from Augusta National but sometimes sense should prevail and this mini bag thing should be laughed off the course.  If your bag is see-through (made of the sort of stuff that melts in the heat, sticks to your skin, gives off who knows what noxious chemical odours and costs an outrageous amount of money), you’re permitted a few more inches.  No one searched the non see-through bags, presumably because the  scanning machines are now so good that it’s not necessary.  So why bother about the size?

Sun lotion, sunglasses, reading glasses, water bottles (empty to enter), hat, binoculars, money, who has enough dexterity and hands to juggle that little lot.  And that’s just for starters.  Where do you put your food, including your $2 banana? (Don’t tempt me.) And what if you wanted a drink – though a wee beer at $11 didn’t appeal and a big lemonade in one of those squidgy plastic cups was a tricky prospect.  And if you could cope with all that and your folding chair (permitted), you were in line for the Cirque du Soleil.

Ah well, perhaps I’ll leave my rant for another day!

Brian, Mo and I headed for the North Carolina coast after Pinehurst and made the journey without too many alarms despite nearly getting arrested for trying to enter Fort Liberty (formerly Bragg) in search of coffee.  Sat nav’s fault and we decided we’d better approach the heavily-guarded barrier rather than do a U-turn.  Driving licence examined, stern, scarily-armed stares delivered, we were directed back whence we came.

You’ll understand why there are no photographs of the incident.

But here are a few to show that we did eventually reach the coast unscathed.

And, finally, to prove that I waded in to the warm Atlantic in my aged Lands’ End bathing suit and to encourage me to fight the flab on my return home – Aer Lingus pilots’ strike permitting – and, above all, to make everybody else feel better…