Maureen wouldn’t be the greatest cricket fan but last Monday, as we were driving home from Wales after enjoying the Women’s Open at Royal Porthcawl, we both listened, enthralled, to Test Match Special and the last knockings of the fifth and final test between England and India at The Oval.  It was brilliant radio, tense, compelling, vivid and I had to work hard not to sit on the edge of my seat because I was driving.

The ground was pretty well packed, even though everybody knew that there’d be about an hour’s play at most, weather permitting.  After all, England only needed 35 runs to win and India only needed three wickets (I think; what with all the excitement and emotion the fine details now escape me!), including that of Chris Woakes, down to one arm because of a dislocated shoulder.

You wouldn’t dare make it up.

The atmosphere crackled and sizzled across the airwaves and Mo and I were so hooked that we listened to the last few balls sitting in a service station car park.  Radio rules OK.

Our maternal grandfather was a keen cricketer and he gave me his bat – a big, heavy thing that I couldn’t wield as an adult let alone as a single-figure child.  He had three daughters and four granddaughters and decided that I, the tomboy, was the nearest he was going to get to a grandson.  Sadly, the only cricket we played was in the garden or on the beach, with Mum keeping wicket in her rubber gloves and me being bamboozled by Dad’s cunning spin.

I’ve passed the bat on to Pampa’s great grandson, the first boy in the family for a generation or two; hope you’ve still got it, Chris!

Cricket correspondents undoubtedly work hard but the TMS team have all the action there in front of them and don’t have to put in a lot of legwork – except to try and keep in some sort of shape; I believe they still get cakes and other goodies from grateful listeners and some cricket lunches are legendary, so waistlines must be under constant threat.  I suppose that’s the case for many of us as we get older but tramping around golf courses does wonders for the step count.

Goodness knows how many miles the BBC’s golf correspondent Iain Carter has walked over the last few weeks.  The Beeb doesn’t do golf on the telly any more – apart from the odd highlight – but its radio coverage of the big events is still second-to-none and in this country that means Carter and his colleagues are on the course more often than not.  There’s nothing flat and boring about Portrush and Porthcawl, so following matches every step of the way is more like hiking than strolling.  They won’t need any rocking at night.

In fact, the inestimable Iain, a big cricket fan, was so cream-crackered after Porthcawl that he didn’t have the energy to go to The Oval on that memorable Monday; that’s exhaustion for you.

Terrain apart, following the leaders – or birdie-blitzing Brits who are threatening to lead, perhaps even win a major – is not an easy job, even from inside the ropes:  you have to keep a clear head, remember who’s hit what shot where, take in the leaderboard, watch out for brambles and bunkers, avoid buggies and tv cameramen, all while sounding calm and informed, well, it’s a job for an expert.  And it’s mentally and physically taxing.

In amongst the championships on this side of the pond, Cameron Young was winning The Wyndham Championship in Greensboro, North Carolina, his first victory on the PGA Tour.  He was also billed as the 1,000th winner on said tour, dating back to 1860, apparently, when there was no golf at all in America.  It is a claim so ridiculous as to be beyond ludicrous.

Talk about making yourself a laughing stock.

Not Cameron Young.  He was anything but.  He won by six shots and admitted to a certain amount of confusion after hugging his caddie and shaking hands with his playing partner on the 18th green.  “What do I do now?” he said.

“Every time I’ve come off the last green my entire career, I have shaken the hands of whoever I’ve played with, thanked the standard bearer and our walking scorer and then walked through the tunnel to scoring.  Today there were about 150 people between me and that tunnel….I didn’t know if I did that first or if I spoke to somebody first.  That’s the first time I’ve done anything any different after holing out on 18.

“I would prefer that outcome more often.”

A lot of good judges think it’s something he’ll probably get used to.

Meanwhile, back here at a more lowly level of performance, I’m trying to teach myself to breathe properly after decades of getting it wrong.  It’s not straightforward but my friends and family will be glad to learn that part of the process involves taping my mouth shut…

Can you hear the cheering?

 

 

 

 

They say it’s a good idea to start at the beginning, so perhaps that’s the best thing to do. The problem is that I’ve pressed a button or two and am now writing this piece in an unfamiliar format and have no idea if it’ll turn out all right or not. In the general scheme of things and given the state of the world, it matters not a jot but it’s become a source of pride (prepare for the fall) to get the damned thing out on time, more or less, every week. Is it a chore? Not really, more a joy but there are times when it’s more complicated than it should be and this looks like being one of those occasions – especially since my technical adviser has gone to bed and I’m hunting and pecking on my iPad having forgotten to pack the keyboard.

It seems I’m starting at the end after all but perhaps I have half an excuse because on Monday I gave blood for the 69th time. Nothing much to boast about really but not a bad effort either. My (modest) ambition was to match my age and all being well I should squeeze in two more sessions before my 72nd birthday next summer but now I’m desperate to get to 75 donations. Then you get some sort of token – emerald I think – to mark the achievement.

I go in to Birmingham to donate and there were two treats in store: a new (to me) train route in because our line is closed for works of some sort – we passed through places I’d never heard of – and The CBSO (City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra) playing in the middle of New Street Station at lunchtime. What a joy. Just the boost a blood-depleted bod needed.

Birmingham City Council, which is properly (or improperly) bankrupt, decided to cut the CBSO’s funding and I suggested to one of the staff that they should consider changing their name.  The very sensible reply was:  “We’re the City’s orchestra, not the City Council’s and we have a name that’s known worldwide.”   And so they do.  Renowned, in fact.   They also want their home city to embrace them and bring the joy of music to all and sundry.

Sometimes golf makes the heart sing and sometimes it makes the temper tantrum – perhaps simultaneously.  At a very benign Whittington Heath on Monday, in the PGA Midland Open Series, James Freeman from Rotherham GC had the round of  his life – a 59 that featured 12 birdies (seven of them in a row) and no bogeys.  It didn’t count as a course record because, for whatever reason, at the height of summer, there were preferred lies. Even more galling, it was a 36-hole event and James eventually finished second, three shots behind Irishman Niall Kearney, who surged to the top with a second round of 60.  

I didn’t have any birdies when I played the course on Wednesday and there was no sign of a 59 at a (mostly) bright and breezy Royal Porthcawl on the first day of the AIG Women’s Open, the final major championship of the season.  There was some excellent golf but Mo and I saw not a single sign advertising the event on our way to the course.  Yes, there were signs directing you to the car parks – green, blue, whatever – but they were only meaningful and useful to those of us who knew there was something going on.  Perhaps all the advertising is being done online – by AI bots.  Or is it botts?

We watched quite a bit of Lottie Woad, the woman of the moment but mostly we fell in to chat as we bumped in to friends from far and wide.  Most memorably, the inimitable Kirsty Taylor (née Speak, a Lancashire lass long based in Minchinhampton, introduced us to Corinne Durber, a single figure golfer and a former Gloucestershire county captain now renowned as the router of gambling giants Paddy Power.

Shamefully, this story of  the Golfing Gardener from Gloucestershire (think Gambling also fits in to the alliteration somewhere) had passed us by but it transpires that Corinne, playing some sort of online game, won the jackpot – a mere million quid or thereabouts – only to be fobbed off with a measly £20,000 by PP.  They claimed some sort of technical hitch – a problem with the software/hardware/wiring/satellite biorhythms/whatever – but reckoned without Corinne’s tenacity.  She took them to court and earlier this year, after five years and a lot of angst, the judge found in her favour.  Hurrah.  

(For full, technically and judicially correct details, please do further research elsewhere.  This is the bare bones, gleaned on the golf course while trying not to disturb Woad and co with gasps and half-stifled shrieks.)

More sedately, it was wonderful to see Bridget Jackson, that great and enduring woman of golf, who played in the Curtis Cup at Porthcawl back in 1964.  The Americans won, though not by much and Bridget was not disgraced.

NB  Please note that I have waited until the very end to mention this score, from Hong Kong:  Arsenal 0 Tottenham Hotspur 1.

 

 

 

Well, you’d think it’d be easy-peasy, a nice relaxing day at the cricket – though test cricket is tough and there’s nothing too relaxing about it for the players out there in the blazing sun.  We spectators have it a wee bit easier, though it’s amazing how often you lose concentration:  looking down to pick up your beer, have a sip of coffee or root in your bag for a biscuit – and end up missing a wicket.

Some people, mostly men, pitch up carrying only a phone – tickets are digital things these days and you can also pay for everything with your phone if you’re clued up enough.  Not being a minimalist in any shape or form, I marvel at how they can manage it.  “Och, they’re just going to drink beer,” said a youngish woman carrying only a handbag – quite a big, expandable one admittedly but nothing approaching my two bags.  One for food – strawberries for three, cubes of cheese, apples, nuts, struggling hard to bring the healthy options; the other for the umbrella (complete overkill), jacket, sunglasses, suncream, floppy hat and, the piece de resistance, kitchen roll.

And it was the kitchen roll that really came into its own when the guys in the seat behind warned us that there was a waterfall of beer – and later water – heading our way, cascading down the steps towards us and our bags.  We managed to lift everything out of the way – beer stains are a bugger to get rid of – and stem the flow before it reached the row in front and a rather swanky Fortnum & Mason bag.

“It’s my wife’s,” the man in charge of it said, “and she wasn’t too happy about me bringing it here.  Thanks for saving it – and me!”

We left just before India’s impressive young captain Shubman Gill reached his century but our journey home did not run smoothly.  Bus to New Street but alarm when the driver told us that there were no trains!  She wasn’t joking.  A train had somehow managed to damage some crucial overhead wires and Birmingham’s main station, a vital hub, was in chaos.  To cut a long and tiring story short, we eventually got a bus to Sutton Coldfield, another bus that we thought was going to Lichfield but didn’t and had to summon a lift from a dutiful daughter for the final few miles.  Phew.  Later we found that a friend had found a more direct, less stressful route and was home with his feet up long before us…..

It’s hard work sometimes, this hedonistic retirement lifestyle.

A few days earlier, having had to have a knackered tyre replaced at short notice, I’d headed down to London for a long-awaited 90th birthday celebration.  The birthday girl is now well on her way to 91 but who wants a big garden party in February?  Not in this country anyway.

Liz, the star of the show, is more than worth the detour – the “God Bless Atheism” sticker is on her study window, by the front door and irresistible to some of us.  The hot, sticky journey down the M1 was forgotten.  This was party central and irreverence was de rigueur.

People came from far and wide to pay homage and Lewine, a fellow golf writer, following in Liz’s distinguished, trailblazing footsteps, nipped down from Edinburgh for the evening.  On the way out, to catch a flight back home from Heathrow, she couldn’t resist the piano and I’m just sorry I wasn’t sharp enough to video the moment.  Some of Liz’s extensive collection of rocks came from Quartzsite, Arizona, where Lewine and I stood in line, arms full, as Liz arranged shipment home.  By sea, amazingly – but there were a lot of rocks.  They all arrived safely several months later.

There was another party two days later, for brother-in-law Brian and the dress code was a little less flamboyant but one of B’s presents caught the eye.  He does like a black tee shirt (much to his wife’s despair) and after spending time working in South Africa, he loves a barbie, though that’s not the correct terminology, as the tee explains.

Brill.

Not so brilliant was Eddie Pepperell’s withdrawal from the Le Vaudreuil Golf Challenge in Normandy after sharing the third round lead with David Horsey and Albin Bergstrom.  Eddie’s making his way back to form and fitness on the HotelPlanner Tour (formerly the Challenge Tour) but his back seized up and he could barely move last Sunday, let alone swing a club and compete over 18 holes.  Gutting does not begin to describe it.  For the full, gory details and more listen to the Chipping Forecast with Eddie, Andrew Cotter and Iain Carter.   Horsey, another veteran fighting to get back with the big boys, won the title.

Finally, two classic pics from Scotland, undoubtedly the home of golf and golfers extraordinaires.  First, we have Louise Clark, a volunteer at the recent Women(‘)s Amateur at Nairn and a stickler for getting things right, with her self-corrected bobble hat.  She spent the night before her stint adding the apostrophe abandoned by the R&A.  Look closely, it’s an immaculate piece of work – which is more than can be said for the R&A’s effort.

And a lovely photo of a legend and a legend-in-the-making at The Machrihanish Golf Club the other day:  Belle Robertson with Bob MacIntyre on a glorious day in Golf’s Own Country.

Oh, and before I forget, a friend who’s a bit of a soap buff chided me (gently) that it was Cliff Barnes in Dallas – not Jim.

 

 

 

 

 

If you’re one of our regular, early Friday morning readers who logs on with a cuppa when the blog thuds into your inbox – well then, wish me bon voyage, as I’ll be just about to board an early morning flight to Scotland to see an old friend.  I haven’t seen this old pal, except from a distance, for well nigh on forty-six years.  I’m hoping for a picture together, perhaps a wee cuddle and definitely a chance to reminisce.

Some of you will have guessed my destination.  I’m flying to Inverness en route to Nairn, invited by the golf club to attend the Women’s Amateur Championship, which is currently being held there…….and the old friend I’m referring to is the rather handsome Championship trophy which I received for winning the last Women’s Amateur to be held at the club, back in 1979.

We’ve both changed somewhat with the passage of time.  The trophy is taller now and even more impressive thanks to the  extra number of silver bands adorning the plinth, all meticulously inscribed with the winners’ names.  I am not taller, many of you will be relieved to hear, but I also have a few extra rings around my middle.  I am, however, tattoo-free.

We spent a lovely year together – something which is impossible now, I believe.  The new champion on Sunday will be presented with the cup, have numerous photos taken and then the silverware will be spirited back to its home in St Andrews.  I believe it resides permanently in the Golf Museum – undoubtedly unable to travel much because of insurance issues.  That wasn’t the case back in my day.

There’s always a flurry of activity at the conclusion of an event and 1979 was no exception.  The 18-hole final and the ensuing presentation was done and dusted by early afternoon and then Dad and Patricia, who had flown over for the final, rushed back to the airport to make their way home.  Mum, Molly (a dear family friend) and I were packing up the car to make the long drive south in order to catch the Stranraer/Larne ferry the next day.

It was at that point that the officials appeared with a huge wooden box, custom-made for the trophy.  It was at least two feet high and roughly eighteen inches square at the top.  It must be long redundant as its occupant will have outgrown it some years past.  We carefully packed our unexpected passenger and set off, scarcely able to believe the week we’d just shared.  We later paused at a pub for a cuppa and the three of us were speechless when, from the telly in the corner, we heard my name being announced on the Saturday afternoon sports programme, Grandstand, as the winner of the British!  That was almost as incredible as having won!

Familiarity with ferry trips across the Irish sea to Troon to play in the Helen Holm meant we knew of several B&Bs in that golfing town so it was an obvious place to stop for the night on the way home.  We had no problem booking in but we did have a problem lugging the box and its precious contents up the stairs in our accommodation.  It weighed an absolute ton but we managed to get it safely stored at the end of my bed.

The following morning I woke early, 5.30ish, with the sun streaming in the window and the birds singing.  I lay for a second or two and thought to myself, “Gosh, I dreamt I won the British!”

I sat bolt upright and looked at the end of the bed – and there, large as life, was THE BOX!  “Oh my goodness.  I DID win the British.”  I stared at it for a moment or two and then I just had to get out of bed and go and touch the box to see if it were real and not an hallucination.

We continued on our way and into a plethora of parties and dinners and presentations and all the time I was accompanied by the cup and its travelling box.  In the downtime the trophy sat on the sideboard at home until we, rather sensibly, decided to entrust it to the care of  Portstewart golf club and into the hands of Brigid who prided herself on keeping the club and its display cabinets gleaming.

Brigid looked after that trophy as if it were one of her own children and it had pride of place in the cabinet, unmissable by anyone who crossed the threshhold of the club.  It gleamed so brilliantly we probably should have issued a warning similar to when there’s an eclipse.

But what a privilege to have access to that piece of history for a whole year.  I studied the names on the plinth, wondering about those who had gone before me and feeling very much the weight of history – something the modern winners won’t have the opportunity to absorb or appreciate.  There are so many things that are better nowadays – but not everything and I do appreciate having had literal ownership of such a piece of history for a wee while.

This trip to Nairn will bring a full circle moment for me, too, in many other ways, not least because I will be staying with a dear friend, Sandra Ross, whom I met that special week back in 1979.  Sandra is vice-president of the club and her Mum, Janet, was the lady captain the year I won.  How lovely the two of us can spend time together looking back at those great days but even better that we can look forward and enjoy and marvel at the skill of today’s players.

The future of the women’s game is rosy indeed and aren’t we lucky to witness it.