Heaven only knows why I’m writing this blog at the usual time – late – on a Thursday evening because it could have been written days ago.  Perhaps it was exhaustion – travel fatigue – that kept me quiet until the deadline loomed.

I’m beginning to think that it’s easier and quicker to get to the Isles of Scilly (see pic above, technical glitches permitting) than it is to make the trek to N17.  Forgive me for regaling you with yet another travel yarn  – Robert Louis Stevenson I am not but here’s a wee fact for you:  double checking how RLS spelt his L, I discovered that he was born Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson.  No idea why or when he made the change.

You’ll be glad – and probably not surprised – to know that Insomniacs Anonymous have been in touch to enquire about the possibility of recording some of my footie ramblings; they reckon only the worst cases will stay awake long enough to make the entire journey to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

And this latest iteration is one of the longest and most convoluted of them all.  Mind you, it pales into insignificance with the expeditions of dedicated fans venturing to away matches.  For instance, at least one Larne supporter travelling to Norway for his side’s UEFA Conference League match against Molde, had to take six flights.  There was, apparently, a chartered flight but presumably it was more direct.  Larne’s rise up the ranks has been helped by investment from a local businessman who helped found Purple Bricks but you’ll be glad to hear that the club, founded in 1889, still plays in red.

This saga is starting slowly, a bit like the journey.  The warning signs were there at the beginning, at Lichfield Trent Valley, when the 1250 Avanti train to Euston was still there at 1400 – and beyond.  A sensible soul might have taken the hint but I had paid for the car park and was booked in to the Lee Valley Youth Hostel for the night, non-refundable, so I ploughed on.  Well, got on the stationary train (not the one I’d booked) and ate the delicious pastrami focaccia roll from the Bore Street Bakery.  I’d need the sustenance.

In due course, we started moving and crawled to Tamworth (not far as many of you know, maximum five minutes).  Taking a breath of air with the smokers on the platform, I heard a faint announcement saying something about a train to Derby, then change for London St Pancras.  Hmmm.  Will I, won’t I?  I decided to go for it just as the Avanti train manager was telling us that his train would terminate at Rugby.  Chaos everywhere in the vicinity of Euston apparently.  So, Derby it was.

We arrived at St P at rush hour, of course and I headed for the tube, dodging people who’d just been decanted from France.  I was still thinking I’d have time to get to Cheshunt and dump my stuff at the youth hostel, two minutes’ walk from the station.  Change to the overground at Seven Sisters, then train to Cheshunt.  It might have worked in theory but on the tube there was an announcement that told us that there were no overground services from Seven Sisters or Tottenham Hale.  Noooooo.  Surely not?  What next?

Off at Seven Sisters, where a lovely, cheerful young woman, whose job was to tell people that the station was now closed, admired my earrings and advised me to find a caff near the stadium and “chill”!  I took her advice to heart, found a taxi (the driver was wearing a Spurs shirt) and met up with John “The Oracle” at La Barca near the ground.  It was nearly 1900 by this time, with kick-off scheduled for 2000.  I ordered an omelette and chips – it was not a night for salad – and relaxed as it started tipping it down outside.

Then we heard that kick-off had been delayed by 35 minutes!!!  So much for trains home.  Turned out Qarabag, our opponents, had been stuck in traffic for a couple of hours.  Then I got stuck in the bag drop queue – why didn’t I just bring my toothbrush and a pair of spare knickers – or should that be a spare pair of knickers?  Scan QR code, register, pay a tenner, all the while juggling the blasted bags.  Patience.  Breathe.  Smile.  Be polite.  Aaaaaaagh.

Then what happens?  We have a man sent off within seven, SEVEN, minutes.  Bloody hell.  Turns out their defence is even leakier than ours, their strikers are more profligate than ours and our goalie made some cracking saves, our ten men put a shift in and we won 3-nil.  Another bonkers night with the Spurs.  (The computer changed bonkers to bankers and I suppose that really does sum up football.)

Another queue to pick up the bag; a scurry to Northumberland Park (don’t ask), knowing I’d no hope of catching the 2307, the last train to Cheshunt according to my reading of the timetable; another queue; don’t worry the policeman said, the 2307 has been cancelled, you can camp on the platform until the morning…….No, of course he didn’t say that but because of the disruption all the Cambridge-bound trains were stopping everywhere, including Cheshunt.  A young man gave me his seat and I found the youth hostel, keeling over the reception desk shortly before midnight.

“You’re in lodge 4,” said the guy manning the desk, directing me outside again.  As I turned the corner, I saw five lodges and counted….yes, of course, you couldn’t make it up.  Outside lodge 4 stood the welcoming committee:  two guys, bearded, tattooed and naked apart from their underpants, were on the doorstep drinking beer and chatting.

It had been a long day but I did clock that they were in a lot better shape than I was.  And they were very, very apologetic as they stood aside to let me in.

I slept like a log.

 

 

 

 

Avid golf watcher and fan though I am, I must admit there are several weeks throughout the year when I struggle to raise even an eyebrow in interest, let alone a finger to click the remote on to the golf broadcasts.  I put it down to overload and reaching saturation point with so many tournaments delivering the same old, same old.

Not so this week.  This week will be all about following the Amgen Irish Open at Royal County Down (RCD), one of my favourite golf courses on this earth.  I played it a lot in my youth and won either two or three Ulster Championships there.  I always wanted to write a sentence like that last one!  It’s the way Mary McKenna speaks when she really, genuinely can’t remember how many Irish titles she won in her heyday.  Sometimes if you ask how many Curtis Cup caps she has, she has to start counting them off on her fingers.  That’s what I call having a career.

But back to RCD.  If pushed (it was an awfully long time ago, in fairness) I think I won two titles there because I’m pretty sure I won one at Clandeboye….and I certainly didn’t win four.  I played the redoubtable Claire Nesbitt in the final each time at Newcastle and I got an incorrect ruling from the referee on the 16th when, despite my objections, he gave me a free drop out of a bunker.  I knew I wasn’t entitled to it but he was adamant and as they say, the referee’s decision is final.  I managed to lose the hole anyway and the ref did apologise to both players after the match.

The second time I won round this glorious links I had a local caddy on the bag and there was a picture of us both on the sports pages the following day.  We were coming up the last in the final and the caption name-checked us both.  My caddy was furious at being in the picture, worried about his weekly visit to the dole office.  All seemed to turn out well, however, as the person in the DHSS office merely glanced at him and, with a slow smile as the envelope was slid under the grille, asked if he’d enjoyed the golf.

In 2007 I returned to Royal County Down working at the Walker Cup for the BBC.  This was my first proper meeting with Rory McIlroy, who made history at the opening ceremony by raising the Irish flag.  An Ulsterman raising the Irish flag in the north of Ireland was an historic moment and it underlined to me how golf – along with the majority of our sports – has always been an all-Ireland affair.  There never have been any borders in Irish golf.

During that Walker Cup one of my colleagues arrived at the course in the morning and realised pretty quickly that he had left some essential gear back at the hotel.  Mid-morning he nipped back to collect the forgotten items and found his things neatly stashed and another suitcase and set of clothes in the wardrobe.  Not having time to enquire as to why someone else’s stuff should be in his room he returned to the course.  At day’s end we all returned to base and things were as he had left them first thing in the morning – no other suitcase or clothes hanging up in the wardrobe.  Seems there was a bit of double booking going on……!

And folk think it’s glamorous working for the BBC!

Today (Friday) when this blog is posted things are due to become a tad more tricky.  The Solheim Cup starts in Gainesville, Virginia, at the Robert Trent Jones golf club.  If you’re thinking it can’t possibly be two years since the last one, you are right.  The pandemic caused the Ryder Cup to shift from the even to the odd years, so the women are moving to the evens to avoid future clashes, hence the Solheim Cup in consecutive years.  This is the second occasion that this has happened with the same course of action being taken after the postponement of the Ryder Cup in 2001 after 9/11.

As holders Suzann Pettersen’s team retained the trophy last year when the match was halved.  (Please don’t get Patricia started on that one – oh, too late.)  If they can pull this one off, they will have been undefeated since 2017.  it’s absolutely extraordinary how one of the most seemingly lopsided international sporting contests has so quickly established itself as a close encounter nearly every time it’s played.  And, of course, it’s hard to beat the drama and excitement of match play.

The last Solheim I attended was at Gleneagles in 2019 and it was also the last time I sat alongside the great Peter Alliss in the commentary booth.  That was the year of Suzann’s putt on the last to win and her epic mike-drop of retiring on the spot after the ball found the bottom of the cup.

I always think these sorts of scenes can never be repeated but that is seemingly not the case.  New stars will undoubtedly step forward this week and we’ll be on the edge of our seats.

Just hope there are no wrong rulings.

 

 

It’s ridiculous, the number of years I’ve being going to golf events in the Surrey/Berkshire area, you’d think I’d know it like the back of my hand.  Trouble is, I hardly ever look at the back of my hand, so that’s my excuse for always getting lost in a neck of the woods I should know without recourse to satnavs or waves or google.  Sunningdale, Wentworth, The Berkshire, even Swinley Forest, these are courses that are imprinted in my memory.

I love the East Course at Wentworth, human-sized, playable, so much more enjoyable (for short hitters like me) than the West, the increasingly brutal Burma Road.  And I love The Berkshire, with its memories of the late lamented Avia Foursomes, especially the Blue and the wonderful lunches.  But there’s something very special about Sunningdale.

It’s changed over the years, of course it has, it must have, everywhere has but it doesn’t really seem to have changed much.  The clubhouse is still the same, the pro’s shop is in the same place, the 18th green (of the Old), the oak tree, the 1st tee….everything is familiar except for the swanky coffee machine that is more user friendly than it at first appears.  There are ghosts everywhere.  But they’re happy ghosts.

I come here and I start smiling.  It’s hard not to.  It’s an oasis of calm, immaculately kept.  There’s a railway station nearby, so you don’t need a car to get here but there are plenty of very busy roads if you need them, not that you can hear them when you’ve taken the hill up to the golf course and entered another world.

There’s no denying that it’s a very wealthy area and you need more than a bob or two to live here but golfers, posh or not, are always welcome.  It helps if you can hit the ball and I must confess that I thought that what used to be the Sunningdale Ladies course, now renamed Sunningdale Heath, where the Curtis Cup car parking was, looked perfectly suited to my game.  The club also used to be renowned for its chocolate cake.

I walked round the Old course and wondered how on earth I’d ever negotiated it intact; probably not at all if the truth be told.  The Curtis Cup players hit the ball like the professionals most of them aspire to be with only the odd visit to the heather and we were all in awe of how well and how far they hit it.  They weren’t perfect but they were as near as dammit.

There were plenty of American supporters cutting a dash and making a splash as they made themselves seen and heard, outnumbered but not to be ignored.  They certainly know how to rock the red, white and blue.

The match itself could scarcely have been tighter and GB and I squeezed home at the last gasp, breaking a losing streak that went back to 2016 and sparking wild celebrations.  The Americans will not forget the hurt of losing and the Brits and Irish will always remember the joy of winning.  It’s so much more fun.

Now, here’s a test for the historians out there.  One of the delights of Sunningdale is looking at the honours boards, the trophies and the photos of championships past.  The photo below is in the pro’s shop and celebrates Gary Player’s victory in the Dunlop Tournament, a 90-hole marathon over the Old and New courses in 1956.  He was just 21 and it was his first win in Europe.  Gary’s in the middle but can you name the other two players?  (I know the one on the left.  Dad was the scorer when he played at Portstewart in qualifying for the Open at Portrush in 1951.)

It’s lovely to see that David Llewellyn, affectionately known as Lulu, is to be the next captain of the PGA, number 86.  The Welshman is currently executive head professional at Carden Park in Cheshire and was gobsmacked when he was asked to take on the role.  “I’m absolutely bowled over.  I was knocked sideways when I was asked….it’s a huge honour.”

Alan White, the chairman of the PGA, summed up the qualities that make Lulu a perfect choice:  “He’s excelled as a coach, played and won at the game’s highest level, managed golf clubs and been an inspiration to injured servicemen in helping them overcome their disabilities and get into the game.  There is no doubt he will be a credit to the Association…”

Lulu is now best known as a coach but he could play a bit and in 1987 he and Ian Woosnam won the World Cup of Golf for Wales at Kapalua, Hawaii.  They beat Scotland, represented by Sandy Lyle and Sam Torrance, in a sudden death play-off.  Woosie won the individual title, five shots ahead of Lyle.

Another Llewellyn highlight was when he nearly became the first player on the European Tour to break 60.  It was in Biarritz and he came to the last needing two putts for a 59.  Into Zen at the time, he only knew that he was going well and was vaguely aware that there seemed to be an awful lot of people around the 18th green.  When he missed his second putt, they all melted away.  Still, he won the tournament with a record low score of 258.

 

Enid Wilson was never one to mince her words.  “We were a shambles,” she said.  “The Americans had been practising, not just to familiarise themselves with the course but to work out their foursomes pairings.  They didn’t play Scotch foursomes so they had to get used to the format.  We didn’t know who we were playing with until we were on the way to the 1st tee….They won all three matches.”

Enid, who became a formidable figure in the game, terrifying generations of female golfers with her forthright views in The Daily Telegraph, was talking about the first Curtis Cup match, played over a single day on the East Course at Wentworth in May 1932.  GB and I (Great Britain and Ireland, as they now are) duly lost to the USA and Joyce Wethered (later Lady Heathcoat-Amory), the home captain and a player beyond compare, confessed that she wasn’t any great shakes as a captain.

Her team, who did at least know the course, pitched up at about teatime the day before the match and on the day itself had to scavenge for crumbs at lunchtime because no one had thought to make provision for them.  The visitors, much better organised simply by virtue of being the away team and expertly marshalled by their formidable captain Marion Hollins, had arranged to have lunch at their hotel, away from the hordes of spectators.

“It was a rout of the disorganised,” Enid said.  “And deservedly so.”

The sisters Harriot and Margaret Curtis, from a large, wealthy Boston family, were both champion golfers who travelled overseas to play before the First World War and for many years harboured hopes of establishing a competition “To stimulate friendly rivalry between the women golfers of many lands”.  That is the inscription on the Curtis Cup, a lovely bowl of Paul Revere design and while the result matters and the competition is fierce, it’s the friendships that really count.

At Sunningdale this week there are lots of brilliant old photographs and boards chronicling the history of the competition, so even the greenest newbies and those who still think that history is bunk will start to learn the names of the pioneers and outstanding golfers who have gone before.  Many of us here, including undistinguished hackers like me, go back a long way and met the likes of Enid, who loved to talk and Joyce Wethered, who did not!  At least not about golf and certainly not about her own exploits.  In later life gardening and art were two of her passions.

It’s a real gathering of the clans here at Sunningdale this week, where the only surprise is that the players have not been allocated a dog each.  It’s more or less verboten to take to the course for a round without a canine companion.  There are lots of labs and spaniels and in one notable case a venerable barrel-shaped chihuahua, who these days sticks close to the clubhouse and the treats on tap there.

At the opening ceremony, Seamus, the Irish wolfhound, was one of the stars of the show and was quite happy to be the centre of attention.

And just to show off the uniforms and the bearskins and some of the always colourful American supporters enjoying the pageantry, here’s a slightly better effort.

One of the joys of looking at old team photographs is to compare the fashions then and now and, often, to wonder who on earth chose the uniforms.  It’s fun to look at the styles down the ages and marvel at how young everyone looks and check out what shoes they’ve chosen!

To finish, back to Enid.  In 1984, at Muirfield, under the captaincy of the formidable Diane Bailey, GB and I came agonisingly close to winning.  It was a classic BBU (brave but unavailing) and they lost by a point, their 13th consecutive defeat.  Two years later, when the team to face the Americans at Prairie Dunes, in the middle of Kansas, in temperatures that would reach 100 degrees fahrenheit (high 30s centigrade) was announced, Enid was not impressed.

“Bring out your dead,” she wrote, a tad unkindly.  “If this team wins, I’ll eat my hat.”

The main reason for her ire was the selection of Belle Robertson and Mary McKenna, two of the finest golfers Britain and Ireland have ever produced, who had been on numerous teams and never been on the winning side.  They were, in Enid’s view, well past their sell-by date, scarred beyond saving and no longer of any use whatsoever.

However, Diane, captain again, was determined to put a stop to the losing rot and had a cunning plan.  She played Belle and Mary only in the foursomes, paired together and they won their first match and halved their second.  The visitors won all three foursomes on the first day and the first three singles in the afternoon – the format has been changed now to include fourballs – and led by 6 1/2 points to 2 1/2.  The world of golf was in total shock.

GB and I steamrollered on, to win 13-5 and become the first team, men or women, amateur or professional, to win on US soil.  They were followed by the Ryder Cuppers, who won at Muirfield Village in 1987 and the Walker Cuppers, who won at Peachtree in 1989.

But it was the Curtis Cuppers who did it first.

And I’m not sure Enid ever did eat her hat.