Maureen, as so often, is absolutely right:  it is wonderful to be back at Woburn for the Ricoh Women’s British Open, for the 40th anniversary of a championship that has had a chequered history but is now indubitably a major championship.

There may be no fescue at Woburn but it is a very grand venue, with the Duke of Bedford able to tell an American visitor at a do in the Sculpture Gallery that he’d lived here all his life and his family had been here for several hundred years (exact dates have never been a strength of this blog).  The guest was suitably impressed:  “Gee, my country’s nowhere near that old….”

Vivien Saunders, Trish Wilson of the LGU, Janet Melville and Jenny Lee-Smith (David Cannon)

Also considerably younger but venerable enough were the first three winners of the championship, who had been invited to the celebrations this week:  Jenny Lee Smith, Vivien Saunders and Janet Melville, three Englishwomen who deserve to be feted alongside the Karrie Webbs and Se Ri Paks of this world, not least for their pioneering spirit.

In 1984, Ayako Okamoto, revered in Japan, won the first British at Woburn by a mind-numbing 11 shots and it’s worth listing the other Woburn winners, some of them good players having their week of weeks, some of them very, very goods and some of them genuine greats:  Helen Alfredsson, Penny Grice-Whittaker, Patty Sheehan, Karen Lunn, Liselotte Neumann, Webb, Emilee Klein and Sherri Steinhauer.

There are golfing ghosts and magical memories everywhere at Woburn, which played host to the British for seven successive seasons during the Weetabix era.  Sir Richard George, who took over the family business and was knighted for services to the cereal industry, was also a serial golfer and when he died earlier this year, women’s golf lost one of its staunchest supporters.  It’s hard not to think of him here this week, wooing the Americans in search of major status and perhaps crossing egos with Franck Riboud of Evian, whose empire was on a vaster scale altogether.  Whatever their differences, they were both shrewd businessmen who loved golf and women, for which many thanks.

Woburn was also home to the Ford Ladies Classic, the tournament that used to open the season in Britain and became so popular that there were traffic jams on the M1 as people queued to get in and the car parks overflowed.  Not many women’s events ever took top billing on the national travel news!  Annika Sorenstam started her professional travels here, with her Dad Tom on the bag.

It was here that Laura Davies, in her considerable pomp, took a raggle-taggle of spectators yomping in her wake as she gave the ball a whack, not always in the recommended direction, found it and whacked it again.  After one thrilling expedition through the trees to the wrong fairway, Laura somehow avoided the forest with her next whack, carried a yawning dip and landed the ball at the front edge of the correct green.  Well worth the detour.

On the way back to the proper hole, her cousin Matthew, spectating rather than caddying, asked, “How big was the gap, Trish?”

“There wasn’t one, Matthew.”

LD, like Seve, always did see things differently.

It was here, in 1995, that Webb, the sweet-swinging Australian from Ayr, in the sugar cane country of Queensland, won the first of her three British titles and served notice that hers was an exceptional – and enduring – talent.  She’s playing again this week, at the age of 41, wondering where those 20-odd years have gone.

Other former British champions are also all around in one capacity or another:  Sweden’s Alfredsson and Kent’s Karen Stupples are broadcasting; Marta Figueras-Dotti, the Spaniard who won the title as an amateur at Birkdale in 1992, is multi-tasking as coach, photographer and Olympic captain; Sophie Gustafson is caddying for Beth Allen; and Mo Martin, Stacy Lewis, Jiyai Shin, Yani Tseng and Catriona Matthew are still playing.

There’s still a warm, welcoming feel to Woburn even though its airport lounge of an entrance with the automatic doors lacks charm and the club and the championship are slicker, less homely than they once were.  There’s been an ongoing process of professionalisation.

It was as long ago as 1993 but seems like only yesterday that Bob Imrie, caddying for his daughter Kathryn, caused the unceremonious banning of trolleys from the championship.  She was in contention, in the biggest championship in the country, on live prime-time television and the man in charge of operations was incandescent when he saw the trolley squeaking its way across the screen.  It smacked of rank amateurism in a professional setting and from that day on trolleys were toast.  Caddies, Dads or not, had to carry.

Wrapped up for Open commentary

I’m frequently asked how I got into commentary and media work.  It wasn’t ever anything I aspired to or had considered – it sort of, well, just happened.

In the 1990s I was immersed in playing on the Ladies’ European Tour, consumed completely by trying to become the best player I could be.  It was against this background, in the spring of 1997, that I received a phone call from Rob Nothman, then the golf producer on Radio Five Live and one of the best broadcasters there is, asking if I’d like to be part of the team to cover the Open that year at Troon.  After checking that we had no tournament on that week (yes, I really did) I said “yes”.  And so the door to a completely new and different world opened to me and that 1997 Open was the first of 20 consecutive Opens I covered for the BBC.

I had never to my knowledge heard golf on the radio before but Rob sent through some cassettes (remember them?) of the Ryder Cup for me to listen to in order to give me an idea of how things worked.  And there ended my training…..!

With PC Brown, rugby legend and Rob Nothman, the man responsible for my career with a microphone

I was reasonably familiar with the Old Course at Troon having played it many times but, nonetheless, on arrival, I jumped at the chance when Alex Hay invited me to join him and Ken Brown in walking the course.  Alex was working for BBC television and Ken, like me, was part of the Five Live team.  I decided this would be an ideal opportunity to learn from two of the best, so resolved simply to walk and listen.  This was how the conversation went down the first:-

Ken:  “Down the left here, Alex?”

Alex:  “Aye, Ken, down the left.”

Second hole:-

Ken:  “Down the left here, Alex?”

Alex:  “Aye, I think so, Ken.  Down the left.”

I have to confess to being rather perplexed here because both holes, in my opinion, favoured the player coming in from the right.  However, I held to my resolve to listen and learn.

Third hole:-

Ken:  “From the left again, I think, Alex?”

Alex:  “Aye, absolutely, Ken, absolutely.”

I could contain myself no longer.  “Why would you come in from the left? Surely you’d have a much better angle of attack coming in from the right?”

By the time I’d finished my questions both Alex and Ken had stopped walking and were staring at me with disbelief.  Finally, Alex spoke.

“Och Maureen,” he said.  “It may have escaped your notice, but you’re not actually playing in the Open.  You’re merely commentating.  These are commentary positions we’re discussing.”

Clearly, I had a lot to learn.

Over the next twenty years I have had the privilege of working with many great broadcasters including Tony Adamson, John Inverdale, Iain Carter, Gary Lineker, Matt Adams, John Maginnes, Brian Katrek and, of course, the incomparable Peter Alliss.

It was a big day for me the first time I was in the commentary box with Ken and Peter.  This formidable duo were rostered on to take care of the first segment after lunch and I resolved to stay in the box, headphones off and learn as much as I could.  Five minutes in, Alliss starts gesturing at me with his mike.  After a little initial confusion it dawned on me he was actually bringing me in to the commentary.  The great man believed I had something of value to add and I could feel my chest swelling with pride as I fumbled to get my headset on.

A few minutes later I was distracted by a gentle rumbling sound from the corner.  I looked over to see Peter, eyes closed, hands folded across his tummy, indulging in a small post lunch siesta.  So much for my value!

Ken and I carried on.

And I never stopped learning.

Always fun with Peter and Ken. Thanks for the lessons and the memories.

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