Lottie Woad mounted a stout defence of her Augusta National Women’s Amateur (ANWA) title last weekend, eventually finishing third, three shots behind Carla Bernat Escuder, who closed with a 68 for a twelve-under total, thus becoming Europe’s second winner of the tournament and the first from Spain.  Carla is the first player to shoot three successive sub-70 rounds in the ANWA.

One of my favourite moments of the whole week was seeing the great Jose Maria Olazabal patiently waiting for the young victor as she made her triumphant way from the 18th green to the recorder’s area.  The two-time winner of the Masters tournament politely removed his cap before embracing his countrywoman.  What a connection Carla will now share for evermore with the great and the good of Spanish golf who have triumphed at Augusta National.  You could see her reeling quite considerably when asked how she viewed joining Seve, Jose-Maria, Sergio and Jon Rahm in the list of victorious Spaniards at this iconic venue.

Carla hails from the same town as Sergio and Viktor, Sergio’s Dad, has been her swing coach for as long as she can remember and he supports her constantly from afar as she makes her way through the American college system.  That student part of her life is soon to come to an end when she graduates this summer and after that, she will turn professional and continue to aim for the stars.

I foresee many future battles between Carla and Lottie on the world stage, but happily they will be wearing the same colours when it comes to the Solheim Cup.

So much happens at Augusta in the lead up to the main item on the menu, namely the playing of the Masters tournament.  On Tuesday evening there is the champions’  dinner, hosted by the previous year’s winner with the menu chosen by him.  Scottie Scheffler is once again in the chair and his menu hasn’t changed too much from the last time.  Scattered through the starters and main courses are cheeseburgers, ravioli, meatballs and chilli – pretty much any food that can be found at a fast-food outlet.  I’ve no doubt, however, that it’ll be elevated to a sumptuous feast.

Many years ago – in 1991 to be exact, the year I attended my first Masters – Ian Woosnam donned the green jacket and much of the ensuing twelve months was taken up with pondering his menu as host of the champions’ dinner the following year.  Choices made, he invited my late brother-in-law, Dai Davies, to a trial run-through of the meal, with the main course being lamb cooked in hay, a nod to his Welsh and farming heritage.

The day dawned and they met at a local (to Woosie) hotel in Oswestry where they worked their way through the menu to a universal thumbs up.  The pitfalls lay further down the road, however – Woosie was not allowed to have the Welsh lamb flown over to the States because of US import laws.  (Some things don’t change!)  Then the chef wasn’t the least bit impressed with the prospect of setting hay alight in his kitchen in order to cook the main course.

Unfortunately, it’s at this juncture that my source (i.e. Patricia) becomes a little vague and can’t supply the details I was eager to hear – for example, did the wee Welshman change his main course completely?  What made the final cut at the dinner that year?  Unless one of us bumps into Woosie again (unlikely) or he reads this blog (even more unlikely) we shall never know.

The eve of the Masters this years was important to many of us because our great friend and colleague Lewine Mair was being honoured with the 2025 PGA of America Lifetime Achievement award.  This is a wonderful accolade and wholly merited for a woman who has charted a tough passageway through a very male-dominated journalistic world in (amongst others) an exceedingly male-dominated sport, namely golf.

Tales of having to squint through clubhouse windows to see the scores in a tournament so she could write her copy are commonplace, as are stories of being swept in one clubhouse door and straight out again, simply by virtue of being a woman.  This didn’t happen just the odd time, but over the course of years and years.  It beggars belief to think of it now but there were only a handful of these female warriors in this world at that time and hats off to them all.  Non-aggressive diligence and perseverance eventually resulted in the media world opening up to many more women where talent alone matters, not your gender.

For many years Lewine was the golf correspondent for The Daily Telegraph, the go-to paper for all things golf, men’s and women’s, amateurs and pros, in the UK.  To that end she travelled extensively covering all levels of the game and she was certainly a constant presence throughout my own playing career, from top amateur events to professional tournaments on the Ladies’ European Tour.

She was an accomplished sportswoman, with a tennis background but turned pro at golf for a short spell and in her amateur days was in an all-female band.  She has written many, many books but not, to my knowledge, an autobiography – that would be a great read.

So, come on Lewine – take time out from dusting your latest, high-profile, much-deserved award and treat us to tales of your own life.  I do know enough to know that would be as entertaining as all the tales of others that you have treated us to over the years.

And suddenly, just like that, it’s crept up on us.  Next week is Masters week and part of my brain is saying, “At last,” while another part is countering with, “What, already?”

I can almost smell the flowering dogwood and the azaleas from here.  I can see in my mind’s eye the wonderful synchronicity of the grounds’ crew with their carefully orchestrated cutting and mowing patterns;  I can hear the cheerful and heartfelt greetings from the volunteers as they proudly welcome visitors from all over the world to “their” little piece of heaven.  The bird song is tuneful, (but the powers-that-be refuse to confirm whether the too-regular chirruping we hear on our televisions is the real deal or artificially produced) and the rolling green fairways are more perfect than any playing surfaces have a right to be.

It’s all so familiar but refreshingly so and, despite the fact that I’m not there in person this year, I find my spirits soaring at the delicious prospect of some wonderful viewing ahead of us all.  I am hoping, however, to work up to an uncomfortable Sunday – full of angst, shouting at the TV, hand-wringing and pacing about – because that will mean one of my favourites is in with a chance of expanding his wardrobe with a certain green jacket.

There are a number of players who would induce this kind of behaviour in me and in no particular order my main favourites are:  Tommy Fleetwood, Tyrrell Hatton, Bob MacIntyre, Justin Rose, Ludvig Aberg, the Hojgaard twins Nicolai and Rasmus, Shane Lowry ……and, of course, Rory McIlroy.

Ah, Rory.

It’s absolute nonsense, of course, but it’s hard not to think there is more on the line for Rory than any of the others.  Ahead of him is the prospect of becoming only the sixth player in history to complete the Career Grand Slam of winning all four majors at least once.  And wouldn’t it be great if we could all finally draw a veil over the memory of his spectacular implosion in 2011 when he handed the title to his rivals after taking a four-shot lead into the final round?  Each passing year seems to make the erasure of that particular memory more difficult.  The etch-a-sketch function of my memory, so reliable in other areas of my life, stubbornly refuses to work in respect of Rory and The Masters.

Word has filtered through that the Irishman has already made his annual scouting mission to Augusta National Golf Club ahead of the tournament.  Hurricane Helene, responsible for so much devastation and hardship to the local community, did not spare the golf course and there are fewer trees now than before.  Visually the 16th hole is slightly different, though I doubt if we’ll pick that up from our TV screens and, seemingly, four greens have been altered to some degree – the 1st, 8th, 15th and 16th.  No matter how familiar lines and slopes may be to loads of the players, it seems like there’s always something new to learn.

The day after this blog is posted we do have a chance of our own sneak preview of the golf course with the broadcast of the final round of this year’s Augusta National Women’s Amateur.  Started in 2019, this is the sixth playing of the tournament – Covid claimed the 2020 edition – and already derring-do deeds seem to be required to lift the title.  The first winner was Jennifer Kupcho who played her final six holes in five under par to hold off the effervescent Maria Fassi of  Mexico.  The skills, sportsmanship and joy with which these two battled for that inaugural title was more than the ANGC could have wished – it made future iterations a must-watch for golf fans.

Last year there were more fireworks when England’s Lottie Woad found herself two shots behind the talented American Bailey Shoemaker, who shot a record-breaking 66, with four holes to play.  Cool as a cucumber, Lottie birdied three of her last four holes – in fact, she single-putted four of her last five greens – to pip Bailey by a shot and become the first European winner of the title.

Now more exciting opportunities are opening up for the 21-year old Florida State University student.  This year a universities ranking has been formed to provide a pathway directly on to the LPGA tour.  Acquisition of twenty points over a specific time period will provide a similar route to female athletes to the one Ludvig Aberg took to the PGA Tour a couple of years ago.  It means being able to gain status on the LPGA tour, with the added bonus of avoiding Q-school.

Lottie’s past record has helped her build up that points score admirably.  Consider these achievements:  winning the ANWA title;  reaching No 1 in the world amateur ranking and winning the McCormack medal;  finishing tied 10th and tied 23rd in a couple of the 2024 majors;  playing in the Curtis Cup and the Palmer Cup.  Amongst other results that little lot has bagged her sixteen of the required twenty points and she has loads of opportunities to annexe the four extra ones that are needed.  That would then put her in the lovely position of a fast track to the LPGA but able to defer membership until she has graduated from uni in 2026.

Becoming the first player to defend her ANWA title would be a great start and I shall watch with interest, as I will the men the following week.

As we all know, Augusta National can make…….or break dreams.

Round about this time of year, before Easter when high season starts and the prices rise, Dai and I would do our damnedest to head for the Isles of Scilly, one of our favourite places on earth.  We usually stayed on Bryher, one of the smallest of those small islands, our decompression chamber.  The only downside when we got there was having to wear a watch to make sure we didn’t miss any boats.  Whatever time does, tide waits for no one.

We’d hurry down to Penzance, to get the helicopter or Land’s End for an itsy-bitsy flight on a teeny-weeny aircraft – a grass runway in those days if I remember right.  We did our best to avoid the Scillonian – Maureen, probably the most reluctant sailor in the family, perhaps in the country, was on it once and swore she’d never set foot on it again.  It wasn’t even particularly rough that day but the waters are shallow and the draft is low…

We’d hurtle down the A30 – within the speed limit, of course – zooming past whole swathes of mainland Cornwall, so spending a few days in Lostwithiel – ace name – and surroundings was a new experience for me.  There are no sea views in Lostwithiel but the moment I stepped out of the car I felt myself relax and breathe deeply; I hadn’t even realised I was tense enough to need relaxing!  No wonder people flock here at every opportunity.

I went with Mrs M and the sainted Alice, so it wasn’t long before we hit the nearest beach, particularly popular with dog walkers because it allows dogs all year round – no summer bans.  It’s not the world’s most beautiful bay – lots of seaweed – and no great sweep of golden sand, so it’d never be swamped with sun worshippers but it is a beach and there is sea.  Alice dug and I paddled; we couldn’t have been happier.

We walked and walked and walked, to a pub that wasn’t as nearby as we thought – and the cliff tops of K(n)ernow aren’t always the place for knackered knees!  Still, it was well worth the detour.

Last year I rejoined the National Trust and I remembered to take my card to Cornwall, so the visit to Lanhydrock was a no-brainer.  It’s described as “Cornwall’s most complete Victorian country home” and has the most wonderful gardens, renowned for its camellias, rhododendrons and Himalayan magnolias.  So at this time of year, even on a Monday, it’s packed with people keen to see the magnolias in full bloom.  They’re amazing but very short-lived and at the mercy of the next bit of rain or wind.

If you’re armed with a National Trust card, it’s not a bad idea to have a Senior Railcard, just in case.  It won’t save you as much as flying economy instead of business – have you looked at those prices recently?  Eye-watering – but if you’re old enough, it’s a good deal; and always handy if the car is on its way out, perhaps hastened along by the odd  (very odd) visit to the sister’s rockery.  (That’s just trying for a cheap laugh; the car passed its MOT and Mrs M drove us down.)

It took exactly six hours from Lostwithiel station to my front door, with changes at Plymouth and Birmingham New Street, so the train journey could hardly have gone any more smoothly.  Mind you, I was a bit worried when the train for St Austell, Penzance, wherever west, pulled in on the opposite platform.  It was beyond ancient – you opened the door by pulling down the window, leaning out and pushing down the handle.  Can you imagine!  Sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? Fortunately my train was a bit more modern.

I left my book in the bag for the entire journey because I was staring out the window, admiring the views and wondering exactly where I was – geography isn’t my worst suit but the phone helped me pinpoint exactly where we were, even though I was travelling backwards and had to factor that in to the equation!  Tricky when it’s reckoned that you get 90 per cent of your 50-50 (it’s either left or right) chances wrong; is that even possible or mathematically likely?

Ah Brunel, what a genius.  Being hopeless at maths, measurements, angles, rivets, anything practical, I’d love to have been an engineer, a builder of bridges.  Imagine inventing something so good and ingenious that it stood the test of time for well over a hundred years.

He didn’t always get things right but according to Wikipedia he was very good at railways:  “On the GWR, Brunel set standards for a well-built railway, using careful surveys to minimise gradients and curves.  This necessitated expensive construction techniques, new bridges, new viaducts and the two-mile-long Box Tunnel…”  And the GWR is still chugging along.

Wonder what Brunel would have made of HS2; he’d probably have had it running from London to Aberdeen and Inverness by now, bridging that old North/South divide, turning dreams into reality…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you ever have times when you can’t believe how lucky you are?  It doesn’t mean you don’t have bad times or sad times but I often have moments of standing back, in amazement, wondering how on earth I got to be wherever it was, with whomever.

Earlier this week was one of those times.  Maureen and I had been to a rare  occasion this season, my tottering Totspurs winning at home – by a single goal, so not conceding, keeping a clean sheet and sending us supporters home happy.  We were shaken, stirred and exhausted but not disappointed:  three points and zooming up the table, away from the relegation strugglers.

Long may it last but who knows?  We’re away at Ipswich this Saturday and they really are in a relegation battle, so need to win at least as badly as we do – and they beat us at our place…”It’s not very relaxing, is it?”  Mo said, “This watching Spurs.”  Linda, who sits next to me, laughed and said, “We don’t come here to relax!”

This latest journey to Spurs was another first, not least because our ultimate destination was Thorpeness for a golfing reunion par excellence.  First off, we drove to Chelmsford, where we booked in to the City Centre Premier Inn (£15 extra for early check-in), then crossed the road to board the Spurs coach.  “I think it’ll take about 40 minutes,” I said to Mo.  Not quite right.  Two hours later we pulled in to the coach park about ten minutes’ walk from the ground.  Never underestimate the delaying power of London traffic.

En route to Suffolk, we took a short detour to have a coffee and chat with Judy Williams, whose late husband Michael was the golf correspondent of The Daily Telegraph for many years.   There’s not much Judy doesn’t know about golf – or Ipswich Town FC; the family are lifelong supporters, so we’re not on the same side this weekend.  I’d rooted out some photos of long-ago AGW (Association of Golf Writers) get togethers at Penina in Portugal, with Henry Cotton and his formidable wife Toots presiding.  The snaps are mostly dark and grainy but they’re lovely reminders of the laughs we had.

We made it to the A12 without alarms and Mo navigated us expertly to Thorpeness on the Suffolk coast, just north of Aldeburgh, where we were reunited with some of the founders and early members of the LET, the second such reunion arranged by the redoubtable Chris Langford, director of golf at Thorpeness and organiser supreme.  There were lots of tall tales told, an inordinate amount of laughter and some very good golf swings on show.  Maureen and I cheered the golfers off on a bright, chilly morning, then wrapped up warm and trekked in to Aldeburgh for coffee and cake, cheeks stinging from the North Sea breezes.

 

I’ll have to bring my clubs next time because it’s a shame to come all this way and not play a course described by Peter Alliss as “a hidden gem in the Suffolk countryside”.  This year I hadn’t time for golf because I was on the hunt for blue mascara.  The reason was that Jane Chapman, now Denman, was on the guest list and the first time we met, many years ago (more than fifty!!), at an Aer Lingus event in Killarney, she was wearing blue mascara. I, a few months older but light years behind in every other respect, thought it the height of sophistication.  Sadly, it never worked on my darker lashes; perhaps it’s true that blondes have more fun….

Anyway, as it turned out there was a blue mascara in the pharmacy in Aldeburgh but it was too dark, more of a navy and it wasn’t until I got back to Lichfield that I found something that would do the job.  Hope it’ll keep until next year!

Talking of colour, the Ireland rugby team will be wearing white shirts not green against Wales in Cardiff this weekend.  It’s to make it easier for fans who are colour blind – officially known as CVD (colour vision deficiency ) – to tell the difference between the two sides.  People with the condition find red and green particularly difficult to tell apart, hence the change.  This may be tempting fate but fingers crossed that looking at the players scoring the tries will help distinguish the Irish from the Welsh…

I suppose that’s the sort of cockiness that leads to defeat but I’m hoping that the players will be too good, too professional and too organised to think that they just have to turn up to win.  Wales may not be at their best at the moment but favourites, however overwhelming, don’t always win.  Isn’t that why we love sport?