The golf season has a different rhythm this year – and if it is noticeable to me, a somewhat part-time member of the media, it certainly will be noticeable to the top male players also.  The principal reason for this is the change of date of the PGA Championship from August to May, which basically means the men have one major a month from April to July.  So, for me, it feels as if the passport is in constant use and lots of other, more home-base commitments are squashed into little slithers of time.  It is also the season of speaking at lunches, dinners and celebrations of one sort or another.

A couple of days ago I was at the delightful Shifnal Golf Club, nestled in deepest Shropshire, invited there by longstanding friend and erstwhile pupil of mine, Jackie Taylor.  The great thing about golf is that it doesn’t actually matter how long it is since you have seen someone, the connections remain strong and it is oh-so-easy to pick up from where you left off.  And so it was with Jackie.

The ladies’ section, under the stewardship of captain Shirley Mathews, was running a charity coffee morning, raffle and lunch (at which Yours Truly was speaking) in aid of Parkinsons UK and Alison Knott, regional fundraiser, was on hand to help co-ordinate everything and educate us all in the important work the charity does.  The morning raised quite a bit north of £1000, a terrific effort from all involved and will provide an injection of cash for this very worthy cause.

This time last week I was back in Norn Iron, at Newcastle, for a fixture that has been in my diary for well over two years – the 125th anniversary celebrations of Royal County Down Ladies’ Golf Club.  It wasn’t the greatest start to the weekend when my Easyjet flight from Liverpool to Belfast International unloaded the already boarded passengers and sent them all back to the terminal building.  The reason – no captain!  Thank God they noticed.  An hour later, however, we were on our way and I was met at the airport by the indefatigable honorary secretary of the club, Kathleen Calvert.

I must digress here to say that it’s a wee while since I flew into Aldergrove and to say I was appalled at the state of the airport would not be an exaggeration.  It was dirty and unwelcoming with an unpleasant aroma in the background.  I looked around for the expected welcoming posters and banners proclaiming the arrival of the Open Championship in a matter of weeks –  there was nothing, absolutely nothing.  I tried to see the place through the eyes of visiting golf fans, players, their families and the International press.  It didn’t make for a pretty picture and unless something is done, and quickly, we can expect to be embarrassed and ashamed in equal measure.  You only get one go at making a first impression.

That disappointment was swept aside by the welcome I received from all at RCDLGC.  A lovely catch-up dinner that evening at the home of captain Christine Crockett set the tone.  We played on the same Ulster teams together back in the day and once again the years just dropped away and we quickly bridged the decades of non-contact.

In this part of the world nothing is done by halves and the following morning Storm Hannah arrived.  The weather was so vile – torrential wind and rain – that the course was closed and we couldn’t even start the planned five-a-side, one-club competition.  Secretary Kathleen came to the rescue with a five-part quiz which tested our golfing (and other) knowledge to the limits.  It was a salutary lesson to get so many of the rules questions wrong.  Mutterings all round the room could be heard:  “Is that the old rule or the new one….?”  More golf chat, with a few tips thrown in, was rounded off with a tasty lunch and the morning was a success despite being confined solely to indoor activities.

 

The dinner was a triumph but the undoubted highlight of the evening was the singing chef who came to serenade us all at the end.  I had forgotten how, in Irish clubs, there’s always the chance of a sing-song at the drop of a hat.  Throw in an unexpectedly sedentary day (no golf) and even the oldest members were soon up on their feet throwing a few moves.

I must give special mention here to Bunny MacGreevy who has been brilliant in providing the above photographs from the evening.  There is one of mine (below) which may surprise her, however.

Later, as I crawled into bed at 3am my first thought was, “Now THAT was a good day!”  My second was, “I’m out of training.”  My third was, “Thank God Easyjet found a captain.”

Only one question remains – “Who’s going to sort the airport?”

Normally the week leading up to the Open Championship is a very enjoyable one for me – golf watching usually comes high on the list, all in the name of research.  This week it’s been a little different.  Hours in an overcrowded, hot, fracture clinic full of short-tempered people, followed by the news that my nearest and dearest’s elbow surgery is not to take place for another three days.  And then, agonisingly, news that the op won’t be happening today after all because it’s all hands to a more complex case.  Ah well, at least I’ve had ample time to write this week’s blog in waiting rooms, sorry, waiting corridors, in between appointments of one sort and the other.

My first visit to Carnoustie was in the spring of 1999 when I went to play the course with Lawrence Farmer, redoubtable coach and mentor and my late brother-in-law, Dai Davies, golf correspondent of The Guardian.  Ah, those were the days when there were newspapers and they actually had correspondents!  It was one of the few courses on the Open rota that I hadn’t played and as I was going to be part of Radio Five Live’s Open coverage that July I wanted to see for myself why it was hailed as the most difficult test of all.  We teed it up on a pet of a day and the three of us set off.  Dai found the greenside bunker on the right at the 1st, a devilish pot bunker from which he found it difficult to extricate himself never mind the ball.  When he did emerge from the bunker, he discovered to his horror  – and our amusement – that he had split his trousers from stem to stern and a speedy return to the clubhouse was required to effect a repair.  (The weather was so lovely none of us had any waterproof trousers with us.)  So, Lawrence and I continued on our way and the full majesty of Carnoustie unrolled before us.

Dai rejoined us after a few holes and the three of us arrived at the 16th tee facing the hardest trio of finishing holes in the game.  I always feel when you emerge onto the 16th tee at Carnoustie, it’s like a marathon runner entering the Olympic arena for the last couple of laps.  What an amphitheatre!  You are within sight of the finishing line but there are many tests to be faced in the final moments before victory can be claimed.  As a spectator it is possible to position yourself in one spot and watch the denouement of the Championship unfold around you without moving.  And, rather unusually, the combatants themselves can actually see the shots hit by players in the groups around them.  It’s all right there in front of you – no hiding place.

And there was certainly no hiding place a few months later for Jean Van de Velde who came to the 18th tee needing “only” a double bogey 6 to win the Claret Jug.  I had been out with Justin Leonard in the last round and when he finished the 17th hole I hopped over the wall at the 18th tee and went to our HQ in the adjacent TV compound.  Two of our team were in the commentary box overlooking the final green so our work was done after 17 holes.  As is the way with these things, once your duties are over you can scarper and most of the guys had already left, trying to get ahead of the Open traffic that would shortly be streaming out of Carnoustie.  Alan Green and I were the only two who stayed and we had our little portacabin to ourselves as we settled down to watch the Frenchman’s triumphant progress down the last.  We watched with a mixture of horror and disbelief as the events of that final hole unfolded and ultimately Van de Velde made a good up and down from the bunker for a seven and a place in the play-off with Paul Lawrie and Justin Leonard.

With that came the realisation that we would be continuing on air for the four-hole play-off and we had nowhere near enough commentators to cover the climax of the Open.  Who was going to tell the producer who was locked away in his studio directing the broadcast?  Alan or me?  We were the only ones on site who knew the situation.  At that point, through our headsets, we were given our duties and were told the players were already heading to the 1st tee.  At that moment there was a roaring of engines as several cars raced into the compound.  The troops had returned!  Listening disbelievingly to our own broadcast as they whizzed down the road they deduced that a play-off was looking likely and got back just in the nick of time.  The producer never knew and the Five Live crew moved seamlessly on.  But it was a close run thing!

The next time we were back at Carnoustie, in 2007,  I was working for television and boy, was it a good Open for the Irish!  There was another four-hole play-off with Padraig Harrington getting the better of Sergio and a youngster with a mop of curly hair won the low amateur honours.  It was Rory McIlroy’s last Open before turning pro and he opened the week with a 68, Thursday’s only bogey-free round.  He finished the week volunteering to mind the Harrington’s young son, Patrick, so that mum Caroline could walk the four holes of the play-off with her husband.  During that play-off Paul McGinley trotted round in support of his fellow Irishman and alongside him strolled Miguel Angel Jimenez, Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth, in support of Sergio.  It was the first time I can recall other players following golf out on the course.

So, what lies in wait for my third Open at Carnoustie?  Undoubtedly, the course will be a triumph and the weather looks set fair.  Nine out of the last eleven major winners have been first timers – I wonder will that trend continue?  Will Tiger challenge or is his time gone?  How will Phil be received after his rules performance at the US Open?  Will Rory rediscover his putting form or is Sergio due a little revenge for that play-off loss back in 2007?  So many twists and turns will unfold before we know the answers and I predict another great Open at a truly great venue.

There’s really only one place I’d like to be this sporting weekend of multiple choice and it’s not Wimbledon, Kazan, Samara or Nizhny Novgorod, Silverstone, Headingley or Noirmoutier-en-l’Ile (there should be a circumflex in there somewhere as befits the start of the Tour de France but my keyboard and I aren’t up to that particular task).  Tennis, cricket, cycling, formula one and World Cup football – including England still despite it being the quarter-finals but Sweden loom dangerously large – are just some of the world-class sports on offer and they all have their attractions.

No, given the choice, I’d be heading for county Donegal, one of the most beautiful places on earth, where the European Tour are pitching their tents this week at Ballyliffin Golf Club, site of the (deep breath) Dubai Duty Free Irish Open hosted by the Rory Foundation.  It’s one of the tour’s lucrative Rolex Series events, with US$7 million on offer – if you wish to work in pounds sterling or Euros, feel free to make the conversion.

Maureen and I had a ball last year when the Irish Open was at Portstewart (or Royal Portstewart as it appeared in one email communication), revelling in having some of the world’s best players at our home club and I can only imagine the excitement at Ballyliffin.  The Glashedy Links, designed by the redoubtable Irish duo of Pat Ruddy and the late Tom Craddock, earned high praise from Padraig Harrington when he said, “It looks like this golf course just came into being rather than being designed.  If ever there’s a golf course that sums up the Wild Atlantic Way, this is it.”

As the seagull flies, Ballyliffin isn’t far from Malin Head, the most northerly point on the island of Ireland, which is in the Republic of Ireland, or the South as it’s sometimes known colloquially.  Really, there’s no point complaining that the English, say, don’t understand us because, really, we’re a mass of complications and contradictions.  It’s wonderful.  And so, incontrovertibly, are our golf courses.

I once suggested to Dai that we should tootle round the coast of Ireland playing all the courses, whether 18 holes or 9 holes.  “Let’s start at Portstewart,” I said, “and head left (west) and see how long it takes us to work our way back to Portstewart.”  We never got started and I suspect it might have taken us years to get out of Donegal.  Have a look at the coastline for a start, the nooks and crannies and the inlets (and the roads, which are probably a bit better than they were 30 years ago).  The deal would be to play every course properly, not just to pitch up and play a designated hole as some guy did at Portrush once.  The 14th, Calamity, was on his wish list, his world’s top 18 or something, so he flew in, played that one hole and buggered off, happy.  What a waste of a golf course.  What a waste of a visit.  Talk about missing the point.

Still, each to his (it’s nearly always his, isn’t it?) own.

How on earth could you stick rigidly to your schedule and ignore the invitations to “stay for a bite to eat; just have another jar; another few holes; a walk on the beach; relax in a seaweed bath; my mother would love to meet you; the fish and chips are to die for……”  Estimates please, for how long it might take to play every course around the coast of Ireland.  We’ll venture inland in the next lifetime or two!

Anyway, Maureen’s not in Donegal this weekend, she’s keeping an eye on Brian, who was out cycling when he hit a pothole and ended up with a split helmet, a broken collarbone and a broken elbow and is awaiting surgery; less dramatically, I’m playing in ladies’ captain’s day at Whittington Heath tomorrow, hoping to get in in time to watch the second half of the England match against Sweden.

Whittington is at its summer best now, fast and hard-running, with the only green on the greens.  A few of us went on a course walk the other day and Trevor, the head greenkeeper, who’s been here for more than 50 years, man and boy, was explaining that the grasses we want on the fairways, the fine bents and fescues, were loving the weather, saved by their long roots and the meadow grass was breathing its last.  That’s my understanding of what he was saying, anyway.

Here, as promised last week is the triumphant Sue Spencer, heading for the England seniors team and as an added bonus Eileen Beresford, heading for retirement after 15 years of looking after us all at WHGC.  Well done and good luck to both.

 

 

 

 

Well, the Beast from the East has arrived and with sub zero temperatures and a white vista outside the window I wondered how to put my unexpected free schedule to good use.  I then remembered Mum used to love watching golf from sunny, warm climes while we were in the depths of our winter.  She said it made her feel that our spring and warm golf were just around the corner and so I decided to make a start on my research for commentating at this year’s Masters, hoping for a similarly uplifting experience.

It worked!  I immersed myself once again in the history and mystery of Augusta in April and rediscovered all sorts of little gems about the tournament.

Did you know, for example, that the Manor House, which still serves as the main part of the clubhouse was built in 1854?  In 1961 the official Masters Trophy, featuring the oft-updated and extended clubhouse, was commissioned and made in sterling silver .  It is kept on permanent display in the clubhouse but every Masters Champion receives a splendid replica, 13.5 inches wide.  But, unless you’ve been to the tournament I bet you’ve never seen the trophy.  Can you think of any other major sporting event where that’s the case?  And how much money do you think the winner takes home?  Well………that’s another thing that’s kept under wraps.  It’s not the done thing to talk about it.  The victor also receives a gold medal and a lifetime’s invitation to the Masters.

What we are more familiar with is the Masters green jacket, or coat, as it used to be called back in the day, arguably the most coveted piece of clothing in all of sport.  Bobby Jones, founder of the Masters, attended a dinner prior to the 1930 Open Championship at Hoylake and was fascinated by the tradition entitling the past captains of Royal Liverpool Golf Club to wear distinctive red coats with tails, blue collars and brass buttons.  He found himself placed next to the immediate past captain, Kenneth Stoker, and when Jones expressed his admiration for the jacket and the tradition, Stoker promised to give him his jacket should he lift the Claret Jug at the end of the week.  The rest is history and Stoker’s jacket hangs in Jones’ club, Atlanta Athletic Club, to this day.

The seed of an idea had been sown although it did take a wee while to germinate.  In 1937, chairman Clifford Roberts bought a supply of green jackets, encouraging the members to wear them so that they would be instantly recognisable to the spectators at the tournament and an easy source of information.  Soon the members began wearing the jackets when they visited the club and when Sam Snead won the Masters in 1949 he was presented with a green jacket of his own to signify he was an honorary club member.  That tradition continues and all Masters winners prior to 1949 were retrospectively presented with their own jackets.  All the jackets are kept at the Augusta National Golf Club for use when the players visit and it is only the current champion who is permitted to have his jacket with him for the year he holds the title.

From one item of clothing to another – and the dreaded, much hated (by the wearers) white boiler suits, the required dress code for the caddies.  Made of non-breathable, thick material the caddies swelter their way around one of the most undulating, challenging layouts they see all year, doing their best to stay mentally tip-top for their player while lugging a huge tournament bag.  The caddy of the defending champion wears the number one on his suit and everyone else gets their number from the order in which their player arrives to register for the tournament.

And that’s another thing – it’s a tournament, apparently, not a championship…….and the people who come to watch are not spectators, fans or galleries.  They are patrons.  Whatever you call them, they are the most immaculately behaved sports fans you will find anywhere and exceptionally knowledgeable to boot.  I do think, however, they should be allowed to bring periscopes into the grounds to aid their viewing experience – essential at any well supported golf event, where it’s often twelve to fifteen deep around greens and tees.

Back to one of my pet hates – spitting.  You certainly won’t see any of that going on at Augusta.  It really is a little bit of heaven – and frequently warm heaven at that.  As I look outside the window again I see that the Beast from the East is still prowling around and seems to have been joined by another playmate, Emma from Portugal.  Oh dear, roll on April, the Masters, azaleas and green, green vistas.