I suppose we’re only getting started in the conflict that has been brewing between the Saudi backed LIV Golf series and the established American and European tours.  The first punches and counter punches have been thrown and the opening salvos of litigation have been fired by Ian Poulter, amongst others.

Against this backdrop of discontent it was more than refreshing to tune in to the JP McManus pro-am being played at Adare Manor at the start of the week.  JP and his wife Noreen are arguably Ireland’s greatest philanthropists and over the years JP’s pro-am has raised millions and millions of euros for charities in Ireland.  Once again a world-class field – in this instance ten of the top twelve in the world were playing – plus a host of A-list celebrities.  Many consider it a badge of honour to receive an invitation – and not a penny piece was paid in appearance money.

Adare Manor, venue for the 2027 Ryder Cup, was looking magnificent but even more magnificent were the 40,000 fans that attended on each of the two days.  Jay Townsend, one of the Sky Sports commentators summed it up beautifully when he said the players “came to play a pro-am and a major championship crowd showed up.”  Jordan Spieth was in full agreement when he said, “I’ve never played in a pro-am like this before, that’s for sure.”

For the McManuses it’s all about community and giving back.  In the current golfing climate that does rather help restore your faith in the human race.

I know you shouldn’t wish your life away but I’m really looking forward to Monday when Patricia and I set off for a couple of days at the  150th Open at St Andrews.  We’re staying with a couple of pals on the way up and plan to arrive on Tuesday morning when I’ll be meeting up with some of my American broadcasting colleagues, none of whom I’ve seen in the flesh since the Portrush Open in 2019.  Amazing how the time flies by.  Covid, then travel restrictions and then my subsequent tussle with ill health since catching the virus last November have meant I’ve been unable to work with them at any majors for what seems like an awfully long time.  This won’t be a working week for me either – just a chance to dip a toe in the water and see how I cope with three days away and a full social diary – which will probably be more busy than the whole of the last eight months put together!

Aside from the golf (and it’s a big aside) it’s never a hardship going to St Andrews, my old alma mater.  I spent a very happy year and a half there at university before transferring to the States to take up a golf scholarship and finish my studies out there.  I did love my time in America and there’s no doubt it changed the course of my life but, deep down, I still have a sneaking regret I didn’t get the four years at the home of golf that I was expecting.  Totally pointless, I know, regretting something that didn’t happen almost half a century ago but it has made every visit since to the Fife town all the more special.

This will be my fifth attendance at a St Andrews Open.  In 2000 it was Tiger’s dominance that was the most enduring memory with an eight-shot victory and the completion of the career grand slam – the youngest ever to do so.  In 2005 it was Tiger again but it was also Jack Nicklaus’ final major and his birdie on the final hole of his final major will live long in the memory.  South Africa’s Louis Oosthuizen had the week of his life winning in 2010 by seven shots.  His secret weapon was a bright red dot painted on his golf glove which served to remind him to keep bringing his attention and focus to the present.

In 2015 Tom Watson took his final major championship bow at the Old Course; there was a Monday finish and an enthralling spectacle as Jordan Spieth, winner of the Masters and the US Open that year tried to add the third leg of the calendar grand slam to his resume.  He failed by a shot to join the play-off of Oosthuizen (that man again), Marc Leishman and Zach Johnson, the latter triumphing in the four-hole play-off.

My own last playing visit to St Andrews was in 2017 and, of course, you just have to do what all the great players down the years have done before you ……… and get your photo taken on the Swilcan/Swilken bridge after teeing off on the final hole.  It’s a bucket-list item no matter how many rounds you play at the Old Course.

I just wonder who will be there on that iconic bridge in ten days’ time clutching the Claret Jug.

 

Many faithful readers of the blog are aware that for the last, ooh, almost 30 years there has been a little, almost annual, get-together of the not-so-great and the good at Muirfield, home of the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers (HCEG).  The occasion is the Madill Trophy which is contested keenly by the host team, a Secretary’s selection known as “the Lads” and the visitors, a team invited by me and known as “the Lasses”.  The winning name engraved on the trophy for the last couple of years has, however, been “Covid” but I’m happy to report that, despite exerting some last-minute influence on this year’s match, Covid was denied a hat trick of victories.

Stuart McEwen, the secretary of the club and leader of the Lads was, indeed, sidelined by Covid and I am not yet able to swing a club or travel too far (Long Covid) so we both had to appoint stand-in captains.  Andrew McInroy took over for Stuart and was the perfect person to give the teams a little overview of the whole event having been present at the very first meeting way back in 1993.  Apart from the Covid years I think we have been denied a couple of playings because of snow but mostly we have had days like last Sunday – a mite on the chilly side but with cloudless blue skies, a perfect course laid out for us and the skylarks singing fit to burst.

Nowadays we have eight-a-side with four foursomes morning and afternoon.  We play the match under Dallmeyer handicapping which means that handicaps are not taken into consideration and you start off playing a level match.  When a side reaches 3 up, however, they give a shot at each hole until the match gets back to 1 up.  This results in very keenly contested encounters and six of the eight matches finished on the last green and two on the 17th.  It’s a great format – if you haven’t tried it, give it a go.

Back in Cheshire I was receiving reports through the day and was gratified to hear we were leading by a point at the halfway stage.  It’s been a few years since we won the trophy and I was looking forward to becoming reacquainted with it.  However, a lengthy Sunday lunch and a few wee libations saw the hosts burst from the starting gates in the afternoon and record three wins, resulting in victory by a single point.

At least the lasses could lay claim to what Gill Stewart called the “shot du jour”.  At the 9th in her afternoon match in partnership with Pat Smillie.  Gill drove down the left hand side, in the rough and Pat advanced the ball further down the left, still in the rough.  Studying the lie for their third shot, Gill thought she could just get one of her rescue clubs on the back of the ball if she came in a little more steeply.  The pin was back right and the yardage was 209 to the flagstick.

“What yardage do you think Pat had left after my shot?” she asked me.

“Six inches,” I guessed.

“No,” said Gill.  “210 yards – I hit the ball BACKWARDS!  I’ve never done that in my life!”  She then had the ignominy of having to call to Pat, who was stationed up by the green and gesture for her to trek back down the hole to face their longer-than-expected fourth shot!  Ah, the joys of foursomes – there’s always something memorable to recount.

Jane Connachan, my stand-in captain did her best to rally her troops and led from the front with two victories but the lasses came up that one point shy.  We may be getting on a bit and have knee, back and assorted injury problems but the competitive juices are still flowing and I’ve heard whispers of instigating a practice match in the future before the “big” match!  Surely not!  We’d probably not be fit enough for the actual match then!  We shall see.  Perhaps we need an American Ryder Cup-style task force – or is that taking it just a tad too far?

The HCEG plays host to another massive fixture later in the year – the AIG Women’s Open, when honorary Scot, Swede Anna Nordqvist (she married a Scotsman last year), defends her major title.  In truth, although it may surprise you, there aren’t that many similarities between the two fixtures.  I imagine on championship Sunday there will be a few more spectators vying for a good vantage point than there were last Sunday…….

and I suspect the first tee may be a mite busier than this…….

Even so, these two wildly disparate events will share some common denominators, not least a first-class golf course – unfussy, untricked up and always in superb condition.  The major championship players will mirror us in not being able to avoid feeling special and privileged walking in the footsteps of those who have gone before us.  If you are of golf, and steeped in golf, you will assuredly feel the hand of the game’s history on your shoulder.

So, it’s back to the drawing board for the Lasses.  We have to up our games in every department on the golf course but most definitely we must learn to pace ourselves at lunchtime.  We have a year to practise.

Thanks to all those who provided the photos.

The week did not start well, not well at all, in fact.

I was looking forward to a game of golf at glorious Hollinwell, or Notts Golf Club, to give it its rightful title, on Monday.  Patricia and I were to be guests of one of the members and the date had been in the diary for months.  Alas a couple of days beforehand, an Olympic-sized tumble on the conservatory floor had resulted in a swollen kneecap the size of a football and ensuing compensations set off my temperamental back issues.  By the Sunday night I was a bit of a mess and reluctantly had to withdraw from a great day out at one of England’s finest courses.

Fortunately, I have played at Hollinwell before but a very long time ago indeed.  It was the occasion of my first British Amateur Championship, now known as the Women’s Amateur and I remember in one of the practice rounds with Irish colleagues that we called through a lone figure on one of the par 3s.  This turned out to be my first sighting of the Swedish-born French international Cecilia Mourgue-d’Algue.  Her swing was as effortlessly elegant as she was and my mouth dropped open in awe.  The realisation that I was playing in the same tournament as this person, who could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue, was thrilling, if not a little daunting.

That was the start of many years of competing with and against Cecilia and a few years later, when I was nearing the end of my time on the pro tour, Cecilia’s daughter Kristen was making a name for herself on the same tour.  But I digress….

In those days there were only 32 players who made it into the matchplay draw after 36 holes of qualifying.  If there was a tie for the final placings, the player with the best second 18 went through – no such thing as earning your spot through a play-off.  I can’t remember now what my 36-hole total was but I knew it would be touch and go as to whether it would stand up through the day.  I stationed myself at the big window in the clubhouse from which you could see almost the whole of the 18th hole.  I had marked on my drawsheet those players who were a threat to me not making the matchplay stages.  Over the course of three hours I sat there and was still secure in my hopes of teeing it up the next day when the final group arrived on the last green.  One of the threeball was qualifying easily, one was missing the cut and the other was borderline.  Mrs Borderline holed a birdie putt across the final green to cement her place in the matchplay, relegating me to joint 32nd place with one other player, who, of course, had had a better second 18 than me.  When the final standings came out there I was – 33rd, done and dusted.  The agonies of scoreboard watching!

I did stay and watch the matches and learned so much from watching the finalists plot their way round a first-class golf course.  Australia’s Edwina Kennedy eventually came out on top against one of England’s finest, Julia Greenhalgh.  Great lessons learned don’t always come from playing yourself.

Since lockdown has clipped our wings somewhat I have found that over the past couple of years I have played fewer “away” courses than normal.  It was exhilarating, therefore, in the first couple of weeks in June, to revisit old favourites like Royal Dornoch and Golspie but the jewel in the crown of that trip was a return to play the Carnegie Links at Skibo Castle with Gillian Stewart.

It was the thick end of 30 years since our last visit when we were welcomed and asked to play the course before it actually opened and to give our opinion.  That was an interesting experience in more ways than one because there were no actual flags on the greens at that stage!  Amazingly it didn’t deter from our enjoyment one iota.

This time, however, it was an experience of a different class, effortlessly overseen by the multi-talented head guru David Thomson and his staff.  The course has undergone some stunning changes in the intervening years but it’s the little touches that set a day at Skibo apart.  Personalised lockers and bag tags (see photo at top) awaited us when we arrived and fortified with a morning hit of caffeine we took to the course – a sensory, ever-changing, scenic overload if ever there was one.  A complimentary tot of whisky served on the final green was perfect for celebrating the round of your life or perhaps, as in my case, smoothing away the ubiquitous frustrations of the game.

It’s never fun being sidelined through injury but while not out on the fairways at the moment I find I have a moment or two to dip into the memory banks of great courses played and visited and good company kept.  Instead of feeling sorry for myself it reminds me of how lucky I am.

And doesn’t golf take us to some truly wonderful places?

What on earth to write about this week?  Just what is going on in the world of golf that’s of the remotest interest to anyone?

Of course, there are loads of people who have no notion whatsoever about golf – they’re into music, football (not the English obviously), theatre, art, history, tennis, politics, antiques, wine, whatever but don’t have a clue that this is Open Championship week, one of the sporting wonders of the world.

I’d regard it as more of a general knowledge thing than a specialist interest thing to know a bit about the Open but perhaps I’m just biased.  Or perhaps it’s just that a lot of the golfing people I know are experts- or at the very least very knowledgeable – in other fields, with wide-ranging areas of expertise.  Mind you, I did once mention James Thurber to another man, a bit of a golfer, who was also from Columbus, Ohio and was met with a blank look.  That was one of my proudest moments, introducing one genius from Ohio to another.

If you haven’t heard of Thurber, please look him up and read some of his stuff.  It’s more than worth the effort.  If you don’t laugh, I won’t give you your money back, I’ll just give you a very wide berth….

The Open is back at Royal St George’s in Kent, on the outer edges of England – as some wag said the easiest way to get there is from France – and it’s led to a lot of reminiscing.  Hard and all as it is for most of us to get there, Royal St G is (like Thurber) well worth the effort.  It’s too hard a course for me but I’ve had some memorable times there – and even the odd par.  The weather looks set fair this week but the Sunday that Darren Clarke won his Open, in 2011, the last time it was there, it was Baltic.  I know I’m not exaggerating because I was there!

There was a huge stand behind the 6th tee (a short hole) and you also had a good view of the 5th green and a large part of the 7th, especially if you’d worked your way to the top of the stand, as I had.  The wind was howling, it was bitterly cold, even wet at times and I was wearing every item of clothing that I possessed, including a long, thankfully waterproof coat.  I was nearly frozen by the time the leaders came through – and had seen some woeful efforts to combat the wind from players blown to blazes by the conditions.

Darren was different.  He was in his element.  It really was his time.  He stood on the 6th tee, selected his club with the minimum of fuss and arrowed his tee shot through the gale (well, it was certainly several notches up from a breeze) in to the heart of the green.  No drama.  I was also there when Dustin Johnson, a serious threat, launched his second shot at the 14th miles out of bounds and gave Darren the breathing space he needed to win the title.

My plan had been to leave early to miss the traffic and watch the last knockings on the telly but when it became apparent that Darren might just do it, was not going to blow it, I couldn’t leave.  I stayed to see him lay his hands on the oldest jug of all.

In the days, not so distant, when RSG didn’t countenance the idea of women as members (though they could play the course, as near-invisible beings), the Curtis Cup was held there in 1988.  Linda Bayman, one of the near invisibles (hard to imagine, I know, for those of us who know her….), with a home just behind the 4th green, made her Cup debut at the age of 40 (her birthday was that week) and among other things holed some sort of monstrous, beyond outrageous putt at the 18th to win one of her matches.  Or perhaps it was for a half….The details have blurred and the reference books are elsewhere but whatever, it was bloody marvellous!

Of course, Sandy Lyle won the Open there in 1985 and I could find the relevant magazines easily because I’d rooted them out for last year.  The championship then went the way of the pandemic and I hadn’t got around to tidying them away, despite lockdowns and that sort of thing.  Suppose Zoom bridge, virtual singing (no truer description of my caterwauling; the prospect of returning to real, live choir is scaring the life out of me) and endless electronic catch-ups with friends here, there and everywhere kept me from tidying up properly.

Who knows what trials and tribulations await over the next few days.  Will the favourites prevail or fail?  Will a rank outsider sneak up on the rail?  There’ll be heartbreak and hard luck stories but even for the men who let the title slip from their grasp, who’ve done something unimaginably daft in the heat of the moment, there will be, all being well, successes and triumphs to come.  But not necessarily a Claret Jug.  Life isn’t always that neat.

Finally, congratulations to Lewine Mair, who has just been elected president of the AGW (Association of Golf Writers), founded in 1938, the first woman to hold the post.  About bloody time!