Home Again

Well, what a difference a week makes.  The last blog was done and dusted a day in advance because of having to fly from Charlotte to Dublin and very relaxing that was; must do that again I thought.  So this week it’s back to the same old last-minute effort, starting to write just as the polls close in the UK.  At least that means there’ll be plenty of chat and company through the night, if required.  The exit polls predicted a big win for Labour, so, if they’re right, good luck Keir; you’ll need it.

My eyes are red-rimmed because I’ve just finished watching the tribute to Andy Murray on a packed centre court at Wimbledon after he and his big brother Jamie had been beaten in straight sets in the gentlemen’s doubles by two efficient Australians, Rinky Hijikata  and John Peers.  The great and the good were lined up – John McEnroe, Martina Navratilova and Novak Djokovic were among those there in person – and on film there were lovely tributes from Roger Federer, Rafa Nadal and Djokovic, the three giants of the game who always had to work ferociously to beat the talented, driven Scot from Dunblane and couldn’t respect him more.  He’s raging against the dying of the light but his battered body can give no more.  He’ll now have to learn to settle for being an inspiration.

Wimbledon always makes me think of the Smiths, Helen (née Lennon) and Colm, great friends who are no longer with us but never forgotten.   Helen, who became Ireland’s Federation Cup captain (think it may be called something else now), was good enough to play at Wimbledon and she had the patience to try and teach me how to serve.  Considering I was aced by Dad, whose serve was even more cramped than his golf swing, that was above and beyond friendship.

Even Colm, who covered golf (and rugby and many other sports) for the Irish Independent for many years, was not old enough to be at Portmarnock in 1931 to see Enid Wilson win the first of her three consecutive Ladies’ British Open Amateur Championship titles.  This year, at last, the championship, recently renamed The Women’s Amateur (Championship), was back at Portmarnock and the winner was the American Melanie Green, from Medinah, New York and the University of South Florida.

Green, relatively unheralded hitherto, defeated Lorna McClymont, of Milngavie and Stirling University, by two holes in the 36-hole final, played for the most part in foul, wet, miserable conditions.  McClymont’s mum Gail pulled her trolley throughout the championship but Green insisted on carrying her own clubs from start to finish.  No one I spoke to, champions all, could believe it, especially given the conditions at the end of a long, tiring week.  She turned down every offer of help and that stubbornness and determination could take her far beyond this title.

I have to confess that I spent most of the final in the clubhouse watching on the telly, the weather was so foul and I was ill-equipped for the classic summer weather.  But not everybody was so wimpish and I couldn’t resist snapping three pals, well waterproofed, enjoying an ice cream.  Does anybody still think golf is for old people?

And some proper pics of the proceedings, taken by champion photographer Mary McKenna.  Many thanks Mc – and thanks for the bed when the Are Lingus pilots’ strike kept me in Dublin for two unexpected extra nights.

To the champion go the spoils, not least a place in four majors:  the Amundi Evian Championship, the AIG Women’s Open (at St Andrews no less), the Chevron Championship and the US Women’s Open and an invitation to the Augusta National Women’s Amateur.  The runner-up, gutted, especially after being four up after eight holes and one up with three to play, had to hang around to receive a very grand but unwanted trophy and listen to kind words about what a player she is.  It’s tough to take but the Scottish Women’s Amateur champion will surely be on Catriona Matthew’s  Curtis Cup team at Sunningdale at the end of August.

The day before the final, there was a reception for some of the best women golfers Ireland has ever produced.  It was a delight and I was there, an interloper who knew them all and I’d include some photos if I could find any that featured everybody.  So, sorry, no pics, for fear of offending and omitting.  There was lots of chat and laughter and the catching up and reminiscing could have gone on all weekend and beyond.

An unexpected bonus was a present from Ann Bradshaw, daughter of Cecil Ewing, the king of Rosses Point and one of Dad’s idols when he was growing up.  She gave Maureen and me a copy of a lovely, lovingly produced book:  The WEST of IRELAND Amateur Open Golf Championship, the centenary history 1923-2023, compiled by Brendan Cashell.  It’s a joy and will give us many happy hours of browsing.  Many thanks Ann – and Brendan, brilliant job.

It’s hard to choose which sport to watch at the moment, what with Wimbledon, the Tour de France (vive Mark Cavendish, the pocket rocket from the Isle of Man, who has just won a record 35th stage on the Tour), the football (will England beat Switzerland?) and various elections, perhaps the most competitive beasts of all.  By the time you read this, a lot of fates will have been decided, one way or another.

Finally, just to give you a laugh.  We took our very dusty hire car to the car wash the day before we were due to fly back home and just as we settled in to be thoroughly cleaned, we realised our exit was blocked – by the local septic tank emptier!!  It was quite a pongy wash and we (well, Brian) had to reverse out.  You couldn’t make it up.

The only thing for it was to head to the pub for one last craft beer.