The highs and lows of this blog know no bounds: from Europe’s sublime Solheim success to the ridiculousness of my feet. Well, keeping them dry and that’s not really that ridiculous, not if you have to spend more than half a day traipsing around in wet socks.
I knew it was a risk heading to the Netherlands – a country no drier than the UK – with a very comfortable new pair of trainers lacking in only one aspect: they were (are) not waterproof. And I got my comeuppance on a very wet Sunday when there were muddy patches and puddles here, there and everywhere; it proved impossible to dodge them all. My goats hair socks did help limit the discomfort because they seemed to be water resistant to a degree, though that surely shouldn’t be the case.
Why not? Well, Maureen informed me that goats don’t like the rain because their coats lack silicone (I think that’s what she said) – unlike sheep, who can cope with the most inclement weather because they’re designed for it, a bit like labradors, at least if the sainted Alice is anything to judge by. On the way to the Barnarbus golf club we used to pass a goat sitting on a tractor (parked) surveying the passing scene and he was nowhere to be seen on the Sunday, so if the goats are inside, it’s either raining or about to…
No pic of the tractor-sitting goat but here’s Alice, the water-loving lab.
Anyway, on the recommendation of a very active friend, I decided to take my feet on a little jaunt to (Royal) Leamington Spa, to Lockwoods, where they look after skiers, walkers, climbers and trekkers, including as it turns out those foolish enough to totter up and down to Tottenham on a regular basis. Admittedly, we’re not their core business and I didn’t own up to being a Spurs supporter – Russell struck me as a serious soul rather than one of life’s chatters – though I did stress that my walking was more of the gentle walk-in-the-park and on-the-footpath variety.
My feet were measured in the old-fashioned way, with one of those metal gauges that I remember from the days of school sandals, my lumps and bumps were taken into consideration and two pairs of shoes were brought out, both comfortable, both waterproof, both well into three figures (of course; I am my mother’s daughter when it comes to an unerring eye for quality aka top of the range aka expensive). After wandering about the shop, I decided on a pair and then asked if they had it in a “boot”, pointing to one on display. It didn’t really count as a boot I was told (not really admonished but almost), more a shoe with a cuff. So, that’s what I ended up with.
I don’t suppose they’ll be permitted in the Spurs boardroom but since I can’t even get through to the ticket office, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be invited to put the shoe code to the test. All being well with the travel arrangements, I’ll be in St Andrews for the captain’s drive in this morning (Friday 0800!!), so I’ll let you know if they’re allowed over the threshold of the R and A clubhouse…
It was only when I got home – much quicker than I got there but that’s another travel tale – that I realised that we’d moved into the realms of men’s sizes, hardly surprising considering the widths (and lengths) we had to go to. Men being men the colour palate is limited (though I do know a few peacocks thank goodness) but they’ve used a bit of imagination with the description: “sea turtle and roasted pecan.” Ah well, I look forward to years of striding out in comfort.
My journey to Leamington, avoiding motorways, involved a delightful trundle through the Warwickshire countryside, along the Fosse Way, with signs reminding me constantly that I was on a rural road and that it was better to get home safely rather than rush to my death, bends and crossroads being particularly dangerous. I paid attention and tootled along, all going well until about six miles from Leamington, just after Princethorpe, when I came across a crucial road closure, crucial insofar as it meant retracing my steps and finding a more roundabout route. Ah well, it could hardly count as a proper journey if there were no unexpected, inconvenient diversions.
Worth the detour? Have to say yes and cost per wearing will end up being negligible.
I had hoped to be back home in time for lunch but fortunately there was a cracking sandwich shop just round the corner from Lockwoods and I fortified myself there before shopping.
Hard to resist a corny shop name.
And the sarnies were delicious – though they’d sold out of sausage rolls.
There’s just about space left to congratulate Charlotte Heath on her maiden victory on the LET, in the La Sella Open, Denia, Alicante. The event was reduced to 54 holes because the Saturday was washed out but the Englishwoman, who led by four shots going in to the final round, had a nervy day, with her lead whittled away as Helen Briem, Shannon Tan, Alessanndra Fanali and Alice Hewson all threatened. It was bright but breezy, so in the tricky conditions, Heath held on and birdied the last for a round of 73, one over par, two shots ahead of her compatriot Hewson and Fanali, of Italy.
“You probably didn’t want to be in my head on that golf course today,” Heath said. “I was thinking I was going to shank it, hook it, pull it….you never know. Alex [Long, her caddy] kept the ship steady all day. He kept me so calm…When the pressure is on, negative thoughts can creep in, so I’m very, very happy to get it done.”
Here’s to many more.
Charlotte triumphant.
Oh, and to lower the tone again, I’m off the bottom of the PYP (Pick Your Pro) table – if only just, thanks to Rory and Aaron finishing second at Wentworth. Am now just over $300,000 ahead of the new tail gunner but still a bit adrift – 13 million dollars – of the leader…
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