Tales Of Troon

I was hoping to be at Royal Troon this week for the 152nd Open Championship but realised while at the US Open at Pinehurst that it was a step too far for me at the moment.  There are tons of reasons why I wish to be there and, of course, for me, nostalgia always plays a part.

I attended my first Open in a working, broadcasting capacity in 1997 – at Troon – and found myself a member of the marvellous Radio 5 Live commentary team.  Over the years with them I gained a grounding that has stood me in good stead ever since.  Ken Brown was part of that crew and I remember walking the course with him and television’s Alex Hay early in the week.

I was determined to learn as much as I could from these two commentary, and golfing, idols of mine but was completely nonplussed as to what I was hearing over the first few holes.  Finally, I plucked up the courage to query just exactly why they both felt the approach to one of the early holes should be from the left-hand side.  To me, with the green sitting at an angle across the player, the obvious way in was from the opposite side.  Ken turned away with a smile at my questioning but Alex put me right with characteristic Scottish bluntness, “Maureen, you’re not actually playing in the Open – these are commentary positions we’re discussing.”

I had yet to acquire anything other than a player’s eye view of the game – you live and learn – but boy, did we chuckle over my naivety over the ensuing times we all worked together.

Troon, of course, was (and still is) the venue for the renowned Helen Holm Trophy, now known as the Women’s Scottish Open Strokeplay Championship, I believe.  It’s a 54-hole strokeplay event with the opening two rounds played on the Portland course and a final test over the Old Course for those who safely negotiate the cut.  Played in April and usually in vile weather it was, nevertheless, an easy jaunt for me over from Norn Iron on the Larne-Stranraer ferry and then up the coast to Troon.  Usually Mum would come with me and often Molly, a great friend and neighbour.

We would get ourselves a B&B in the town and there was never a shortage of good places to eat a short walk away from our digs.  One evening, early in the week, we strolled into Troon to find a dinner venue when we passed a very attractive shop window display.  The establishment was called “Regalia” and was a wedding shop.  There was a beautiful bridal outfit in the window (not a white wedding dress concoction) and we all stopped to admire it.

Molly said, “That would do Patricia for August.”

The sister was due to tie the knot in three and a half months and it won’t surprise any of you who know her to learn she “hadn’t got around” to looking for something to wear, what with all the travelling and golf writing she was doing.  We studied the outfit more closely and all decided it would be perfect.

There then followed the most anxiety-ridden three days which had nothing to do with the golf.  Mum and Molly called in to have a closer look (I was on the course) and then I had to rush down to try on said outfit, all the while trying to explain that, no it wasn’t for me, rather for my sister who wasn’t as tall and was actually a different shape and so on.  Frantic phone calls to the unconcerned bride-to-be followed and our woeful attempts to provide a description didn’t come close to making anything sound attractive.  Remember, no phone cameras to make your life oh-so-easy back then.

The three of us thought it was a beautiful outfit, but would it fit her?  Would she LIKE it?  Patricia pondered.

“Well, if you, Mum and Molly all think it’s great, go on ahead and buy it.”

Gulp – this was an enormous amount of money – £353 back in 1983 – and my hand was shaking as I wrote out the cheque.  The box had the best seat in the car on the way back home.  The bride didn’t return home until three days before her wedding and Mum and I were up to high doh waiting for her arrival and to see what she thought of her outfit.  When Patricia did arrive, down she sat to catch up on the news and have a chat until I could stand it no longer.

“Aren’t you dying to see your outfit and try it on?” I asked.  “Well, if it doesn’t fit it’s too late now” came the calm reply.  Mum and I forced her into it otherwise we’d have got no sleep.  I’ll leave you to decide if we made a good choice.

You’ll see plenty of the Postage Stamp on the Open coverage, I’m sure.

An innocent-looking little hole of 123 yards, max, but it’s got a devilish heart and when the breezes blow it can rip your soul out.  I almost strangled Mum there one year I was in contention at the aforementioned Helen Holm.  As I was criss-crossing the green, Monty Python style, on my way to taking thirteen, she unadvisedly instructed me to “pick the ball up and come on out of that – you’re holding up the entire course”.  In fact there were only two groups behind me and they were crouched down on the tee trying to keep out of the wind and rain.  It was a long, silent ten holes back to the clubhouse.

[This is a much told story but it’s always worth mentioning that Mo played the other 17 holes in one over par.  When the press – the papers covered amateur events in those days – asked for her score and she said 86, or whatever, they sighed and headed off.  “But I had 13 at the Postage Stamp…”  Back they came, notebooks at the ready.  Ed.]

Finally, it was another Troon Open – the 2004 one where Todd Hamilton proved victorious – that provided me with one of my favourite presents.  Unknown to me my late brother-in-law tasked one of the photographers with snapping me while commentating out on the course.  The result (below) was framed, packaged up and produced at Christmas.

Another lovely Troon memory.