Goodness, where to start?  What a week the sister and I have had back in the ole country.  I’m beginning to wonder why we wait for a reason to plan a trip back to Portstewart and Portrush, the places we grew up and the places that now seem to be a bucket-list venue for anyone in the world who has ever swung a golf club.

I don’t know why, but I’m always amazed at the number of folk we both still know back home.  Perhaps it isn’t really so peculiar to be amazed – after all Patricia hasn’t lived in Ireland for forty-five years and I’ve been in England for forty, but the golfing family is a nomadic one and, seemingly at every turn at those two famous old clubs, we were running into friends and colleagues from both sides of the Atlantic, never mind both sides of the Irish sea.

First things first, however.  It was a special occasion that enticed us back, namely the unveiling of an Ulster History Circle Blue Plaque at the Ladies’ Clubhouse at Royal Portrush golf club.  The plaque is to commemorate the astonishing exploits of May Hezlet, a teenage sensation, who won the Irish Championship five times between 1899 and 1908 and also added the extraordinary tally of three British Championships to her resume.

A trailblazer for women in every way, May retired from championship golf at the age of 27 to pay more attention to her wifely duties to her clergyman husband, but she continued to pack a great deal into golf, giving back at club level and remaining as President of the Ladies’ Branch of Royal Portrush right up until 1951.

When Patricia and I were introduced to this grand, thoroughly irritating, old game in the mid-to-late sixties there was (and still is) a flourishing junior golf programme at Portrush, so Dad joined us as members.  I think I was nine, but I clearly remember all the fun in that iconic little clubhouse with a portrait of May Hezlet looking down on us from one of the walls.  So, in a way, I always knew of her and her amazingly talented golfing family.  I never dreamed, however, that one day I’d receive a letter from her sister, Violet, who at the time of this correspondence was 97 years of age.

The year was 1980 and Violet was sending her congratulations, through me, to the Irish team, of which I’d been a member, on winning the Home Internationals.  That was our first win in the Home International series since 1907 when Violet and her famous sister May (by then Mrs Ross) had both played.  She was so excited at our victory and I was privileged to have a little bit of correspondence with this wonderful woman before her death in 1982.  One of the two letters I received from her is shown below.

Having treasured my small, but tangible, connection with these extraordinary golfing women for almost half a century I was delighted to meet up again with Susan Hezlet, a great-niece of May, who had flown over from Edinburgh for the blue plaque ceremony.  We had been in the kindergarten together and I was thrilled to be able to present my two precious letters, complete with envelopes, stamps and postdates, back to the family.  For me it was a full-circle moment.

There is quite rightly a lengthy and arduous process to go through in order to be awarded a precious blue plaque and many, many folk from the Ladies’ Branch of Royal Portrush put in long hours of work to ensure a successful outcome.  Our pal Kath Stewart-Moore acknowledges she is considered the “history nerd of the Ladies’ Branch” and while she will be uncomfortable at being singled out there’s no doubt her research into May Hezlet went a long way to bringing her character alive for golfers and non-golfers alike….And isn’t it always fun to make your friends a little uncomfortable anyway?!

So, very well done to Kath and all at the club for a brilliant day and the successful culmination of more than five years of work.

Patricia and I had our usual, delightfully busy time on our return to the Emerald Isle with various rendezvous planned with friends and family.  We surpassed ourselves on this occasion, however.

Beaches walked – check.  Four in total:  Portstewart, Castlerock, White Rocks, Portballintrae.

Courses and clubhouses visited – check.  Three in total: Castlerock, Portstewart and the two at Portrush, so I guess you could say there were four.

Irish delicacies sampled – check.  There were several:  veda (a malty bread for the uninformed), Tayto crisps, Guinness and Black Bush.  Hmm, perhaps not our healthiest diet but an absolute requirement when back home.

Most savoured of all, however, was the craic.  It runs like a seam through the people of Ireland and is magnified when groups of pals get together and it was so much fun to be back with those friends.  I did ask Patricia at one stage – “shall we move back here?”  She didn’t say no.

I think the first move is to plan more frequent visits and then the second may be to work on my Scottish better half.

We’ll start in July with the Open.

It’s a funny old thing having an Australian manager (albeit with Greek origins) and playing like a load of wimps.  If they’re anything at all, Aussie sportspeople are tough, gritty, stubborn, hard to beat but, my goodness, it’s taking the sainted Ange a very long time to get that through to his/my tottering Totspurs.

You may have noticed that there wasn’t a mention of football in the blog last week but this week I’m hot, weary, a tad disillusioned and up crops the not-so-beautiful game at the forefront of my thoughts.  On Sunday, I watched us help Liverpool celebrate their latest title in grand style at Anfield.  We scored first – “that’ll be 6-1 to you, then,” sez I to my Liverpool-supporting viewing mate – and I wasn’t far wrong. They won 5-1 and we dutifully faded from the scene to leave the Reds to their joyous celebrations.

How we Lilywhites (does that moniker have to make us lily-livered?) long for something to cheer about.  Will we ever again win even an egg cup?

Yesterday (Thursday night), in the first leg of the semi-final of the Europa League, we were 3-nil up at home against Bodo/Glimt of Norway but failed to be ruthless and kill them off.  Instead we did that hideous Spursy thing of falling asleep, allowing them a moment of skill and conceding a late goal.  Now we have to trek to their place, north of the Arctic Circle and play them on their artificial pitch, where they don’t lose many matches and feel completely at home.  It might even be snowing.  At least we managed to beat Tamworth, the mighty Lambs, on their artificial pitch earlier this season.  Is that an omen?

I wasn’t there last night and I won’t be in Norway and I think I’m even more down in the mouth because earlier in the week I marvelled at the skills of Paris St Germain, Barcelona and Inter Milan.  If we win the Europa League (come on girl, be optimistic), we’ll be in the Champions League with the big boys, so at least we’d see some of the world’s best at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

Word is Ange will be getting the sack whatever happens but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.  We’ve been very good at sacking managers over the last few seasons, not giving anybody a chance to lay solid foundations and build a decent team.  We’ve mostly been pretty dreadful this season after early flashes of brilliance but I’d be inclined to back our Aussie and help him sort us out.  I think I’m in a minority, though, possibly of one.

It’s not often that I feel sorry for Arsenal fans, our biggest rivals and much more successful than us recently with quite a lot to crow about.  They looked very good beating Real Madrid home and away to reach the semis of the Champions League but then PSG made them look ordinary on Tuesday night at the Emirates.

Mo and I were at Belfast International having a Guinness waiting for our flight back home and I’d noticed a fair few Arsenal shirts in the bar.  They were heading for the match, via Stansted and it wasn’t a relaxing experience.  Their Ryanair flight, scheduled to leave at 1545, had gone to “Est 1700”.  Oops.

Now I was starting to feel uncomfortable for them and hoping that the pilot wasn’t a Spurs supporter.  A couple of the younger fans were getting a bit upset and agitated and getting to the ground for kick-off at 2000 was beginning to look like a big ask.  It takes about an hour and a quarter from Aldergrove (aka Belfast International) to Stansted and the flight was still on the ground at 1730.  It landed about 1848, so if they made it to the ground via Tottenham Hale and Finsbury Park in time for the first and – luckily for Arsenal – only goal of the game (O. Dembélé – 4 mins), they’d have done brilliantly.

However, this is how some of us seasoned travellers choose to relax at an airport…

You know those days when you wait in for the electrician, the gas man, the broadband installer?  Well, the trick is to phone a friend and ask them to do it for you.  So, profuse thanks to Mike for being kind enough to say yes to my request and wait around all day to oversee the installation of my new, fast fibre broadband.  The phone still has to be sorted but the internet seems to be all systems ago – impossibly long password having been tapped in successfully.

And there’s nothing like a jigsaw to pass the time, so the Isles of Scilly monster is well on its way to completion; well done Michael.

 

Mo and I had a great time in Ireland, enjoying sea, sand and reconnecting with old friends.  The weather was very good and here are some pics to prove it…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m still in the recovery position after last week’s tortuously exhilarating career-grand-slam-dunk of Rory McIlroy’s in winning the Masters.

I crawled to bed about 2.30 in the morning – I defy anyone to come down to a normal heartrate quickly with so much adrenalin rushing around through the ole system.  Rather to my surprise, and really before I was truly awake, I found myself in a challenging exercise class, some seven hours later, attempting to lift each of my legs over a pillar the size of the Eiffel Tower.  I hadn’t remembered the tower being so tall in previous classes, but neither was each leg weighed down by a couple of bottles of red wine.  It was not a pretty sight – and not a pleasant experience.

After that, it was on to pick up a friend and treat her to her 85th birthday lunch.  No, perhaps I’ve got that wrong – I was treating a friend to lunch to celebrate her 85th birthday.  There is a difference, I’m sure.

Next on the agenda was a trip to Delamere Forest golf club to help the ladies’ section prepare for the surfeit of matchplay they would be facing in the approaching season’s team matches.  I had promised the lady captain Maria that I’d endeavour to impart a few words of wisdom but when I arrived I had lost 90% of my voice and was only able to croak out a couple of  “pearls”.  Perhaps that’s why they seemed to enjoy it so much but something worked because the girls won their opening team match two days later with a bit to spare.

That was the Monday after THE Sunday.  Since then I’ve been lying relatively low, recovering both my voice and my sanity, and I have watched NOT A SINGLE SHOT OF GOLF the entire week.  It’s been bliss.

Apologies, therefore, and congratulations to Justin Thomas, who won at Hilton Head, bringing to an end his three-year absence from the winners’ circle.  The same goes for the Swedish rookie Ingrid Lindblad, who won in her third start as an LPGA member.  Garrick Higgo and Ashun Wu also had weeks they’ll never forget but this blogger doesn’t have the bandwidth at the moment to take all that on board – but well done, one and all.

By the time you read this I’ll be back in the wee north (of Ireland) for a few days visiting family and friends and for a wee golfing ceremony, more of which next week.  I’m looking forward to being back at Portstewart and Portrush again and having the sister with me means we can indulge ourselves with reminiscing over our early lives in this magical place where the golf courses, beaches and long summer holidays stand out in my memory.

This is the first year since lockdown that I’ve had the pleasure of a diary filled with trips.  Sure, I’ve had a couple of work commentary outings booked in over the last couple of seasons, but there was always a degree of angst lurking as to whether I’d be well enough to manage the travel and do a decent job.  Sometimes I was and sometimes I wasn’t.

It was my task to book our flights, which I did quite a while ago, along with lots of other travel I had coming up.  As expected, a reminder email thudded in the other morning telling me I could now check us in – just go to “manage my booking” and take it from there.  Sounds easy, should be easy, IS easy, but when following the instructions it became apparent I was the only one on the booking – no sign of Mrs Patricia Davies whatsover.

Too soon to panic, I enquired of Patricia had she booked her own flight.  To describe her response as “vague” would imbue her answer with a tad too much urgency.  Basically, she had no idea but said it had been my job.  Deep down I knew she was right and continued to search for any sign of her on the booking.  There was none.

Next a mad scramble to see if I could now get her seats on my flight but the clunky website wouldn’t let me book a return for some reason.  I had to book two singles and my session kept getting timed out.  By this time I was ready to hurl the laptop out of the window but passed it instead to my better half, who smoothly did what was asked of him and booked Patricia on to the same flights as me.

Phew!  Crisis averted.  Something, however, was niggling away in the recesses of my very small brain and I eventually delved back a few months through the finances to see what payments had been made – and there it was, two separate outgoings to the airline in question.  I HAD bought two tickets and now we had three, two apparently in Patricia’s name.  At this rate she’d be able to lie down both ways.

Then it came back to me as to why exactly we weren’t on the one booking.  We had decided to share a suitcase that would go in the hold and that meant we needed one ticket with that requirement and another that was essentially a ticket with no luggage at all and for some reason that I cannot now recall we couldn’t easily put that on one booking.

By this stage my hubby was urged to take over and hurriedly cancelled the flights we had just bought, all of course carrying a hefty penalty.

This whole debacle took up a morning and boy, does it put you in bad humour.  And then I remembered that special Sunday, and I remembered Rory………..and I smiled.  It didn’t matter.

And so, to Ireland.  I’m sure we’ll pick up a celebratory party or two back home – they’re still going on apparently.

 

In a highly unusual move, this bit of the blog is starting with golf.  It’s not golf that has anything at all to do with me – except in a roundabout family heritage sort of a way – but it was irresistible and many thanks to Brian Keogh’s indispensable Irish Golf Desk for providing the details and to Ben Brady of Inpho for the photos; can’t have been easy keeping the camera lenses fit for purpose, as you’ll see.

In this neck of the fairways we’re always interested in the West of Ireland Championship (sponsored these days by the Connolly Motor Group) because Dad grew up playing at Rosses Point – officially known as The County Sligo Golf Club and one of the world’s great courses (no bias here).  God’s Own Country it was called at home and the weather was always glorious, sun beaming down on Ben Bulben and never a cloud in sight and never a gale to make standing upright well-nigh impossible.  No mention of the home internationals there when the wee bit of a breeze nearly ripped the car door off its hinges…

Well, I had to laugh – and read on – when the report of this year’s final a few days ago started:  “Schoolboy Dylan Holmes overcame APOCALYPTIC [my captials] weather conditions and a spirited comeback from the battle-hardened Colm Campbell to become the youngest winner….since a 16-year old Rory McIlroy [whatever became of him!] in 2006.”

Dylan, tousle-haired but dry in the clubhouse with the precious trophy, is 18 and a member at Greystones GC and posted a series of firsts with his 2 and 1 victory over his seasoned Warrenpoint opponent:  it was his first men’s championship, so his first West and he became the first Greystones member to win the title.  “It’s incredible,” he said.  “I didn’t really have any expectations coming in this weekend.  I am just so happy.

“That was a brilliant match.  I was really nervous coming down the stretch there.  I am so happy it’s over.”

The youngster was 4 under par and 4 up after 11 before the weather deteriorated and “heavy rain and 50 kmph gusts lashed the finalists from the south-east for the final six holes of a memorable final that will only add to the lore of  ‘The West’.”  Campbell, a veteran of 37, fought back to set Greystones nerves jangling before succumbing on the 17th.

In years to come, they’ll all probably struggle to remember the rain – or perhaps their memories will remain sharper than mine.  Every morning of the Ryder Cup at the K Club, I got dressed and put on my waterproofs and didn’t take them off until we got back home at night;  but it’s not the rain that I remember, it’s the emotion and the excitement and then, oh yes, I think it was a wee bit wet…

Talking of rain, that brings to mind mud, mud, glorious mud and a wee item spotted in the easyJet Traveller mag on the flight over to Belfast – flying from Liverpool you’re just about up in the air long enough to flick through a few pages.  It was about an exhibition at the London Museum Docklands called Secrets of the Thames and it’s about mudlarking and the treasures unearthed at low tide over the centuries.  Wonder when they’ll find the original Henry Cotton Salver, flung into the river in a bin bag many moons ago…It was solid silver so will probably be melted down not put on display.

Anyway, the exhibition is on until March 2026, so there’s plenty of time to book ourselves in, though remember:  Time and Tide wait for no man – or woman.

The salver is undoubtedly lost for ever but another iconic piece of golfing silverware was on display at Portrush recently, reminding everybody that the Open Championship will be back in Antrim this July.  We can’t wait.

I haven’t been a devotee of previous iterations of Race Across The World, not sure why but had to tune in from the start this time around because Brian Mole, a member of Whittington Heath, is competing alongside his brother Melvyn against four other couples.  They started from the Great Wall of China, just north of Beijing and are heading for the southern tip of India, cash and maps (paper) in hand but no mobiles and no credit cards.  It’s quite an undertaking  – don’t know how people get chosen – and Brian and Mel weren’t last to reach the first checkpoint, despite deciding on an interesting, inland route that provided brilliant, never-to-be-repeated family snaps.  Brian admitted to being used to a 5-star lifestyle and Melvyn had opted for a wheeled suitcase instead of a rucksack but they got stuck in and ended up laughing like drains together.  Fantastic. I’m now addicted.  It’s on BBC1 and iPlayer.

Finally, I can’t resist using this fantastic photograph by Michael Dunn, who was a finalist in the sports’ section of a recent comp.  It was liberated from the Sunday Times mag by a friend and is just brilliant.  The caption reads:  “Martha and Teresa, maintenance workers at La Paz Golf Club in Bolivia, spend their Mondays off in traditional ‘chola’ clothing and get a round in at one of the world’s highest golf courses.”