I’ve always enjoyed this time of year, late April and then the glorious month of May, and perhaps it’s no coincidence that some of my favourite and significant moments, golf and otherwise, are from this handful of weeks.  I’ve also always enjoyed reminiscing and have an above average, detailed recall of various milestones in my life and the life of my friends and family.  In that respect I take after Dad and we jointly regarded Patricia and Mum as philistines for their mystified looks when we would announce that at that exact moment 22 years earlier such and such a person had hit THAT shot that led to this, that and the other.  How could they not remember?  Sometimes it was even Patricia who had hit the shot in question and even she couldn’t remember it!

It was late April, 34 years ago, that I signed on the dotted line, turned professional and made my debut in a Pro-Am at The Mere Golf Resort & Spa, near Knutsford – less than an hour from where I currently live in Cheshire.  I was extremely nervous but remember being warmly welcomed by the other professionals before making my way to meet my team at the 12th tee where we were due to start our round.  The 12th was a fairly straightforward par 3 and to my relief I managed to hit the green before taking a swift three putts and starting my professional life with a bogey.

Mum was caddying for me, always a bit risky as I sometimes had an overwhelming desire to throttle her and this was one of those times.  With nerves already heightened, I charged my opening putt past the hole and her sharp intake of breath (which had earned her the nickname of “Hissing Sid” on the amateur circuit) did not help matters.  However, it turned out to be a great day – it was lovely weather, the course was in great condition and I had a lovely team.  All this conspired to help me settle down and I came in with a 1-under score, good enough for runner-up spot in my opening salvo as a pro.  How special it was to share that with Mum and her great friend Molly Boyd, who was with us as chief supporter.  I could hardly believe my eyes when I was presented with a cheque for £343 – for ONE round of golf!  In today’s money that’s a shade over £1000, certainly not a figure to be sneezed at.  I still have the dummy cheque somewhere.

This time of year always signalled the start of the serious golf season.  As an amateur it meant taking the road to Troon for the prestigious Helen Holm tournament which, believe it or not, was invariably played in snow and sleet.  As a pro it meant turning south and heading to Alex Hay country and Woburn for the Ford Classic, one of the best and longest-sponsored events we have ever had on the tour.

Ford did a wonderful job for women’s golf and the event drew huge crowds.  For heaven’s sake, one year there were traffic jams all the way to the M1 with carloads of fans beating a path to Woburn to follow round after Dame Laura Davies, Marie-Laure de Lorenzi, Alison Nicholas, Trish Johnson and the like.  My highlight over the years there was holing in one while playing with Laura and winning a car!

Many years later, again at this time of year, I received a once-in-a-lifetime invitation from the PGA.  I had stopped playing seriously and was immersed in coaching and I was both horrified and delighted to be invited to address fellow pros at a couple of seminars at the Belfry and one at Portmarnock.  That was a daunting enough prospect but I was sharing the bill with five very special people, Karl Morris, the first-class performance coach and mental skills guru and the four Harmon brothers, Butch, Dick, Bill and Craig.  We were to spend three days together, staying two nights at the Belfry and then sharing a private jet to Dublin.  To spend all this time with some of the greatest coaches in our industry was such a privilege – I really was living the dream.  Having dinner together every night was great and made all the more special because the four brothers weren’t very often all in the one place due to their busy lives and schedules.  In fact, it was probably one of the last times they all spent time with each other as Dick was to die within a couple of years.

And now from the sublime to the ridiculous.  This week we are celebrating four years of this piece of nonsense we are pleased to call our blog.  Many of you will know I was not in the least bit keen to embark on this and it was very much Patricia who chipped away at my resistance over a number of months.  Her trump card was to recruit my husband and Pam Valentine (she of 260-balls-into-a-golf-net-in-an-hour fame) to join her in persuading me to have a shot at it.  That is now four years ago and I’m in turn astonished, humbled and delighted that so many of you seem to get a bit of enjoyment out of our ramblings.  Thanks for subscribing.

Finally, another reason to have good vibes when the calendar turns over to these special days – my better half and I have just celebrated our 16th wedding anniversary.  We cooked a special meal and actually got dressed up for dinner – the first time since lockdown that I’ve bothered with getting any of the sparkly gear out.  It was worth it – we had a lovely evening.  No wonder I just love this time of year.

 

I confess, I haven’t really been paying that much attention to golf recently, apart from sparing a thought for all those poor souls trying to rearrange schedules and anticipate an approximation of normality, then finding themselves juggling madly as the plates spin out of control and the plans made one day are obsolete the next.  Selfishly but pragmatically, I don’t worry about it because there’s nothing I can do about it.

The Curtis Cup, scheduled for Conwy, north Wales, for the second weekend of June this year, seems to have been rearranged for June next year, same weekend, same venue.  Mark it in your diary and keep your fingers crossed.  After all, if there are no airlines running by then, it’ll just have to be the boat, like the old days.  Separate cabins presumably and plenty of time to perfect your skills; the nets must be better nowadays, so you should lose fewer balls overboard.

[Editor’s alert, added post publication of blog:  Hold off on that date, the R&A confirm that the match will go ahead at Conwy next year, all being well, pandemics permitting, but there’s no date yet and it’s unlikely to be June.  Apologies for the duff info.]

The WATCs (World Amateur Team Championships), the Eisenhower Trophy (men) and the Espirito Santo (women), have been abandoned altogether.  Scheduled for Hong Kong originally (in October), the competitions were moved to Singapore because of fears of social unrest and now, because of the COVID-19 pandemic, the International Golf Federation has bowed to the pressure of “events, dear boy, events” (as Harold MacMillan put it) and is looking ahead to France in 2022.

At the moment I’m paying £20 a month for Sky Sports on NOW TV – sub taken out just before lockdown – and have glanced at it a couple of times, watching a bit of Alastair Cook’s century in his last test, a bit of the Miracle at Medinah and the battering at Brookline.  But with hardly any live sport anywhere – don’t think Sky are covering the Cactus Tour in Arizona (which, whether you think it should be playing on or not, should help give event organisers some tips for events post virus) – my watching is sporadic in the extreme.  Then, the other day, I saw something that made me jump for joy, an event that I put in my diary at once.

It wasn’t the second round of Phil versus Tiger – I refused to pay money to watch the first so-called match, which proved a wise decision since it was, by all reasonable accounts, an unmitigated fiasco.  Things have been tweaked for the re-match, a  couple of American sports superstars added to the mix, charity included and if I’m not in bed asleep, I’ll be gorging on reruns of Old Tricks, NCIS, Morecambe and Wise, whatever.  Quality stuff.

It is a made-for-TV thing that I’ve put in the diary – Sunday 17th May.  It’s the TaylorMade Driving Relief charity event that pits Rory McIlroy and Dustin Johnson against Rickie Fowler and Matthew Wolff in a team skins game.  Who knows who’ll win?  Who cares?  It’s being played in Florida, at Seminole, one of the world’s great golf courses, designed by Donald Ross and, usually, a very private place.  Rory’s Dad Gerry is a member there, Ben Hogan practised there and it’s considered a classic.  The course is the star here and I’ll be glued to see how it holds up in the face of today’s booming drivers unfettered, devoid of championship nerves.  Also, pandemics permitting, it’ll be hosting the Walker Cup next year, in May.  Well worth a visit, even if we have to walk there.  Better start soon I suppose.

The sad news this week is that Dinah Henson, nee Oxley, has died.  Born in 1948, she was a quiet, private person, a golfer of rare quality who, despite her many achievements, refused to realise just how good she was.  That’s a perfectionist for you.  She won the British Girls in 1963, the English Girls in 1965, then trained on to win the English in 1970 and 1971 and  the British (Matchplay) in 1970.  She played in the Curtis Cup in 1968, 1970, 1972 and 1976, the Vagliano Trophy, the Commonwealth, the Espirito Santo (WATC) and was British Golfer of the Year in 1970 (the year Tony Jacklin won the US Open).  The woman could play but she met her husband James thanks to a wayward shot that smashed his windscreen.

In 1970, Dinah’s year of years, Pat Ward-Thomas, of The Guardian, waxed lyrical about her talents.  (Don’t think he ever wrote for the D/T, despite the note at the bottom of the piece.)

Rest in peace, Dinah.

On a lighter note, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that my blood donation passed muster and made its way to Colchester General Hospital, so I don’t feel quite so guilty about not sitting up all night sewing scrubs or making masks.  My granny did most of the embroidery on the gingham apron we made at school; I think she also knitted the hooded cape for Rosebud, my rubber dolly; she most certainly had nothing to do with the tent-like nighty I made in Domestic Science, an item that was always destined to be cloths for the car.  Sewing is not my forte.

Nor is sowing but I’ve been weeding madly and preparing the ground for the wildflower seeds that came through the letterbox a few days ago.  Wish them luck.

Finally, just to encourage those of you who are following an unbalanced diet this lockdown, here’s my meal of the day.  I’d been eating healthily (mostly) for weeks but I think I’ve cracked.  I had a takeaway pizza (delicious) a couple of days ago and yesterday I succumbed to my version of the bean sizzler that was a speciality de la maison at Whittington Heath.  Will I have the strength of will to go back to salads….

Bon appetit.  Enjoy your meal.

There are some people in this world who automatically bring a smile to the faces of all around them.  I have a pal who describes such persons as “radiators” – as opposed to “drains”, who are the folk who suck the life out of you and are best avoided.  Any of you fortunate enough to have spent any time with Dr Gerry Costello will know that she was firmly in the radiator camp and it was with deep sadness that I learned that Gerry had died last weekend.

The “Doc” was a huge part of my amateur golf career in so many ways – as a travelling companion up and down the country to various competitions and then latterly as a manager and captain of Irish International teams I was lucky enough to play on.  Bubbling with mischief and endowed with an infectious sense of fun, Gerry would take it upon herself to be the early morning alarm call for all the members of the team.  On my first team trip away with her I rather naively expected this to be a quiet little tap on the door to bring us gently out of the land of nod.  How wrong could I be!  A loud rapping would startle us from slumber and then a deep resonant Gregorian type of chant would penetrate our hotel room door. “Benidicamus Dominum,” Gerry would intone three times and only when she had received an answer would she proceed on her way down the corridor to the next room on her list.

That Latin refrain still has the power to produce in me the delicious expectation and excitement I felt at the start of so many International competitions, prefacing as it did the proud pulling on of Irish green, the nervous attempt at digestion of a decent breakfast and then the announcement of my name on the 1st tee – the culmination of so many dreams and hours of practice.

Always smiling, always glamorous, Gerry was no mean player herself.  A scratch golfer for decades she had the distinction of being the first Irish player to win the British Seniors, paving the way for such luminaries as Valerie Hassett and Mary McKenna to follow.

She was also, by some distance, the very best giver of directions I have ever come across.  Remember, our criss-crossing of the country with clubs and cases piled high was in the pre- Googlemaps era.  If Gerry told you it was the third turn on the left that is exactly what it was.  If she instructed you to change lanes at a certain point so as to be sure not to miss a crucial exit then that was what you had to be sure to do.  She was meticulous in her planning and we were all the beneficiaries of that.

I don’t remember what year it was that Ireland started using the euro but I do remember exactly where I spent my first euros and on whom!  I was meeting some pals for lunch in Bewley’s hotel in Dublin and Gerry joined us a little later than expected.  I went up to the bar to buy her a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc and I dipped my hand into my purse to wrestle with the unfamiliar currency for the first time.  How we all laughed and said that we’d never forget that moment and Gerry exhorted me to continue as I had started.  I’ve done my best to take her at her word!

Condolences and much love go to Ferg and the whole of the Costello connection.  I don’t need to tell you, her loved ones, how much Gerry enriched people’s lives.  She certainly enriched mine and, to this day, when I think of her, she makes me smile.

In these long, lockdown days it never ceases to amaze me how inventive and proactive some of my friends are.  The cancellation of the London marathon last Sunday spawned numerous innovative ways of raising funds for charity, most of them giving a nod to the famous race by having the numbers 2 and 6 figure somewhere in the grand scheme of things.  And so it was that Pam Valentine, my first ever opponent (and conqueror) on the full international stage, decided to raise funds for the Nightingale House Hospice in Wrexham, a cause very dear to her heart indeed.

Pam’s husband, Phillip, died there more than 20 years ago and Pam has never forgotten the care and tenderness shown to all the family at that difficult time.  She subsequently became the chairman of the Trustees for the thick end of two decades, only retiring two or three years ago and she still raises funds for them when she can.

I must confess I was more than a little concerned for her when I heard her latest scheme – she was to attempt to hit 260 golf balls into a net in an hour.  The golf net, willing and able and robust enough to receive 260 beats from the Valentine clubface was duly ordered online but, coming from China, it got lost in transit and so it was on to Plan B and a somewhat more homespun affair.  The cover for the garden furniture was pressed into service and rigged up over a washing line to serve as a net and a bucket with 26 balls was prepared.

As you will have seen from the above picture it was fairly essential to keep the ball low, so Pam hit the first batch of 26 balls with a 2 iron.  (I don’t actually know any female who still owns a 2-iron, never mind can hit one!)  She then moved on to a 4-iron, a 5, followed by two different lofted rescue clubs before working her way back down the line to complete the 260 shots in a staggering 44 minutes and 8 seconds!  An immense effort that so far has raised more than five times her target of £560.  Beat that if you can, fellow golfers – or more sensibly, like me, accept that you can’t and go to Pam’s JustGiving page and donate a few bob if you are able.  After all, it is local supporters who bear all the costs of hospices like Nightingale House, not the NHS and not the government.  Every last little bit really does help.

Finally, I have to say I had absolutely no idea there were so many enthusiastic, budding, one-handed chippers amongst you all!  I hope you’re having fun with it and do make sure you persevere because you will see the benefits once we all get back out again on the course.  Not directly related to the chipping, but one query that came in during the week was from Louise Campbell in Edinburgh.  Like many others she was interested in the golf net that I have in my garden and asked which make it was.  I did a whole two minutes of internet research on it and plumped for one I thought was unfussy, uncomplicated and a good middle-of-the-road price.  I think this one was around the £70 mark and, four weeks in, so far so good.  I am happy to recommend it – and I’m not even being paid!  Below I’ve tried to capture the relevant details in the photos for you in case you want to try one out for yourselves, but as you will have seen from Pam’s photo a homemade effort can do the job just as well!

Well, how did that happen?  Another week has zoomed by and I’m beginning to wonder how on earth I managed to find time for golf.  My next-door neighbour, who’s on furlough, so is used to working, heading off to the office in the morning and coming back in the evening, has been out painting the fence, having sorted the house from top to bottom.  Now, I suspect, she’s a bit worried about having nothing to do.   That’s the impetuosity of youth for you.

Being retired and a bit of an old hand at finding ways to fill the time, I’ve been pacing myself during lockdown.  The bases of the footstool and swivel chair – which I decided didn’t go well with the new flooring – remain untouched, the sugar soap still in its box, the sandpaper squares still a mystery, the paint unopened.  Plenty of time to take on the messy business of painting, not forgetting the uncoupling of the bases, it won’t be a quick job and shouldn’t be embarked upon lightly; and in certain lights the current colour doesn’t look too hideous….

The Venetian blinds, which I once thought were at the very top of my list of things to do, remain as grimy as ever but it only really shows in a certain light and since I’m the only one here, they’ve slipped way, way down the to-do list.  Time enough to start scrubbing once my friends and family are allowed out again.  And according to my aged adaptation (free with, whisper it quietly, The Sunday Telegraph in the dim, distant past) of Reader’s Digest’s “Extraordinary Uses For Ordinary Things”, I need some surgical spirit.  Phew, not worth making a special trip for….

It’s amazing how much time WhatsApp takes up – all those videos, jokes, all that laughing, all that commenting.  Too much sitting is bad for you, so I have to stand up and deal myself a few bridge hands, bop about a bit to the radio – not a very edifying sight but, then, there’s no one to see the eject creaking about – and join in with Helen’s Quarantine Choir on YouTube.  Sadly, there’s no getting away from it, if there’s a musical bone in this body, it’ll take a team of archaeologists to find it.  I sang Happy (100th) Birthday to Captain (now Colonel) Tom but think it was drowned out by the Spitfire and the Hurricane and you’ll be glad to know that “You’ll Never Walk Alone” is beyond attempting.  Bashing a saucepan for everyone at 2000 on a Thursday, creating a charivari, is about my musical limit.

I did manage to give blood on Wednesday, making the trip to the donor centre in Birmingham.  I usually go by train but this time, greatly daring, I drove.  As suspected, the problem wasn’t the traffic – not too much – but the parking.  A couple of loops and my sense of direction is like my singing – rubbish, non-existent.  In the middle of a normally hectic thoroughfare I waved down a police van to ask for help and we had a suitably distanced discussion about car parks without anyone interrupting us.

Off I set, got disorientated again and ended up in a quiet street that turned out to be next door to the Hippodrome Theatre.  And, lo, another police van (different occupants, thank goodness) appeared and was quite happy to be flagged down.  Yes, I could park there but it was a bit of a walk to the donor centre, up hill, in the rain.  No worries, the directions were so simple even I could follow them:  turn first left and straight on, up and over the tram lines and I knew where I was.  Even better, donation done, I found my way back without mishap.  Miracle.

My route home took me past Costco, so I thought I’d nip in to get a few supplies.  How naive was that!  Goodness knows where exactly the queue started but there were people standing patiently in the rain just outside the underground car park and I knew the path wound up hill for quite a distance.  Ah.  Nipping in was not an option.  Waving nonchalantly at the police car that was patrolling the car park, I returned to my vehicle empty-handed and managed to get back without further alarms, no mean feat given that I hadn’t driven anywhere for weeks and was sticking religiously to the speed limit.  Apparently people have been speeding madly, claiming that the lack of traffic means that they’ve lost their points of reference – and  their speedometers;  like Mr Toad they’re revelling in the open road.

People are champing at the bit to get out and about and get going again, with professional golfers as keen as anyone to start swinging in earnest.  Mike Whan, commissioner of the LPGA Tour, considered as ever, issued a statement – read it all on lpga.com – and what jumped out at me was this:  “Resuming sports safely isn’t a race.  It’s a responsibility.  A responsibility not just to our athletes, sponsors, volunteers and fans but also to the millions who have sacrificed their personal safety to battle this pandemic or put their lives on hold to stem the spread…..

“So, will the LPGA resume our season in mid-July?  It’s too soon to say.  If I’ve learned anything about COVID-19, I’ve learned that no matter how well I plan, the virus will set the ultimate timeline…..there are still many unknowns and variables, including progress in screening, tracing and the spread of the virus itself.

“Today my planning horizon is 30-45 days out.  Beyond that, all bets are off….”

Finally, a proper picture, courtesy of Mary McKenna, painted by the incomparable Geraldine Costello, who died a few days ago.  Mo pays proper tribute to Gerry and I have to admit that I was always in awe of the doc (with good reason).  Looking at this painting, what strikes me now is not just how good it is but how legible her signature is……

Ar dheis De go raibh a hanam.

May her soul be at the right hand of God.  May she rest in peace.