I woke up screaming the other morning – not in fear and not very loudly but so frustrated that I knew there was no getting back to sleep.  It was early enough to hear the binboys doing their stuff but there was nothing for it but to get up, make a cup of tea and read something soothing.

I had a choice and plumped for Queenie Hennessy, more than emotional enough but a work of fiction and I wasn’t feeling quite strong enough for the mind-boggling real-life adventures of Billy Walters, a gambler’s tale that is not for the faint-hearted; large lumps of it aren’t for the mathematically challenged either but this reader, clueless as she is, is ploughing on regardless.  Both books are cracking reads.

Queenie did the job and took me into another world, calming me down.  The night before, channel hopping, I’d come across The Great Climate Fight on Channel 4 (well 4 +1), presented by the formidable trio of Mary Portas, Kevin McCloud and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.  They, like me, are spitting mad at our refusal to do every last thing we can to change our planet-destroying habits, wilfully ignoring all the advances in technology that make improvements possible – and have done for many years now.

Our housing stock is a disgrace – Kevin is the man for this – but it doesn’t have to be and it was the vision of all the same old, same old new builds being thrown up all around Lichfield that caused my early-morning meltdown.  If I hadn’t been feeling a bit delicate after a visit to the osteopath, I’d have tramped over to the development and taken a photo but you’ll probably get the picture anyway.

Kevin visited a lovely, energy efficient batch of new homes in Lancaster, to show what can be done and Mary got herself a red coach and a driver and parked it outside the Treasury.  She took up her little megaphone to try and tempt Jeremy Hunt, the chancellor, who’d been ignoring her emails, to meet her to discuss the matter of fossil fuels and the like.  He didn’t appear but she caused a stir.

Government ministers did their level best to avoid our intrepid trio, though Michael Gove did agree to visit Lancaster with Kevin, then, what do you know, he couldn’t find a slot in his diary…Obfuscation at every turn, stringing us along, hoping we’ll soon be too cold to use our keyboards and will be too busy surviving to think about thriving.  You wouldn’t believe these people have children and grandchildren and should be doing everything they can to save the planet for them.

Well, there’ll be an election soon enough…In the meantime, just what should I be replacing the gas boiler with?  And did I really grow up without radiators?  Where has that hardiness gone just when it’s needed!

Talking of string, that was the comp for us frolickers last Friday.  We each got given a piece of string, how long depended on our handicap, the higher the longer, so you can imagine the tangled mess some of us got into.  The idea is to use your string to get out of trouble, a bunker, say or a clump of heather or to hole a tricky putt.  You cut off the length as required until you run out of string.

For once I managed the intricacies well-nigh impeccably, putted the lights out and racked up 18 points in the 7 holes, with five proper pars, two of them string-assisted and two bogeys.  It’s a bit of a faff, not least because it takes two to stretch out the string and work out where to cut it – there were lots of cries of “who’s got the scissors?”  Then you have to remember which string is still in play and which is out of action.  A bit of a miracle we made it in in daylight; no wonder the two-ball behind us took themselves off who knows where.

The whole point is that the string is your get-out-of-jail free card but for some unfathomable reason and to general astonishment our esteemed organiser, who sets the rules, and her group added a shot to their score every time they used a bit of cord.  Duh.  At least she had the grace not to declare the comp null and void.

That evening, when I was slobbing out at home in front of Father Brown and Gogglebox, a load of the more intrepid members were back out on the course for a few holes of floodlit golf.  They all raved about it so much – despite a certain amount of disorientation (hip flasks were spotted apparently) – that I’m putting my name down next time; it sounded like a lot of fun.

I forget to tell you that the other week at bridge I called, with a lot of help from our resident guru, a grand slam, shock, horror.  I didn’t make it – but I should have.  It all came down to the last two cards and muggins (whose brain cell failed her at the critical moment) nearly made the right choice but prevaricated (knowing that the others at the table knew what I should be doing) and as so often got her 50-50 chance wrong.  I chose the six of diamonds and the six of hearts was a master.  Bugger.  That could be my one and only chance.

Billy Walters would be shaking his head in disbelief.  You’re kidding me.  You weren’t playing for money?  And you can’t count!

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not been a good week.

No, I’m afraid I’m not exaggerating.  In fact, it’s a massive understatement – but just how do you describe losing two friends your own age to cancer in under forty-eight hours?

Many of you will have seen Dale Reid’s obituary on the Ladies’ European Tour website and the accolades paid to her when the sad news of her death filtered through from her home in Townsville in Queensland.  One of our favourite blog readers, Gordon from Enniskillen, sent a lovely note about her, but I felt unable to write anything last week.  Unfortunately, I’ve known for five months how unwell Dale was, so from that point of view it wasn’t entirely unexpected news.  My other friend, however, was a shock of seismic proportions and my not mentioning her doesn’t mean anything other than it is all too raw and far, far too soon to think of sharing any stories.

Dale was a good Fifer, hailing from Ladybank Golf Club and she is the reason that course was always on my bucket list of places to play.  Six years ago Gill Stewart, Mary McKenna, Sandra Ross and I (aka the July Club although we always had our annual golf get-together in October!) paid a visit to Ladybank on one of our little Scottish forays.  Indulge me by allowing me to reproduce here a little of what I wrote at the time.

“So, next it was on to Ladybank Golf Club, the original stomping ground of our old pal Dale Reid and the principal reason this course has always been on my bucket list.  Dale, one of Scotland’s finest women golfers, now living in Oz, was a ferocious competitor through her multi-titled amateur and professional days, recording 23 professional wins worldwide and topping the European Order of Merit twice.  She played in four Solheim Cup teams and captained two, most famously in her homeland in 2000 when Europe defeated the USA at Loch Lomond.

“An honorary member of the Ladies’ European Tour, she was awarded the OBE in the 2001 New Year’s Honours List.  Although short in stature, Reidy gave the ball an almighty thump and Gill remembers her using an old wooden-headed 2-wood off the tee.  No driver for Dale!  She just loved that 2-wood.  It wasn’t always the same story with her putter, however, which I remember she was frequently changing.  But when she had her eye in – look out!  She was well-nigh unbeatable.”

Dale and her long-term partner Corinne Dibnah were a tour de force wherever they went and it’s hard to write about one without writing about the other.

It’s been a shitty few days in many ways and sitting here staring at a blank screen feeling sad and doing a lot of old woman huffing and puffing is no help to anybody.  Perhaps I should just shut the laptop lid and go to bed but it’s not December yet and sheer stubborness demands that there’s a blog for our devoted, daft friends to read on Friday morning – or whenever they wish.  Mo and I are amazed (well, I am) – and beyond grateful.

Puttering about, doing this and that but nothing very much in particular, I switched on the telly and flicked or scrolled or whatever it is we low techies (i.e. non techies) do to get to the golf.  And, lo, there were the seniors, still swinging, still competing, in the Charles Schwab Cup Championship, somewhere in America:  Bernhard Langer, Steve Alker, Padraig Harrington, Ernie Els, mostly names and players I once knew well.

I watched with half an eye because one of my current projects is to read and return all the books I’ve borrowed from friends and I was keen to finish The Tale of the Rose by Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry, wife of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, one of France’s all-time heroes.  It was translated into English by Esther Allen and subtitled The Passion That Inspired The Little Prince (Le Petit Prince).

Anyway, back to the golf and the highlights thereof.  Surely something was missing?  I put down the Saint-Exupérys, large print version but a mind-boggling, eye-opening rollercoaster of a ride to us innocents abroad even in tiny print and paid more attention to the screen.  Ah, that’s it.  They’ve given up golf and only do putting.  I think I saw one neat little chip, one pitch and then it was putt after putt after putt.  Not a drive, not a fairway shot, not a bunker shot – although the commentators mentioned a couple of excellent efforts from sand by Padraig.  At the 72nd hole we saw Alker hit a poor wedge over the green, then a decent little chip and he then holed a tricky little putt to win.

Blimey, that little lot was right up there with the worst highlights package I’ve ever seen and that’s saying something.  I was aghast, incensed even and in a funny way, it cheered me up no end.  And, in the general scheme of things it mattered/matters not a jot.

Seeing Padraig also jolted me into scurrying upstairs to find this silly tile, a souvenir from the Open he won at Carnoustie.  It’s as yet unsigned but even though it was way back in 2007 I doubt he’s forgotten it, his first major championship and I’m sure he’s signed weirder things in his time.

Being a bit – ok a lot – of a weather wimp these days, I withdrew from the golf on Tuesday when I woke up to hear the rain hammering against the bedroom window.  It did ease off and one of my partners, who’s keen to test out her dodgy knee, played a few holes without needing her brolly.  I’d laid out my thermals – vest and leggings – waterproof trousers and various upper layers, plus hat and gloves but Sue C appeared in her SHORTS.  And as far as I know she hasn’t even signed up as a Christmas postie.

There’s no getting away from it:  it’s tough when friends die, especially when they’re your age or younger and last week we had to say goodbye to Dale Reid and Alison White, both Scots, both steeped in golf, both only in their sixties.  Outwardly they were very different characters but both left their mark on the game, Dale as a player, very much in the public eye and Alison as an administrator, working away behind the scenes.

So many memories, so many laughs, some irritations, so much kindness; those are the things that come to my mind when I think of them.  I’m meant to have a way with words but what are the right ones at moments like this?  They’re in there somewhere but stuck.  They’ll have to wait for another time.

In the meantime, my heart goes out to their families and friends.

And I’ve a couple of pictures to share.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was fiddling about the other day on social media (has there ever been a more time-wasting activity?) when I came across a little video of Charlie Woods, son of Tiger, teeing off in the second round of something or other.  The announcer started off with a bellow, ” ….and now the 06.32 tee time …” and a mini Tiger came out of the early morning gloom and teed up his ball.

Then a strange thing happened.  This young man turned into Rory McIlroy, right down to the identical follow-through and the ball was dispatched into the mist.  Charlie strode off the tee, turning to hand his club to his caddy, 15-time major champion and Dad, Tiger, who, it has to be said, looked as if he was walking normally, a rare occurrence over the last decade.

It was an early start for the pair and it set me wondering as to what time the alarm had been set for.  To my knowledge most players with an early start on tour set their clocks for three hours prior to their tee time.  Towards the end of Tiger’s career when he was succumbing to the inexorable demands he had put on his body for so long it took him five hours from bed to tee.  I can’t imagine that the caddying duties would be quite so onerous though and he looked happy to be there, even at that ungodly hour, striding along after his son.  I wonder if the roles will be reversed next April at Augusta?

I had a number of very good caddies when I was on tour, one of whom was the multi-talented Angie Bell, who used to tow her caravan from her home in Yorkshire to all the tour venues in the UK and on the European continent.  From early April to the beginning of November Angie criss-crossed her way across Europe, calling in at the tournament sites a month or so ahead of time to walk the course, measuring it with a wheel (no lasers in those days).  She would then produce in excess of a couple of hundred course planners, some in yards, some in metres, for the players and caddies and these would be waiting for us when we arrived at the tournament.

Aside from this, she became the first-ever tour rep to travel on the Ladies’ European Tour, employed by Ping to look after their players.  Angie did all the regripping and minor repairs required and carried supplies of extra Ping brollies, gloves, headcovers and the like, attending to the needs of some fifty players a week.

She fitted all this around looking after me, getting up at the crack of dawn every day and often working on clubs well into the evenings.  As if that weren’t enough, a group of us often went to the caravan for one of Angie’s legendary chillis for supper and the conversation would frequently turn to the topic of where exactly would the impending cut fall.

One player, who often travelled with Angie, was an absolute mastermind at predicting said cut, arguably because she spent most of her career sitting on that very line.  She had an uncanny ability to assess the weather, the strength of the field, the state of her game and sundry other imponderables.  Once she got her opening tee shot away on Thursday morning her brain was consumed by where the axe would fall.  She was rarely wrong.

These memories were triggered for me a few evenings ago when I rustled up a chilli con carne, something I hadn’t cooked in an absolute age.  The sister was present for food that night (as she often was for an Angie supper when she was covering our tour) and out of the blue I recalled those long-ago days when we used to enjoy Angie’s chilli.  Once again we were aboard the reminiscing train, an increasingly frequent pastime the older we become.  (The featured picture at the top of the blog is of The Glacier Express, which runs from Zermatt to St Moritz.  It’s on my wish list for the near future.)

Anyway, in the interests of keeping anno Domini at bay and recapturing former tour days, I had another foray up to Delamere this week to hit a few more balls.  The real draw, however, was lunch with the lovely Karl Morris, the mental skills guru who has helped so many players unlock and achieve their full potential.  I must have known Karl for thirty years or so and we now find ourselves members of the self same golf club.

Despite some of his own health challenges Karl appears to show no signs of slowing down and, though he won’t admit it, he has been a major contributor to Kiwi Ryan Fox’s incredible last two or three seasons.  He prefers to remain in the shadows but I know his job satisfaction must be high.

It’s hard to believe it’s twenty years since the two of us did a mini lecture tour alongside the four Harmon brothers, Dick, Bill, Claude and Butch.  It was at a time that Tiger had just fired Butch as his coach and his three brothers didn’t half give Butch some stick.  They claimed Butch was the only coach to be fired by two world No 1 players, having previously been given a red card by Greg Norman.  The conversations over dinner were amazing…….and unabridged, and something I’m sure neither Karl nor I will ever forget.

Oh dear.  Choo!  Choo!  There’s that reminiscing train racing down the tracks again!