Morning everybody, thanks so much for reading.  I’m your lot today because Maureen’s been away, in a gite in rural France, near Bergerac, where the internet connection was unstable/intermittent/dodgy and she sensibly decided that stressing over the blog was not the best way to relax.

That gives me carte blanche to riff away on whatever takes my fancy and I’m going to start with Jim Barnes.  Wasn’t he in Dallas way back when?  He probably was but this Jim Barnes started life in the far west, in Cornwall and ended up with four  – yes, four – major championships.  Of course there wasn’t such a thing as a major in his day, although they were all big events and the Masters wasn’t even a twinkle in Bob Jones’s eye and no one had come up with the concept of the Grand Slam.

It was Harry Hall who got me thinking about Jim because he (Harry) zoomed up the leaderboard at the Travelers Championship with a final round of 65, five under par.  Like Jim, Harry’s from West Cornwall GC, Lelant (I think – please feel free to correct my geography and anything else that needs correcting; it’s a long list!) and is a long, lanky Englishman making his name in America.  Not so rare these days, what with golf scholarships and aeroplanes and airports everywhere  but Jim, also long and lanky (about 6 foot 4 in old money), headed for fame and fortune in America in the early 1900s.  I suppose he reasoned, correctly, that golf was a lot safer than fishing…

Anyway, Jim’s golf made the journey with him and he won the first two editions of the USPGA Championship, in 1916 and 1919 (the gap was because of World War I).  First he beat Jock Hutchison, by one hole, then Fred McLeod by 6 and 5 –  the championship didn’t become a stroke play event until 1957.  Wind wrote:  “Hutchison, along with Barnes and Hagen, formed the triumvirate that dominated American golf during and just after WWI.”

Walter Hagen would be right up there with the most flamboyant performer of any era, a lover of the high life but a ferocious competitor.  Once, out on the town before a big match, he was told that his opponent was already in bed.  “That’s as may be,” Walter said, “but he ain’t sleeping…”  You get the picture.

In the US Open of 1921, Barnes won the title, nine shots ahead of Hagen and McLeod.  The following year, at Royal St George’s, the Cornishman finished one shot behind Hagen in the Open.  Professionals, however successful, were banned from the clubhouse, so the American arrived every day in his Rolls Royce and had grand picnics in the car in front of the clubhouse, as ostentatious as a protest could be.

In 1925, at Prestwick (Old),  Barnes won the Open, a shot ahead of Archie Compston and Ted Ray, so setting a standard that few Englishmen, let alone Cornishmen, have reached since.

 

Many years later, reminiscing about his US Open win, Barnes recalled that Warren Harding, the president (of the United States) and a golf tragic, was there every day, as was vice president Calvin Coolidge.  Coolidge was notoriously taciturn and somebody bet Dorothy Parker, renowned for her charm as well as her sharp wit, that she couldn’t get him to say more than three words to her at dinner.  She got nowhere and in desperation told Coolidge about the bet.  At last he uttered.

“You lose,” he said.

Parker got her revenge a few years later.  Told that Coolidge, president from 1923 to 1929, had died, she didn’t miss a beat:  “How could they tell?”

Anyway, at the Travelers, it was Tommy Fleetwood who died a death, hurtful, embarrassing even but thankfully not terminal.     A shot ahead with one hole to play, he lost out to Keegan Bradley, who had a brilliant birdie to the Englishman’s limp bogey.

That’s one way of putting it but the reality was beyond dramatic, properly compelling stuff that no one could have predicted.  Fleetwood looked certain to win at last in America but Bradley, the US Ryder Cup captain, one of those irritating players who has a limpet-like doggedness and a flair for the unlikely, holed a couple of monstrous putts to keep himself in the contest and went for the jugular when Fleetwood gave him the opening.

Tommy, gutted, was gracious as ever and even though he looked crushed I’m inclined to back him to win the Open at Portrush next month.  He was runner-up  to Shane Lowry in 2019, well behind in the end in weather most foul and if I don’t put my money on him (usually the kiss of death and a guaranteed missed cut), he might have a chance.

Anyway, he won $1,760,000 for sharing second place with Russell Henley, who had a delightfully streaky chip in from gnarly rough at the last.  Bradley won a mere $3,600,ooo, which really just goes to show how bonkers the whole thing has become.

Meanwhile, in Texas, Minjee Lee, of Australia, was winning the KPMG Women’s PGA Championship, her third major title.    She won $1,800,000, a huge amount for the women – and not so long ago for the men too.  Only three players broke par in wild, windy conditions on what looked like a ghastly golf course with not very many spectators.   PGA Frisco is the new home of the PGA of America so we’ll probably be seeing a lot of it but it didn’t look very user friendly to me.  Am I just getting old and jaded?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.

Let’s have a laugh to finish.  Cynthia May sent this comment on last week’s rant about apostrophes:  “The R&A’s Amateur Women’s Championship [sic] held last week at Nairn GC had billboards, notices, merchandise and signs on everything and not an apostrophe once on Women’s.

“My friend who was a volunteer and was given a Championship woolly hat as a thank you, spent the evening before the start sewing in an apostrophe!  I have photos!”

Oh, we need to see those please Cynthia.  Brilliant.

 

 

 

It’s always interesting finding yourself in a position to straddle a timeline – and it doesn’t happen all that frequently.  Last week, however, at the Women’s Amateur at Nairn golf club I found myself doing exactly that, looking back on a precious, personal week from the past and looking forward with awed anticipation having witnessed the current brilliance of the women’s game.

Let’s start with the important news, however.  The R&A ran a smooth operation as always, and their combined efforts, along with the host club, Nairn, resulted in a stellar week’s golf which culminated in a final of mesmerising quality.  There were many unforgettable performances from the starting field of 144 women who represented a plethora of nations from around the world but they would have been unable to do their thing without Nairn’s sublime links being beautifully presented by the grounds staff.  I hope they’ve earned a few days off!  Or at least a rise in pay.  Great as a club may be, it is as nothing without the hours of toil required to bring a course to the standard required to wow a global television audience as well as a global roster of competitors.  Congrats all round.

While some of the Saturday match play battles were being fought on the course I found myself in the clubhouse in the company of certain folk who had played starring roles back in 1979 when I managed to win the title.  There was Alistair Allan, the men’s captain of that year and my caddy Ray Grant, whom I’ve only ever known as Arnie.  Sadly, Janet Ross the wonderfully effervescent lady captain of that year, is no longer with us but her daughter, Sandra, a current vice-president of the club, and my host for the duration, was ever-present.

It was quite surreal to be gathered there again with the modern iteration of the championship taking place on the links outside the window.  I certainly have a heightened appreciation of it all nowadays – when you’re young, you do take an awful lot for granted.

Arnie asked me about my memories of individual matches and he and I had a quiet walk over the course together reminiscing.  There’s no doubt the shots are getting better, the holed putts longer, the wind trickier – and who can challenge us?!  After all, there are (unfortunately) fewer folk around now to contradict us and (fortunately) there’s no video archive or TV coverage from that era.  Phew!

Arnie asked did I remember what I had given him as a present at the end of the week.  I had no idea but he said I gave him a dozen Dunlop 65s, all individually wrapped.  To be honest, I cringe a bit at that nowadays – it seems a bit mean, but the cries round the coffee table drowned him out.  Where were those balls now?  Did he still have them?  They’d certainly be worth a pretty penny or two.

Arnie, who travelled the world in his working life, is confident the Dunlops are in his attic at home, packed away with a whole lot of other stuff.  With the week of the Championship nearing he decided it was time to tick a job off his long to-do list and finally get round to buying and installing a new loft ladder.  According to Arnie this flurry of action was all driven by deciding to try and locate said golf balls and the blame for his almost four-figure bill for the new ladder seemingly rests squarely on my shoulders!  And the balls are still in hiding!

I was particularly keen to follow the progress of a young golfer from just down the road from me, Isla McDonald-O’Brien, whom I had coached when she was just a wee girl.  All grown up now at 18 and having completed her first year at Arizona State, Isla dispatched Curtis Cup player Catherine Park of the States, the No 7 player on the world amateur rankings. and made it to the quarters, the last player standing from the four home countries.

Her reward is a berth on Maria Dunne’s GB&I Vagliano Trophy team to take on the Europeans at Royal Hague at the end of the month.  It’s her first cap for Britain and Ireland – and she, too, will have cause to look back at Nairn with fondness, no matter what she may go on to achieve in the game.  I, too, gained my first cap for GB&I  thanks to my play on this links – special things have always happened at Nairn.

There was magnificent skill on display wherever you turned.  Canadian Tillie Claggett was the most impressive ball-striker I think I’ve ever witnessed in the women’s game, amateur or professional.  The speed she could create was phenomenal – I suppose she was helped somewhat by being a former Olympic swimmer – and she hit several tee shots in the 350 – 400 yard range……..and that was with only a baby breeze assisting her.

There’s more to a modern champion, however, than just a power game and American Farah O’Keefe was able to weather a barrage of early birdies from Tillie in the semi-final and eventually wear her down with sublime wedge play from inside 100 yards.  She calmly and patiently plotted her way to the final with scarcely a weakness in her game.  It was a fascinating tussle between two players with very different games, but the shared experience of having grown up in Texas competing with and against each other since the age of eleven.

And so, on to the final where O’Keefe came up against Spain’s Paula Martin Sampedro (picture at top.)  It was akin to watching a Solheim Cup match of the highest calibre.  In the morning 18 of the 36-hole final both players were round in 66 and all square.  It was pretty much error-free golf and a treat for the growing number of spectators.

With the breeze freshening, the nerves tightening, the galleries swelling and the course looking magnificent, it all came down to the 17th green where a half earned the Spaniard a 2 and 1 victory.  It was a little surreal watching a player step off the very same green as champion as I did all those years ago and celebrate with her teammates.  Things are very different now but yet so much the same.

And so came to a conclusion a terrific championship and we have the welcome prospect of watching these women compete for many years to come.  There was just time for one final photo opportunity.

 

My mind isn’t on golf this week because I’m hosting an Ascot Day on Saturday – oh, my goodness, that’s tomorrow, aaaagh…There’s been a flurry of cleaning, gardening, planning (not my strong point as many of you know), re-homing of panicked spiders and slaters and the food still has to be prepared and stored.  What on earth is there to worry about!!  Oops, where did I put the shopping list and the loo cleaner?  Have I time to buy a salmon?

I did play in our medal comp on Tuesday and got a message on my phone saying my handicap had been reduced by 0.3 or something.  What?!!!  It’s already far too low and just how is that possible when you’ve had two QUADRUPLE bogeys – four shots in a bunker each time?  Please, DO NOT write in to explain the intricacies of the execrable WHS (world handicapping system;  oops, just looked it up and it’s the World Handicap System – I should care but I don’t, there’s not enough time left for me to wrestle with its ins and outs).

Mind you, I didn’t play too badly overall and I’m looking forward to rocketing up the eclectic table, not too difficult since I was stone last after a horrible opening effort.  It’s also a great way of taking the pressure off because my sole aim all the way round was to improve my eclectic and I knew that even I would be able to manage that.

Not that you wish to know but my second quad, at the par 4 9th, came after probably my best shot of the day.  It was with my little rescue and I was standing well above the ball but managed to keep my balance and made lovely contact.   Oooo, I thought, that might be very good…Sadly (for me, no one else cared – and why should they?  They had their own challenges, though one of my playing partners had a lovely birdie), it needed to be a fraction harder or a fraction further left because it toppled gently into a fairly deep bunker and it was all hash from there.  Not such hot stuff, though bunkers  are sweltering, desert wastes in this steamy weather.

I was going to write about apostrophes at some length – hence the appearance above of Lynne Truss’s classic book Eats, Shoots And Leaves, which is very good on apostrophes, even managing to make them interesting – but I will keep it brief, you’ll be delighted to hear.

Having more or less decided to abandon the little ticks altogether and ignore their serial misuse, they fought back, turning up in a big way in a sporting context.  There was a fantastic, compelling test match between Australia and South Africa at Lord’s; then there was tennis at Queen’s; and the Amateur Championship at Royal St George’s.  Bloody hell, there’s – oh no, not another one – no escaping them.

I headed down a bit of a rabbit hole, which is not unusual in these parts, while keeping an eye on the golf and news of Thomas Frank, our (as in Tottenham) new manager and old episodes of Bergerac (John Nettles was very tasty in those distant days and there are some nice shots of Jersey).  In short, I would have been in bed hours ago if I had an ounce (or gram) of discipline and concentration.

Not every golf club, however venerable, needs an apostrophe, some do, some don’t, so confusion reigns and we go scurrying off to check.  St Andrews?  No.  Royal St David’s?  Yes; but just call me Harlech.  Royal Lytham and St Annes?  Ah, tricky; mostly no but sometimes yes.  It’s a bit of a minefield.

But Lytham is – or has been – ambivalent.  These two examples are from the same book.

 

Finally, congrats to two women who’ve made their mark in the game, in different ways and been rewarded for their dedication, hard work and inspiration.

Trish Johnson, who deserves her mention despite being an Arsenal fanatic, has been made an MBE.

And Denise Hastings, a wee girl from a council estate in Bootle, one of the founder members of the women’s European Tour, has risen to the very top of her profession.

Tristan Crew, PGA executive director (membership), said, “Special congratulations to Denise on achieving Master status – a rare and prestigious recognitionthat reflects decades of dedication and innovation in coaching….”

Denise said:  “It means the world.  I’ve put my heart and soul into this.  After coming off tour, I knew I wasn’t the best player in the world, so I wanted to be the best coach I can be….It’s not the easiest thing to achieve but to do it, to become a Master Coach, is an honour…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you’re one of our regular, early Friday morning readers who logs on with a cuppa when the blog thuds into your inbox – well then, wish me bon voyage, as I’ll be just about to board an early morning flight to Scotland to see an old friend.  I haven’t seen this old pal, except from a distance, for well nigh on forty-six years.  I’m hoping for a picture together, perhaps a wee cuddle and definitely a chance to reminisce.

Some of you will have guessed my destination.  I’m flying to Inverness en route to Nairn, invited by the golf club to attend the Women’s Amateur Championship, which is currently being held there…….and the old friend I’m referring to is the rather handsome Championship trophy which I received for winning the last Women’s Amateur to be held at the club, back in 1979.

We’ve both changed somewhat with the passage of time.  The trophy is taller now and even more impressive thanks to the  extra number of silver bands adorning the plinth, all meticulously inscribed with the winners’ names.  I am not taller, many of you will be relieved to hear, but I also have a few extra rings around my middle.  I am, however, tattoo-free.

We spent a lovely year together – something which is impossible now, I believe.  The new champion on Sunday will be presented with the cup, have numerous photos taken and then the silverware will be spirited back to its home in St Andrews.  I believe it resides permanently in the Golf Museum – undoubtedly unable to travel much because of insurance issues.  That wasn’t the case back in my day.

There’s always a flurry of activity at the conclusion of an event and 1979 was no exception.  The 18-hole final and the ensuing presentation was done and dusted by early afternoon and then Dad and Patricia, who had flown over for the final, rushed back to the airport to make their way home.  Mum, Molly (a dear family friend) and I were packing up the car to make the long drive south in order to catch the Stranraer/Larne ferry the next day.

It was at that point that the officials appeared with a huge wooden box, custom-made for the trophy.  It was at least two feet high and roughly eighteen inches square at the top.  It must be long redundant as its occupant will have outgrown it some years past.  We carefully packed our unexpected passenger and set off, scarcely able to believe the week we’d just shared.  We later paused at a pub for a cuppa and the three of us were speechless when, from the telly in the corner, we heard my name being announced on the Saturday afternoon sports programme, Grandstand, as the winner of the British!  That was almost as incredible as having won!

Familiarity with ferry trips across the Irish sea to Troon to play in the Helen Holm meant we knew of several B&Bs in that golfing town so it was an obvious place to stop for the night on the way home.  We had no problem booking in but we did have a problem lugging the box and its precious contents up the stairs in our accommodation.  It weighed an absolute ton but we managed to get it safely stored at the end of my bed.

The following morning I woke early, 5.30ish, with the sun streaming in the window and the birds singing.  I lay for a second or two and thought to myself, “Gosh, I dreamt I won the British!”

I sat bolt upright and looked at the end of the bed – and there, large as life, was THE BOX!  “Oh my goodness.  I DID win the British.”  I stared at it for a moment or two and then I just had to get out of bed and go and touch the box to see if it were real and not an hallucination.

We continued on our way and into a plethora of parties and dinners and presentations and all the time I was accompanied by the cup and its travelling box.  In the downtime the trophy sat on the sideboard at home until we, rather sensibly, decided to entrust it to the care of  Portstewart golf club and into the hands of Brigid who prided herself on keeping the club and its display cabinets gleaming.

Brigid looked after that trophy as if it were one of her own children and it had pride of place in the cabinet, unmissable by anyone who crossed the threshhold of the club.  It gleamed so brilliantly we probably should have issued a warning similar to when there’s an eclipse.

But what a privilege to have access to that piece of history for a whole year.  I studied the names on the plinth, wondering about those who had gone before me and feeling very much the weight of history – something the modern winners won’t have the opportunity to absorb or appreciate.  There are so many things that are better nowadays – but not everything and I do appreciate having had literal ownership of such a piece of history for a wee while.

This trip to Nairn will bring a full circle moment for me, too, in many other ways, not least because I will be staying with a dear friend, Sandra Ross, whom I met that special week back in 1979.  Sandra is vice-president of the club and her Mum, Janet, was the lady captain the year I won.  How lovely the two of us can spend time together looking back at those great days but even better that we can look forward and enjoy and marvel at the skill of today’s players.

The future of the women’s game is rosy indeed and aren’t we lucky to witness it.