Lottie Woad mounted a stout defence of her Augusta National Women’s Amateur (ANWA) title last weekend, eventually finishing third, three shots behind Carla Bernat Escuder, who closed with a 68 for a twelve-under total, thus becoming Europe’s second winner of the tournament and the first from Spain.  Carla is the first player to shoot three successive sub-70 rounds in the ANWA.

One of my favourite moments of the whole week was seeing the great Jose Maria Olazabal patiently waiting for the young victor as she made her triumphant way from the 18th green to the recorder’s area.  The two-time winner of the Masters tournament politely removed his cap before embracing his countrywoman.  What a connection Carla will now share for evermore with the great and the good of Spanish golf who have triumphed at Augusta National.  You could see her reeling quite considerably when asked how she viewed joining Seve, Jose-Maria, Sergio and Jon Rahm in the list of victorious Spaniards at this iconic venue.

Carla hails from the same town as Sergio and Viktor, Sergio’s Dad, has been her swing coach for as long as she can remember and he supports her constantly from afar as she makes her way through the American college system.  That student part of her life is soon to come to an end when she graduates this summer and after that, she will turn professional and continue to aim for the stars.

I foresee many future battles between Carla and Lottie on the world stage, but happily they will be wearing the same colours when it comes to the Solheim Cup.

So much happens at Augusta in the lead up to the main item on the menu, namely the playing of the Masters tournament.  On Tuesday evening there is the champions’  dinner, hosted by the previous year’s winner with the menu chosen by him.  Scottie Scheffler is once again in the chair and his menu hasn’t changed too much from the last time.  Scattered through the starters and main courses are cheeseburgers, ravioli, meatballs and chilli – pretty much any food that can be found at a fast-food outlet.  I’ve no doubt, however, that it’ll be elevated to a sumptuous feast.

Many years ago – in 1991 to be exact, the year I attended my first Masters – Ian Woosnam donned the green jacket and much of the ensuing twelve months was taken up with pondering his menu as host of the champions’ dinner the following year.  Choices made, he invited my late brother-in-law, Dai Davies, to a trial run-through of the meal, with the main course being lamb cooked in hay, a nod to his Welsh and farming heritage.

The day dawned and they met at a local (to Woosie) hotel in Oswestry where they worked their way through the menu to a universal thumbs up.  The pitfalls lay further down the road, however – Woosie was not allowed to have the Welsh lamb flown over to the States because of US import laws.  (Some things don’t change!)  Then the chef wasn’t the least bit impressed with the prospect of setting hay alight in his kitchen in order to cook the main course.

Unfortunately, it’s at this juncture that my source (i.e. Patricia) becomes a little vague and can’t supply the details I was eager to hear – for example, did the wee Welshman change his main course completely?  What made the final cut at the dinner that year?  Unless one of us bumps into Woosie again (unlikely) or he reads this blog (even more unlikely) we shall never know.

The eve of the Masters this years was important to many of us because our great friend and colleague Lewine Mair was being honoured with the 2025 PGA of America Lifetime Achievement award.  This is a wonderful accolade and wholly merited for a woman who has charted a tough passageway through a very male-dominated journalistic world in (amongst others) an exceedingly male-dominated sport, namely golf.

Tales of having to squint through clubhouse windows to see the scores in a tournament so she could write her copy are commonplace, as are stories of being swept in one clubhouse door and straight out again, simply by virtue of being a woman.  This didn’t happen just the odd time, but over the course of years and years.  It beggars belief to think of it now but there were only a handful of these female warriors in this world at that time and hats off to them all.  Non-aggressive diligence and perseverance eventually resulted in the media world opening up to many more women where talent alone matters, not your gender.

For many years Lewine was the golf correspondent for The Daily Telegraph, the go-to paper for all things golf, men’s and women’s, amateurs and pros, in the UK.  To that end she travelled extensively covering all levels of the game and she was certainly a constant presence throughout my own playing career, from top amateur events to professional tournaments on the Ladies’ European Tour.

She was an accomplished sportswoman, with a tennis background but turned pro at golf for a short spell and in her amateur days was in an all-female band.  She has written many, many books but not, to my knowledge, an autobiography – that would be a great read.

So, come on Lewine – take time out from dusting your latest, high-profile, much-deserved award and treat us to tales of your own life.  I do know enough to know that would be as entertaining as all the tales of others that you have treated us to over the years.

I had a great time this weekend just past:  a family wedding on the Saturday – Mark, one of the great-nephews (Dai’s side), married Amy in Leamington Spa – then it was off to Wrexham on the Sunday for a lunch to celebrate Pam Valentine’s 70th birthday.  They were both joyous occasions and well worth the detour.

And, of course, there were detours.  Trying to find the Holiday Inn Express Warwick in the dark last Friday (not really that difficult, it’s hard by the M40) proved beyond me and my Waze app.  Trouble was I couldn’t get the thing to speak to me and it’s well-nigh impossible to follow the route highlighted on the phone when you’re devoting most of your attention to the road.  I ended up going through the middle of Warwick, which was packed with hundreds of revellers, mostly female, either hen partying en masse or reclaiming the night or some such.

In the end, the problem was solved the old-fashioned way:  by ringing the hotel and getting directions from a knowledgeable local.  Phew.  Time for a hug with the groom and half a Guinness with his dad.  I cadged a lift to the ceremony with the groom’s mum and her mum and even though we went to the wrong church first of all, we made the right church on time – just!  Good thing Leamington’s roadworks aren’t as all-encompassing as Lichfield’s – we’d have had no chance.

Then, at the start of Masters week came some sad, sad news:  Peter McEvoy had died at the age of 72.  He was an extraordinarily good golfer, one of the best amateurs ever to represent Britain and Ireland, capped goodness knows how many times for England (despite his Scottish heritage) and winner of the highest honours:  the Amateur Championship in 1977 and 1978, leading amateur in the Open twice, the first British amateur to make the cut at the Masters, member of numerous Walker Cup teams and non-playing captain of two winning teams, at home at Nairn in 1999 and then in 2001 away at Ocean Forest on Sea Island in Georgia.  His list of achievements runs much longer but those are the highlights.

More importantly, he was Dai’s and my best man and gave the eulogy at Dai’s funeral.  Peter, who played for Copt Heath and Warwickshire, was one of Dai’s Birmingham Post parishioners and they became good friends.  There’s nothing better than having a star to write about (and the Post had a few, not least Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam) but a star with opinions that they’re happy to share, well, that is beyond price.

McE, who qualified as a solicitor, had more than his fair share of opinions, often backed up with impressive statistics, many of which he’d made up off the top of his head.  Dai and he enjoyed many a full and frank discussion (translation:  argument), as Peter explained in the piece he wrote for The Guardian’s special, unpublished front page produced to mark Dai’s retirement as golf correspondent.  It’s a great, entertaining read.

In his book For Love or Money, written with Mark Reason and published in 2006, Peter talks about his love of the game but admits that if he’d had his success twenty or so years later he would almost certainly have turned professional.  “Agents would have been splashing so much cash in my face that it would have been almost impossible to say no.  I was 25, not much more than a year older than Luke Donald when he turned pro.

“Nowadays I could expect a plump signing-on fee, various clothing and equipment contracts and exemptions to a number of tournaments.  I could have expected to pick up something in the region of half a million pounds…But the only thing that you were guaranteed in the Seventies was a dodgy haircut.”

The book’s a cracking read, funny, insightful and a wonderful look at golf at the highest level.  Re-reading it is a joy and I’m just sorry I can’t tell Peter that.  Maureen and I send our love and condolences to Helen, Peter’s wife and all their family and friends.

To finish, I just can’t resist using this joke from The Essential Dave Allen, edited by Graham McCann.  It’s called Heaven and Hell and it’s easy for those of us old enough and lucky enough to have seen a lot of the inimitable Irish comedian to hear him weaving his magic with this gem.

“Many people think that Heaven and Hell are on different levels.  They’re not.  They are side by side, separated by a fence.  A wooden fence.  One day, God was walking around the area and he started to inspect the fence.  It was falling down.  All bits and pieces had fallen off it.  So he calls out to the Devil over the fence:  ‘Excuse me.  Mr Mephistopheles?  Hey, NICK!’

The Devil yells:  ‘Whaddyerwant?’

God says:  ‘The fence.  Look at it.  It’s falling down, it needs repairing.  And the posts are on your side.  This fence is your responsibility.  When are you going to fix it?’

The Devil says:  ‘Ah, screw you!’

God says:  ‘Now, listen:  if you do not do something about this fence very soon, you are going to hear from my solicitor!’

The Devil says:  ‘Where are YOU going to find a solicitor?'”

Well, we know where:  on the golf course.  And God would have the Devil’s own job getting them off it.

RIP dearest P McE.