And suddenly, just like that, it’s crept up on us.  Next week is Masters week and part of my brain is saying, “At last,” while another part is countering with, “What, already?”

I can almost smell the flowering dogwood and the azaleas from here.  I can see in my mind’s eye the wonderful synchronicity of the grounds’ crew with their carefully orchestrated cutting and mowing patterns;  I can hear the cheerful and heartfelt greetings from the volunteers as they proudly welcome visitors from all over the world to “their” little piece of heaven.  The bird song is tuneful, (but the powers-that-be refuse to confirm whether the too-regular chirruping we hear on our televisions is the real deal or artificially produced) and the rolling green fairways are more perfect than any playing surfaces have a right to be.

It’s all so familiar but refreshingly so and, despite the fact that I’m not there in person this year, I find my spirits soaring at the delicious prospect of some wonderful viewing ahead of us all.  I am hoping, however, to work up to an uncomfortable Sunday – full of angst, shouting at the TV, hand-wringing and pacing about – because that will mean one of my favourites is in with a chance of expanding his wardrobe with a certain green jacket.

There are a number of players who would induce this kind of behaviour in me and in no particular order my main favourites are:  Tommy Fleetwood, Tyrrell Hatton, Bob MacIntyre, Justin Rose, Ludvig Aberg, the Hojgaard twins Nicolai and Rasmus, Shane Lowry ……and, of course, Rory McIlroy.

Ah, Rory.

It’s absolute nonsense, of course, but it’s hard not to think there is more on the line for Rory than any of the others.  Ahead of him is the prospect of becoming only the sixth player in history to complete the Career Grand Slam of winning all four majors at least once.  And wouldn’t it be great if we could all finally draw a veil over the memory of his spectacular implosion in 2011 when he handed the title to his rivals after taking a four-shot lead into the final round?  Each passing year seems to make the erasure of that particular memory more difficult.  The etch-a-sketch function of my memory, so reliable in other areas of my life, stubbornly refuses to work in respect of Rory and The Masters.

Word has filtered through that the Irishman has already made his annual scouting mission to Augusta National Golf Club ahead of the tournament.  Hurricane Helene, responsible for so much devastation and hardship to the local community, did not spare the golf course and there are fewer trees now than before.  Visually the 16th hole is slightly different, though I doubt if we’ll pick that up from our TV screens and, seemingly, four greens have been altered to some degree – the 1st, 8th, 15th and 16th.  No matter how familiar lines and slopes may be to loads of the players, it seems like there’s always something new to learn.

The day after this blog is posted we do have a chance of our own sneak preview of the golf course with the broadcast of the final round of this year’s Augusta National Women’s Amateur.  Started in 2019, this is the sixth playing of the tournament – Covid claimed the 2020 edition – and already derring-do deeds seem to be required to lift the title.  The first winner was Jennifer Kupcho who played her final six holes in five under par to hold off the effervescent Maria Fassi of  Mexico.  The skills, sportsmanship and joy with which these two battled for that inaugural title was more than the ANGC could have wished – it made future iterations a must-watch for golf fans.

Last year there were more fireworks when England’s Lottie Woad found herself two shots behind the talented American Bailey Shoemaker, who shot a record-breaking 66, with four holes to play.  Cool as a cucumber, Lottie birdied three of her last four holes – in fact, she single-putted four of her last five greens – to pip Bailey by a shot and become the first European winner of the title.

Now more exciting opportunities are opening up for the 21-year old Florida State University student.  This year a universities ranking has been formed to provide a pathway directly on to the LPGA tour.  Acquisition of twenty points over a specific time period will provide a similar route to female athletes to the one Ludvig Aberg took to the PGA Tour a couple of years ago.  It means being able to gain status on the LPGA tour, with the added bonus of avoiding Q-school.

Lottie’s past record has helped her build up that points score admirably.  Consider these achievements:  winning the ANWA title;  reaching No 1 in the world amateur ranking and winning the McCormack medal;  finishing tied 10th and tied 23rd in a couple of the 2024 majors;  playing in the Curtis Cup and the Palmer Cup.  Amongst other results that little lot has bagged her sixteen of the required twenty points and she has loads of opportunities to annexe the four extra ones that are needed.  That would then put her in the lovely position of a fast track to the LPGA but able to defer membership until she has graduated from uni in 2026.

Becoming the first player to defend her ANWA title would be a great start and I shall watch with interest, as I will the men the following week.

As we all know, Augusta National can make…….or break dreams.

I’m sitting here at the keyboard, forcing myself to start the blog so that I can have a good night’s sleep and be in with a chance of looking my best (at 70, nearer 71, with all those lines, who am I kidding!) at the great nephew’s wedding on Saturday.  Fortunately, as we all know, it’s the bride who matters, so the pressure is off.  And the outfit is sorted (mine as well as hers) – just have to remember to collect the aged Prada sandals from the ace shoe repair man in Lichfield.

How I love those Prada sandals!  They cost three figures in a sale in a big London department store – I’ve forgotten which one, I’d just wandered in to put in some time before meeting a friend – at least a quarter of a century ago.  That was serious money but they proved worth every penny (I was going to say cent but in the current circumstances, certainly not).

That wee bag, shoes inside, went everywhere with me, tucked neatly in a corner of the luggage and whenever I wore them, wherever it was, whatever else I had on, I knew I was the business and could hold my head up high in any company.  What more could you ask?

I’d probably write quicker – and more coherently – if I weren’t/wasn’t (who cares about grammar these days) trying to pay attention to a Zoom seminar  (had to upgrade to business for a couple of hours; don’t worry, I’ve already cancelled my free trial) and Spurs away at Chelsea.  There has been screeching and swearing and stomping about; I’d have had at least three red cards, if that were possible.

Am beginning to think that my friends who are indifferent to football have a point but my fellow football supporters are very entertaining.  One of them, a Chelsea supporter, sent me this message before the latest match:  “Give Chelsea a 3-goal start and I still fancy Spurs this week…”

Goodness knows why because Chelsea are miles ahead of us in the table and my reply was:  “Don’t be daft, we’ll be lucky to keep 10 men on the pitch.”  That’s a reference to a recent encounter, at our place, when we went down to nine men and Chelsea scored four goals.

These two teams really don’t like each other, it’s usually feisty and beyond and one Spurs fan predicted that only 19 of the 22 players would still be on the pitch at the end.  Amazingly, there were still 22 left as we trudged off and Chelsea skipped – after TWELVE minutes of added time.  It was 1-nil to them – both sides had a goal disallowed – but we were woeful, so disappointing.

We’re still in Europe, so Ange, our Australian manager, is still in a job but we’re edging towards the point where I seem to be the only person wanting him to stay for next season.  Far too often our lot look as though they’ve never met, let alone played or trained together.  My mate, whose optimism is at a low ebb, was vaguely heartened and wrote:  “Chelsea at least look like someone has actually opened a defensive manual.”

“Think ours is in some ancient Aboriginal language understood only by a handful of elders.”  A bit of a cheap crack perhaps but I think the elders would at least get their point across – providing the players are willing to listen and capable of taking things in.  Footballers don’t need to be super smart but please, please, give them a footballing brain.

Once the footie started I was only keeping half an eye on Selena Soo’s ‘Rich Relationships’ book launch/seminar.  I sign up to all sorts of things, goodness knows why really; it’s a bit late for self improvement or becoming a multi-millionaire and no one would ever think of me as an entrepreneur but you come across all sorts of interesting people and it can be inspirational:   “I was a teacher, tired of being broke; faith over fear; breathe with your heart; be a rich giver.”  And the title of one of the books really made me laugh.  It’s also well worth reading apparently.

There’s a lot of pleading – please, please, please –  in this blog and I do need a bit of help from all those car buffs out there, please!  My sturdy Ford Fiesta is starting to show signs of age, admittedly not helped by the recent brush with Mo’s rockery, so I’m looking for a replacement.  I nearly crashed in to a bus because I was so busy eyeing up every car coming towards me and wondering if it would be the one…

Electric, hybrid, petrol?  What’s for the best?  Last week I was at a talk given by Mike Berners-Lee on the first day of Lichfield’s Literature Festival but he was so busy signing copies of his new book and answering more lofty questions that my choice of car fell by the roadside.  Instead I emailed his company Small World Consulting Ltd and got a very detailed and helpful response from Jenny, who referred me to Mike’s book “How Bad Are Bananas” and quoted a lot of figures related to our carbon footprint, with advice on how best to reduce it.

Walking is best, of course but not always possible if, for instance, you want to get from Lichfield to a wedding in Leamington Spa, a reception in Claverdon, a hotel in Warwick and a 70th birthday lunch in Wrexham…

There’s a wonderful weekend in store.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things didn’t start particularly well for my team in the annual playing of the Madill Trophy on the sublime links at Muirfield last Sunday.  I know the captain of the club deserves to be accorded the odd privilege but I didn’t expect my team to extend that to allowing Gareth Baird, the current incumbent, to stroll to the 2nd and tee off one hole to the good, not having hit a single solitary stroke on the opening hole.

Yes, you’ve guessed it – one of our number played a wrong ball and if you haven’t quite worked it all out, the matches in question are foursomes, the staple diet of our hosts, the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers (HCEG).

it is an unbelievable thirty years since the first playing of this match and if I were the winning captain and still in possession of the trophy I would be able to tell you how many times “The Lads” have won and how many times “The Lasses” has been inscribed on said cup – but, I’m not, so I can’t.

Our opponents drafted in a couple of newbies to bolster their team this year.  The net was cast wide to pull in a transatlantic addition of note, Jack Bonner, while the other rookie was the slightly more local, Colin “did I mention I was the Recorder of the club?” Dempster.  I’m sorry to say it turned out to be a bit of a masterstroke by team captain Stuart McEwen, the secretary of the HCEG.  Added to that formidable mix was the combined experience of  Michael Beamish, Tom Walker, (my host), Andy Irvine and next year’s captain Mark MacLean, which meant we found ourselves on the wrong end of a 5-3 scoreline.

We are no strangers to losing, of course, but it’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed one of our opponents check his yardage, come up with a number of 138 to the centre and then select his putter and calmly proceed to hop, skip and jump the ball to 35 feet.  I remember both Tiger and Mickelson using their putters from the fairway in an Open or two – but that was from 50 yards tops.

Apparently, this is a speciality of Stuart, the secy, but it was to no avail on this occasion as our opponents required three further stabs with the flat stick and the hole was halved in fives.  As my Dad used to tell me,  “every shot is a joy to someone”.

Gill Stewart, one of the stalwarts of this match,  just adores this part of her native country and we invariably spend time having a wee look in various estate agents’ windows.  She calls this corner of the world “Planet Golf” and it’s difficult to argue with her.  Mr Google informs me there are 21 courses in the area, all within 30 minutes of each other – a veritable golfing and dog-walking paradise.

And I DO believe the locals when they tell me how dry it is.  In the 26 or so iterations of our match (we lost a couple of years because of snow and a couple to Covid), we have had at least twenty occasions when the sun split the sky from dawn to dusk as it did on Sunday.  There are some things that simply do your soul good – and, for me, this trip to East Lothian is one of them.

A further, slightly unexpected, treat this year was the opportunity to meet up with former Solheim Cup player and prolific tournament winner, Kitrina Douglas.  Kitrina no longer plays the grand old game but has scaled the heights of academia and this particular professor was visiting Edinburgh as an external examiner for a PhD student.

We had had a very brief encounter at Sunningdale last September at the Curtis Cup so it was lovely to reconnect over a more leisurely dinner and sweep the years away.

Finishing off this spring visit to Gullane was the opportunity to have a Nordic Walking lesson from one of my team, Pat Smillie, who had a Nordic Walking company for five or six years after she retired.  She put Gill and me through our paces up and down Gullane beach – and I have to say it was enlightening and exhilarating in equal measure – and if done correctly it does wonders for your posture!

In the middle of all this indulgence, and up at the pointy end of the game where folk can REALLY play, I was gratified to see Viktor Hovland back in the winner’s circle after a lean eighteen months or so.  Mind you, according to him, his game is still “off” and not near where he wishes it to be.  Be that as it may, he was still thrilled to win the Valspar Championship, his seventh PGA Tour title, even without his best stuff.

After a phenomenal season in 2023 Viktor embarked on a few changes which took him down rabbit holes from which he couldn’t find his way out.  It seems to happen all the time to golfers and, sadly, some never do find their way back to what made them good in the first place.  Striving for perfection can be quite poisonous.

Earlier I mentioned last year’s Curtis Cup and one of the victorious members of that home side, so brilliantly captained by Catriona Matthew, recorded her first professional win on the Ladies’ European Tour (LET).  Huge congratulations to 23-year old Mimi Rhodes who, with her younger sister Patience, played such a pivotal role in that epic win.  Competing in only her fourth tournament as a full member of the LET, Mimi protected her slender one-shot lead by going bogey free in the final round, eventually winning The Ford Women’s New South Wales Open by two shots.

That’s what you call a dream start for the Englishwoman and it was a lovely finale to a dream few days for me on Planet Golf.

Round about this time of year, before Easter when high season starts and the prices rise, Dai and I would do our damnedest to head for the Isles of Scilly, one of our favourite places on earth.  We usually stayed on Bryher, one of the smallest of those small islands, our decompression chamber.  The only downside when we got there was having to wear a watch to make sure we didn’t miss any boats.  Whatever time does, tide waits for no one.

We’d hurry down to Penzance, to get the helicopter or Land’s End for an itsy-bitsy flight on a teeny-weeny aircraft – a grass runway in those days if I remember right.  We did our best to avoid the Scillonian – Maureen, probably the most reluctant sailor in the family, perhaps in the country, was on it once and swore she’d never set foot on it again.  It wasn’t even particularly rough that day but the waters are shallow and the draft is low…

We’d hurtle down the A30 – within the speed limit, of course – zooming past whole swathes of mainland Cornwall, so spending a few days in Lostwithiel – ace name – and surroundings was a new experience for me.  There are no sea views in Lostwithiel but the moment I stepped out of the car I felt myself relax and breathe deeply; I hadn’t even realised I was tense enough to need relaxing!  No wonder people flock here at every opportunity.

I went with Mrs M and the sainted Alice, so it wasn’t long before we hit the nearest beach, particularly popular with dog walkers because it allows dogs all year round – no summer bans.  It’s not the world’s most beautiful bay – lots of seaweed – and no great sweep of golden sand, so it’d never be swamped with sun worshippers but it is a beach and there is sea.  Alice dug and I paddled; we couldn’t have been happier.

We walked and walked and walked, to a pub that wasn’t as nearby as we thought – and the cliff tops of K(n)ernow aren’t always the place for knackered knees!  Still, it was well worth the detour.

Last year I rejoined the National Trust and I remembered to take my card to Cornwall, so the visit to Lanhydrock was a no-brainer.  It’s described as “Cornwall’s most complete Victorian country home” and has the most wonderful gardens, renowned for its camellias, rhododendrons and Himalayan magnolias.  So at this time of year, even on a Monday, it’s packed with people keen to see the magnolias in full bloom.  They’re amazing but very short-lived and at the mercy of the next bit of rain or wind.

If you’re armed with a National Trust card, it’s not a bad idea to have a Senior Railcard, just in case.  It won’t save you as much as flying economy instead of business – have you looked at those prices recently?  Eye-watering – but if you’re old enough, it’s a good deal; and always handy if the car is on its way out, perhaps hastened along by the odd  (very odd) visit to the sister’s rockery.  (That’s just trying for a cheap laugh; the car passed its MOT and Mrs M drove us down.)

It took exactly six hours from Lostwithiel station to my front door, with changes at Plymouth and Birmingham New Street, so the train journey could hardly have gone any more smoothly.  Mind you, I was a bit worried when the train for St Austell, Penzance, wherever west, pulled in on the opposite platform.  It was beyond ancient – you opened the door by pulling down the window, leaning out and pushing down the handle.  Can you imagine!  Sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? Fortunately my train was a bit more modern.

I left my book in the bag for the entire journey because I was staring out the window, admiring the views and wondering exactly where I was – geography isn’t my worst suit but the phone helped me pinpoint exactly where we were, even though I was travelling backwards and had to factor that in to the equation!  Tricky when it’s reckoned that you get 90 per cent of your 50-50 (it’s either left or right) chances wrong; is that even possible or mathematically likely?

Ah Brunel, what a genius.  Being hopeless at maths, measurements, angles, rivets, anything practical, I’d love to have been an engineer, a builder of bridges.  Imagine inventing something so good and ingenious that it stood the test of time for well over a hundred years.

He didn’t always get things right but according to Wikipedia he was very good at railways:  “On the GWR, Brunel set standards for a well-built railway, using careful surveys to minimise gradients and curves.  This necessitated expensive construction techniques, new bridges, new viaducts and the two-mile-long Box Tunnel…”  And the GWR is still chugging along.

Wonder what Brunel would have made of HS2; he’d probably have had it running from London to Aberdeen and Inverness by now, bridging that old North/South divide, turning dreams into reality…