Full-colour magazine sample by Dewi Hughes

WORLD

Volume 1 • Issue 8

£2.50

where sold

GOLFER golf and leisure across the globe

AN ENCOUNTER WITH ASIMO The caddy at the cutting edge

THE COUGARS AND THE GOLDMINE Golf in the middle of nowhere

HISTORY FOR SALE Golf under the hammer

BLUE GRASS, GREEN GRASS In the footsteps of Daniel Boone MINTY CLINCH • JOE HAUKEBO • NICHOLAS CHRISTIE • KEVIN THOMAS • STEVE JOHNSON • JULIE GOYDER

World Golfer Contents

WORLD

GOLFER CONTENTS golf and leisure across the globe

FEATURES 6 COUGARS IN THE HINDU KUSH A golden nugget in the mountains of Tajikistan

24 COVER STORY – ASIMOV WITHOUT THE V Meet Asimo, the caddy of the future

31 OLD COURSE, NEW MEMORIES

Fond memories of days in St. Andrew’s

35 IN JASON’S FOOTSTEPS

Golf in the Greek islands. If you can find it

45 GOING, GOING… Golfing history – for what it’s worth

50 THE IRISH ANSWER From Fota to Bantry Bay, an idyll

57 THE WRITES AND WRONGS Kevin Pilley on the art of the golf writer

63 THE MALLORCAN COLD CUP

What happens when the sun stops shining and the clubs come out

67 A STATE TO BE IN Bluegrass and green grass, the beautiful secret

74 THE LOW DOWN Millar Low look back with affection

AUSTRALIA

Part 2 of Kevin Thomas’ travels in Oz

82 IN THE REAL WORLD In celebration of a true professional

88 CLUB RULES Allan Pepper and the wayward driver

91 ON A SWISS ROLL Orson Welles was wrong. But maybe he didn’t play golf

57 82

DEPARTMENTS

12 LIE OF THE BALL The wierd, the wonderful and David Wyke at large

96 19TH GREEN David Shew looks back to Kentucky

World Golfer Introduction

Backbone of the

Game This summer, Alec Bickerdike will be enjoying his testimonial weekend. Who? Alec Bickerdike. Not a name, perhaps, ringing the same bells as Mickelson, Els or Woods but one that is every bit as important to the game. In the UK alone, there are some three thousand, six hundred golfing professionals. And there’s not one of them who didn’t set out on the Yellowbrick Road without dreams of fame and fortune. For without such dreams, why else would they commit themselves to a career that is, at best uncertain and, at worst, unforgiving? Life on the tour may well be the stuff of dreams but equally, it’s riddled with nightmares. A few will make it, most will not. But, if ‘making it’ is no more than joining what Archie Baird splendidly describes as ‘the travelling band of performing monkeys,’ then, despite the Ferraris and Lear jets that go with the territory, then perhaps ‘making it’ isn’t so wonderful after all. Perhaps far more worthy of our respect and applause are that noble band of brothers – and sisters – who tend the needs and whims of club golfers up and down the land. Year in and year out, open all hours, marshalling, teaching and encouraging the members of the club. With a patience known only to Job, they will slowly transform the compulsive hacker into a golfer. They will spend hours on the putting green, exorcising the yips, and equally as long persuading the unconvinced that driving straight and true has little to do with trying to heave the ball into the next county. They will buy and sell, polish and repair, support and compete and, above all, lend a friendly and sympathetic ear to the members’daily litany of missed chances and the unkind caprice of the golfing gods. Come rain or shine, the club professionals remain the backbone of the game. Alec Bickerdike will have earned his testimonial and both he and his club will thoroughly enjoy it. It will not, perhaps, be the dizzy spectacle of playing in the Opens of ’74 and ’76 but it will be an event that’s almost certainly more important. At Lytham and Birkdale, the crowds simply applauded Bickerdike’s game. This time round, they are saying thank you.

WORLD

GOLFER

golf and leisure across the globe

EDITORIAL Telephone: +44 (0)1565 754 755/765 Fax: +44 (0)1565 750 077 e-mail: theteam@world-golfer.com PO BOX 443, Altrincham Cheshire, WA15 OWX Editor Nick Turnbull Artwork Dewi Owen Hughes, Siôn Hughes, Lynda Hughes, www.hughesdesign.co.uk Marketing Consultant Steve Johnson Consultants John Samuel, David Wyke, Peter Ellegard, Peter Eyre, Jim Long Senior Photographers Simon Everett, Pete Fontaine, Paul Severn

ADVERTISING Telephone: +44 (0)1745 850167 Fax: +44 (0)1745 889704 e-mail: ads@world-golfer.com Commercial Manager Melanie Whitehead Advertising Team Claire Macaulay, Alan Colclough, Chris Davies

PUBLISHING Chief Executive Phil Scarlett Accounts John Harris & Arwel Jones Published by MST Magazines Limited in association with Argus Publishing Limited WRITERS

Julie Goyder, Minty Clinch, Joe Haukebo, Steve Johnson, Millar Low, Nick Hall, Lionel and Beth Freedman, Nicholas Grant, Kevin Pilley, Kevin Thomas, Nicholas Christie and Allan Pepper. WITH THANKS TO

Nick Hall, Donald Freake, Honda UK, Team Frith and Louise Brown, Avocet Mining Plc, Jane Parritt, The Old Course Hotel, Mullock and Madeley Auctioneers, The Half Moon Hotel, David Shew, Pat Stipes, Randy Fiveash, Dan Strohmeier, BMI, Malaysia Airlines, Judy Turnbull and Alec Bickerdike. COVER PHOTOGRAPH

Asimo by Honda

Printed by Acorn Web Offset Limited 01924 220633 Registered with The British Library as a periodical.

Nick Turnbull Editor

ISSN 1478 8950. This magazine is copyright to MST Magazines Limited 2005 and may not be reproduced in any way, mechanical, electrical or electronic without the written permission of the publishers. All rights reserved across all territories.

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Sogdiana Golf Course Tajikistan

Cougars in the

Hindu Kush PROVING THAT WORLD GOLFER IS EXACTLY THAT, NICK HALL FINDS A GOLFING GOLD MINE DEEP IN TAJIKSTAN.

I HAD WANTED TO VISIT THE SOGDIANA GOLF COURSE FOR SOME TIME. NOT BECAUSE I RELISHED THE PROSPECT OF HACKING ROUND SEVERAL ACRES OF RUBBLE AND ROCKS IN THE MOUNTAINS OF TAJIKISTAN BUT BECAUSE I WAS INTRIGUED. A NINE-HOLE COURSE BUILT AROUND A GOLD MINE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE AND A JOURNEY OF TRULY OLYMPIAN PROPORTIONS TO FIND IT. ANYTHING MICHAEL PALIN CAN DO … even hours from Birmingham with Uzbek Air gets you to Tashkent, the historic centre of Central Asia. Then you have a choice. Travel south through Samarkand and turn east. Or go to Khojant, Tajikistan’s second city, and drive west. Hobson’s choice, really. I chose Khojant and spent three hours on a dusty road, at speed, the car weaving perilously through waves of slow-moving paraphernalia associated with the cotton harvest. In a country where the average salaries are often less than twenty dollars a month, the extra pocket-money earned by helping in the harvest is welcome. At least, by those who actually get paid. Once in Khojant, you now have to find a taxi driver willing to travel to Zeravshan. And then agree the price. It sounds simple enough but this can take more than a day, depending on the weather, the driver’s mood and how wealthy you look. In situations like this, I often dress down to reduce the price. Well, that’s my excuse… Having agreed two hundred dollars for the twelve-hour round trip, we had to leave at five o’clock in the morning to stand any chance of getting there and back that day. It wasn’t ideal. Beetling all the way to Sogdiana and back in fourteen hours seemed a tad reckless and possibly something of an anti-

WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHY: NICK HALL

climax. But, at least the man was prepared to make the journey and, amongst the drivers of Khojant that week, he was something of a rarity. There weren’t too many of them who could see the point of driving to the middle of nowhere. For a while, the scenery lulls you into believing that this journey isn’t arduous at all. Just long. You pass through small villages with bazaars, already in full swing by seven o’clock, the sun barely above the horizon.There was something of the Lake District about it – gentle hills, occasional streams, swathes of trees clambering away from the road. We stopped several times for a stretch and, once, for lunch. Once was quite enough. No matter how much you promise yourself not to eat food from road-side vendors, once the smoke from the grilled meat drifts into the car, you’ll eat anything. And yes, you’ll suffer the consequences. However, if you do find yourself a bit peckish on the road to nowhere, let me recommend shashlik. Meat on skewers, served with warm naan bread and salad. But sadly, even the very best shashlik can be no guarantee against the ’consequences’ and, despite their somewhat primitive Central Asian style, the occasional roadside toilets further down the road will prove a welcome sight. After three hours, the road starts to climb, and climb. And climb. Soon you reach the ascent to Shakristan Pass and it will take you over an hour to reach the top. At over 11,000 feet above sea level, the temperature drops quickly, and the first signs of snow appear. It is an overwhelmingly beautiful view as you look down on the clouds now beneath you and through them to the valleys below. It seemed to me that it would be a very beautiful, if dramatic place to die.

Sogdiana Golf Course Tajikistan

In Soviet times, it had been a well-maintained arterial route for trade to the west, following one of the historic Silk Roads to Samarkand. The valley sides are littered cars whose drivers did precisely that on what we affectionately named ‘the road of death’. Once in the mountains, the road changes from very bumpy asphalt to just very bumpy. In Soviet times, it had been a wellmaintained arterial route for trade to the west, following one of the historic Silk Roads to Samarkand. But since independence, Tajikistan’s economy and infrastructure have imploded.There is little, if any, systematic road maintenance. Much of the tarmac has worn away, leaving large areas of deep, slippery dust, huge pot-holes, landslides and boulders. For a time I was impressed by our driver’s skill in negotiating these hazards. I deemed him ‘crazy but competent’. Some few miles later, I had revised my judgement to just ‘crazy’. It wasn’t his alarming speed that concerned me but rather, his tactics. Consider, for example, the wisdom of overtaking juggernauts on blind corners, which were themselves overtaking even slower-moving juggernauts. Our translator thought that the driver had been in prison for a while. It didn’t surprise me. Maybe he was making up for lost time as he veered from one side of the road to the other. All too soon, the inevitable happened. Our man swerved to miss one particularly deep hole, only to hit a succession of three more. The car slithered and finally clattered to a halt. Despite being a Russian-built Volga, seemingly designed for driving through abandoned quarries at speed, one of the main suspension springs had totally collapsed. And so there we were. Stuck on the road to nowhere, the car in bits and the world suddenly a very lonely place. Cheadle High Street would have been a surprisingly welcome sight. Or even Milton Keynes.

Sogdiana Golf Course Tajikistan

The driver started to comb the road, looking for anything that he could use for a make-shift repair. Ten points for initiative, I thought, but when he brought back some string, I decided to do something. I wasn’t quite quite sure what. A car approached. I asked our translator to enquire where the nearest phone was. The good news was that there was a small settlement not far away where they had a phone. The bad news was they only had occasional electricity and definitely none today and I promised myself never again to be rude about Aeroflot’s safety record. By now the driver had a conjured up more hopeful collection of possible repair-items. Loops of thick wire, old metal number plates and, yes, even more string. But, credit where credit is due. Against all the odds, the poor man somehow managed to lash the suspension together so that the car could move without feeling like it was on a skating rink. But, would it last for another three hours? Of course not. It collapsed again a few miles down the hill.

Fortunately, this time we’d broken down in a village where the many telegraph poles indicated lots of phones. Good. But being Saturday there was no electricity. The driver disappeared for a while, although we never did find out why. He was probably having a tea break – ‘choi’ – with friends, here defined as anyone you meet while out and about having trashed your taxi. Hoards of kids appeared, replete with goats, sun-glasses, garish plastic flip-flops and sticks. Toys are in short supply here and it’s not every day you see a ten year-old girl sucking her favourite hack saw blade. The village elders appeared and one of them held my arm firmly and motioned to his colleagues. Was this an impending ‘situation’? In fact, they were determined to have a photo with me and once my colleague had taken the obligatory snap, they ambled off, smiling and waving. That’s what I love about Tajikistan – and I’ve been here several times, although not always looking for golf courses. There is a fundamental culture of wanting to help. No sense of threat. In fact, I feel a great deal safer here, even in the middle of nowhere, than I do back at home, in Manchester. The driver managed to find more ‘bits’ to repair the car and, after an hour or so, we were coasting along, gradually following the Zeravshan River downhill. By now, the sun was dipping low in the sky. And then, at last, Sogdiana. We arrived at the goldmine having missed the lunch-time barbecue they had prepared for us but at least we were there. The place existed. It had taken us over ten hours instead of the expected six but the English motorway system is a wonderful proving ground for such delays. “A small price to pay,” I thought.“At least we’re still alive.” Sogdiana golf course, buried in remote corners of western Tajikistan, is probably the most exclusive, members-only golf club in the world. Even its owners – the British Avocet Mining Plc and the Tajikistan Government, no less – add to the sense of make-believe. And, truly, it’s built in and around a gold mine. Zeravshan Gold Mine, to be precise.

Sogdiana Golf Course Tajikistan

Hoards of kids appeared, replete with goats, sun-glasses, garish plastic flip-flops and sticks. Toys are in short supply here and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not every day you see a ten year-old girl sucking her favourite hack saw blade.

Sogdiana Golf Course Tajikistan

Sogdiana now has a short, nine-hole course that is played twice from slightly different tees. There are ten greens in operation with an eleventh being prepared. Par is 69. I knew nothing about gold mining before I arrived in Sogdiana. Nothing, at least, beyond the traditional image of a bearded Yukon prospector splashing about in the water with what looks like a frying-pan. Which does, apparently, work. In the trade, it’s called ‘finding nuggets.’ However, there is a second way to mine gold and it involves machinery on a very much grander scale than a frying–pan, since this second way means ‘dissolving’ gold out of large amounts of crushed rocks. Which is what they’re doing in Zeravshan. Digging up an entire mountain and quite literally grinding it into very small pieces in search for tiny quantities of gold. And they consider themselves lucky if they manage to squeeze two grammes of gold out of one ton of mountain. It’s not a ratio that would gladden the hearts of the environmentally sensitive but since ninety-three percent of Tajikistan is made up of mountains, I don’t suppose anyone will ever notice the difference. The course itself may not look too impressive to outsiders. Ten acres of bumpy, rough grassland, surrounded by ploughed fields and a derelict building left by the Russians, following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Pebble Beach, it ain’t. But for those who built and love the place, it is supremely their course. Crafted in this obscure fringe of the Hindu Kush, the course is a testimony to the devotion and persistence of a handful of expatriate enthusiasts, who had simply wanted to introduce a little bit of ‘home’ to this stark and demanding environment. It began some five years ago with the vision of one man, an accountant, Mel Jayawardana from Sri Lanka. His starting point was a small pit in the mud, marked out by previous enthusiasts, using a spray painted circle for the hole and a line on the ground as a tee. Mel’s enthusiasm for the project was infectious, cajoling other mine-workers to help remove the rubbish, improve the drainage and – most importantly – reinvent a rather inelegant hut as a fine clubhouse. They contributed time and money to the project and some even brought back quantities of grass seed when they returned from home leave. As a result, the greens are now as international as the managers, who come variously from Britain, Canada, Pakistan, New Zealand, South Africa and Malaysia. As a result of their labours, Sogdiana now has a short, ninehole course that is played twice from slightly different tees. There are ten greens in operation with an eleventh being prepared. Par is 69. The mine manager, Chris Warwick, sees the obvious contrast with golf courses back home;“Back in Zambia we have at least eighteen world class courses.We’re spoilt for choice. Obviously, Sogdiana doesn’t compare but it's great for keeping your swing in while having some fun with the others”.

Sogdiana Golf Course Tajikistan

Brian Joyce, a metallurgist, described his role as a “selfappointed handicapper”. He too combines realism about the course limitations with obvious enthusiasm and affection. “The greens are small, hard, and sloping and, clearly, the fairways not very fair. You have to play over or around old buildings, the club house and ploughed fields. Members? Well, we’ve only got about six regular players at present, but visitors coming to the mine can often lift the number up to ten or eleven. And they’re all as keen as mustard. We even played a couple of holes last New Year’s Day in the snow.” Golf isn’t especially well known in Tajikistan, where the locals seem happier having a game of ‘Bushkasha,’ a variant of polo played on horseback but using a goat’s head rather than a ball. There is, I’m told, a practice golf range back in Khojant but it seems to be exclusively for the use of expatriate Koreans. Unlike the Tajiks, the Koreans are developing a healthy interest in the game. Vijay Nair, the Zeravshan Finance Manager, thinks the ‘foreign game’ might take a while to sink in.

Trying to explain to a baffled Tajik customs official, who’s never even heard of the game, what a golf club might be is an adventure I shall leave for another day. “We’ve invited Tajiks to join us for a round, and yes, some have tried it. But it hasn’t really caught on. Yet. Our two caddies are very keen though, and we encourage them to learn.” Jonathan Henry certainly appreciates the caddies. Henry is the UK Finance Director for Avocet and makes occasional visits to the mine. “Zeravshan is fairly unique among remote mining operations, where the opportunities for outdoor recreation onsite are rare. It’s great to be able to finish breakfast and then walk across the road for a round, knowing there are young lads only too delighted to ferret for the lost balls. It’s very easy to lose them on the Sogdiana track.” One of the problems facing a club in the middle of nowhere has always been the lack of equipment. Happily, on this occasion we were able to help out. The brilliant Team Frith, one of the UK’s leading golfing promoters, took an interest in this unlikely tale and promptly donated a brand new set of Cougar clubs. I have to confess that I didn’t entirely relish the prospect trying to bundle through the Tajik customs shed with a full set of golf clubs but Avocet came to the rescue with the offer of carriage in one of their regular cargo containers. Trying to explain to a baffled Tajik customs official, who’s never even heard of the game, what a golf club might be is an adventure I shall leave for another day. I’d like to be able to record that the journey back from Zeravshan was less perilous than the journey there. It wasn’t. Despite a good night’s sleep and the extraordinarily generous hospitality of the miners, our driver still seemed hell-bent on self-destruction. I have known golfers like this. So maybe there is hope, after all, for the game in Tajikistan. WG Our thanks to Team Frith and Louise Brown for their generous gift of Cougar clubs for Sogdiana.

Lie of the ball

LADIES WANTED … for the NSPCC Ladies Golf Classic 2005

Lie of the ball Feature Editor David Wyke

This competition has been revived for 2005 and the organisers are hoping to raise a considerable sum for the NSPCC. The leading European ladies-only charity golf competition event is well underway in England, Wales and Ulster, with some 2,000 players from over 1,200 clubs playing to raise money for the NSPCC. The Grand Final in September will be held at the Marriott Forest of Arden Golf and Country Club, this venue having been the home for the British Masters in 2003 and for the 2002-3 English Open.

WATER Rumour has it that the managers of a new Mediterranean course decided that they needed to supplement their water supply by using an additional source. So, they bought, at great expense, a desalination plant, with the intention of mixing the output of this plant with their more conventionally acquired water. Problem was that the desalination plant didn’t work too well. The grass died, so they replaced the grass, flying in copious quantities of sods from across the Atlantic. This died, so they called upon experts from the Middle East. They spent a great deal of time, and of course money, relaying the greens and most of the tees, re-installing the irrigation and planting a great many shade trees around the course. The net result is that the greens now normally live a little longer and the trees have all died. They say, because this is a prestige course where money is no object, that when the final golfer has left the course in the evening, then hoards of gardeners are to be seen scurrying about replacing dead turfs and trees, so that in the morning it’s as good as new. Makes a good story.

The object of the competition is to raise funds to assist the valuable work carried out throughout the United Kingdom by the NSPCC. Janet Broadmore, NSPCC project manager, said:“The NSPCC runs 180 projects across England, Wales, Northern Ireland and the Channel Islands, all working towards our aim of ending cruelty to children. None of this work would be possible without the money that such fun activities help to raise.” They are sentiments endorsed by the Classic’s President, Laura Davies, who similarly encourages the country’s lady golfers “to match their golf against other pairs and take the opportunity to go through to finals, played at some of the country’s most prestigious courses.” The fee for entry is £5 per person. There will be no additional charge for those qualifying for the Regional Finals and the Grand Final. The competition is a betterball stableford off 3/4 handicaps. For more information about the Ladies Golf Classic 2005, please contact Team Frith on 01507 354 767 or e-mail: enquiries@teamfrith.com

Lie of the ball

LONDON GOLF SHOW Almost against my better judgement, yes, I did go to the London Golf Show. It’s not that I have anything against London, Golf Shows or the Excel venue. It’s just that getting to the Docklands for anyone travelling from the shires is the final sting in the tail. No matter how pleasant the journey might have been, you can guarantee that the final furlong will be a nightmare. And, having got that out of the way, let me say that I certainly enjoyed the show itself. OK, so the Press Office looked as if the girls from St. Trinians had trashed it and the scantily-clads of the ‘fashion show,’ didn’t seem to have a huge interest in golf but this is mere griping. Thirty-four thousand people turned up over the four days and most of them seemed to be having fun. And, at the risk of sounding patronising, I was genuinely encouraged to see so many younger folk there. I do tire of the Jeremiahs who keep telling me the game is dying on its feet. Otherwise, it was all the fun of the fair. Product, product and more product. Holidays, fashion, driving ranges, putting greens and the inevitable, almost obligatory, sprinkling of celebrities. Was it worth it? Yes, of course it was. But could someone have a word with Ken Livingstone before the next one? Joined-up thinking is now the political mantra. I wonder if it could be extended to include joined-up travel?

WORLD’S LONGEST GOLF COURSE Where? Australia of course Plans have been unveiled to construct the world’s longest golf course along the Eyre Highway, which runs for some fourteen hundred kilometres – nine hundred miles, in old money – across the Nullabar Plain of Western Australia and South Australia. The cunning plan is to build one hole at each of the eighteen towns or roadhouses – a sort of motorway service station without the fun. It will stretch from Ceduna in SA to Balladonia in WA, passing through such romantically named places as Cocklebiddy, Fuda, Colona and Denial Bay. The Nullabar links, as it has been christened, will have seven holes in South Australia, and eleven in Western Australia. Motorist will stop at a roadhouse, play a hole and then drive to the next hole, anything up to one hundred kilometres down the road The idea is the brainchild of Bob Bongiorno, the Balladonia Roadhouse manager, and combines his love of golf with his hopes of boosting tourism. Bob says that, when he first

moved to Balladonia, he brought his golf clubs with him and occasionally hit a few balls into the bush. Fair enough but he soon got fed up of having to fight the spiders to get them back. Alf Caputo, Chairman of the local tourist association, claims that as many as three hundred vehicles a day use the highway and the hope is that the proposed golf links will encourage some of them to slow down and appreciate what is regarded as one of the most desolate environments in Australia. Who said the Aussies didn’t have any imagination? And, just in case you’re wondering, Nullabar is derived from the Latin, nullus arbor, meaning “no trees.”

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Lie of the ball

TIMEWARP GOLF Golf from a bygone age, played with genuine hickory shafted clubs and with costume hire. The word has been out on the streets for some time that hickory golf was the coming thing and perhaps it should then be no surprise that a company such as Timewarp Golf should suddenly appear. Midlandsbased, the company can host hickory golf events throughout the UK, catering for up to fifty players at a time. It’s golf, apparently,“as it was played when Grandad was a lad.” Mashies, baffies, niblicks, spoons. Standard fare for Timewarp and the extraordinary thing about the Timewarp clubs is that they’re all originals and that they all still work. And why should that be extraordinary? Well, let me suggest you take a one hundred year old tennis racket onto a modern court. Or an equally old cricket bat out onto the square.

“You can hit a modern ball as hard and as far as you like and the club’s fine. They were clearly built to last.” Gavin Bottrell, Timewarp’s hugely enthusiastic Managing Director. And he’s right. “The clubs will play marginally shorter than modern ones but they’ll teach you a whole new way of looking at your shots. It’s an incredible experience.” When he wasn’t designing cars. Bottrell was collecting golf clubs and like all folk who have a passion, they eventually want to share it with the world. Hence Timewarp. Judging by the response to Bottrell’s initiative, it seems he’s not alone in hankering after times gone by. And who knows? There are those of us whose game might actually improve. www.timewarpgolf.com

CARS OK, here’s a bright idea. And it comes from a man called Jem Blok in Marbella. Remember the last time you came out of the airport, weighed down with cases and clubs, looking for the hire car? Eventually, you track it down. It was going to be a big Toyota but they’ve had to change it at the last moment and now it’s a not-quite-so-big Honda. Not that it matters. It gets from A to B and everybody can just about fit in, provided that the taxi takes the luggage. And Bob. Bob always goes with the luggage. All of which is fine. But how much more attractive is the thought of a Beemer, a Merc or a Lexus waiting outside. And it’s yours.

And this is Jem Blok’s bright idea. He’s brought fractional ownership to the Costa de Sol, which means that you can buy up to four weeks of a Ferrari, a Porsche or whatever, to use at any time of the year. The weeks can be split into smaller or longer chunks and an annual maintenance fee covers all the boring stuff such as insurance, garaging, servicing, delivery and the like. “We think it will very popular.” Yes Jem, I think you’re probably right. www.oversteerspain.com

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Lie of the ball

GADGETS In recent weeks, a number of interesting golfing gadgets have found their way to my desk and, being a selfless soul, I thought I’d share one or two with you.

First off, the GOLFBRIGHT BALL DETECTOR, a device that claims that you will go home with “more balls then you started with”, which, if nothing else, is an interesting prospect. It seems it’s based around a powerful UV light, which detects balls in the rough and can quite possibly show up dandruff on your Captain’s blazer collar. www.findagolf ball.com

Another gadget for those who are forever hacking their balls into the rough comes from the KINGBO GOLF CORP of Taiwan. It’s a ball that, once struck, flashes for some five minutes, so that you can find it again. Only two problems with this spring to mind. If these things catch on, then in no time, the fairways of our green and pleasant land will come to resemble nothing quite so much as Blackpool at the wrong time of year. The second problem is suggested by the makers themselves who observe that the ball is slightly unbalanced, making its flight a little erratic. And that it should therefore only be used “for fun.” Nonsense. If it’s only slightly erratic, then I shall consider it a significant improvement to my game. www.kingbo-golf.com

Next up, the TARGETLINE, a teaching tool advertised under the slogan “simply brush the ball off the tee, and realise your swing in 9 shots”. Well I can do that anyway and sometimes it takes me less than 9 shots to get off the tee. Be that as it may, the Targetline, at a mere £249.99, is designed to improve your body pivot and comes with a “unique scoring net”. The advertising blurb uses the term “bio-dynamics.” I often worry about bio-dynamics. www.targetline.co.uk

And finally, we come to VIRTUAL CADDY, an instrument designed to provide you with an “interactive course guide that allows you to “walk thru” the golf course from tee to green. Originally designed for use with a PC the manufacturers are in the final throws of launching it for mobile phones and PDAs. So, when you see a player halfway down the fairway gazing in awe at a mobile phone, it’s entirely possible that he’s consulting his virtual caddy for his next stroke, so be patient. What happens to these inventive souls when they turn up at the courses that ban mobiles is just one of those problems that life in the 21st Century poses. The answer, I imagine, will be a television screen on your golfbuggy and I fear that is not so very far away. www.virtualcaddy.com

Lie of the ball

BROADEST SMILE IN CHESHIRE Meet Alastair Griffiths. The man with the broadest smile in Cheshire and that’s probably because he has one of the best jobs in the county. Manager of the splendid Vale Royal Abbey Golf Club. But old habits die hard and, given his earlier days in golfing software design, he found it hard to resist the call. Well, more of a yodel perhaps. In July, the annual European Girls’ Team Championship kicks off in Switzerland and Griffiths has been asked to manage the impossibly complicated scoring systems that underpin the five-day event. No stranger to such affairs, since his scoring and handicapping systems were the groundbreakers back in the early 90s, Griffiths is happy to turn his hand to the keyboard again. “I was delighted to be asked. And it’ll be a break.” Well, more of a busman’s holiday, perhaps. www.vra.co.uk

Show me a man who is a good loser, and I’ll show you a man who is playing golf with his boss. Jim Murray

EYEWITNESS COMPANION It’s extraordinary how the game can throw up so many different titles and its equally extraordinary that somehow, they can each be different. Well, most of them anyway. Dorling Kindersley have put their toe into the water for 2005 with the Eyewitness Companion Guide: Golf. OK, so it’s not the strongest title since War and Peace but it does have the branding of Eyewitness, so you know exactly what you’re getting. Tidy lay-outs, colourful pages, good photography and easy-toread text. Whether or not the book adds to the sum total of golfing knowledge is debatable. But that’s probably not what it set out to do. For the beginner, it’s a guide and for the experienced golfer, it’s easy listening. And it does include a wonderful shot of a man called Old Drew Anderson, dispensing ginger beer on the 4th at St. Andrew’s. Photographed in the 1840s, the dour, humourless expression on his face suggests that he might as easily be selling poison. And in keeping with the fine, idiosyncrasies of golfing lore, the 4th is still known as Ginger Beer.

There’s a fairly familiar chunk of golfing tuition, including, commendably enough, several pages on how to play the percentages, almost certainly the most valuable lesson a golfer can learn. Mercifully, there are only twenty four pages on the rules and even if a certain blandness sometimes creeps in, there are still bright sparks such as Bob Hope to keep you smiling along the way. “The only illustrated guide you need to master one of the world’s greatest games.”Well, that’s maybe a tad over the top, even for Dorling Kindersley but still, it’s not a bad book. Eyewitness Companion: Golf Published by Dorling Kindersley, Price £14.99

Within 10 minutes drive of North Wales Golf Club, Llandudno Maesdu Golf Club & Conwy Caernarfon Golf Club, Conwy open qualifying course 2006.

The perfect base to explore the 40+ golf courses of North Wales.

Situated centrally on the Promenade, all shopping within walking distance.

Ideal for exploring the restaurants and bars of Llandudno.

One hours drive from Hoylake, venue of 2006 Open.

On the A55 one hour from Holyhead to access all the courses in Ireland.

Asimo the perfect caddy

Robot

HE DOESN’T SMOKE, DOESN’T SWEAR, DOESN’T LOOK THE OTHER WAY WHEN THE BALL DISAPPEARS INTO THE ROUGH AND DOESN’T NEED PAYING. MEET THE PERFECT CADDY. ASIMO.

t last – I have discovered the ultimate gadget. It is a robot that acts as your own personal caddy. The great Bobby Jones once famously said “If I needed advice from my caddy, he’d be hitting the shots and I’d be carrying the bag”. 75 years later there are still those who question the caddy issue. Does the perfect caddy exist? Surely not, at least not in human form. And who wants to play eighteen holes with an imperfect caddy? According to Lawrence Donegan, in his brilliant book Four-iron in the soul, a caddy needs all of the following attributes: • the golfing brain of Jack Nicklaus, • a thick skin, • the psychological sophistication of a £500-an-hour shrink, • low cunning, • the motivational powers of a five-star general, • a robust constitution, • strong legs, • the organisational skills of a Psion 3a, • loyalty, and • guile. Donegan should know what he’s talking about, because he became a caddy for pro-golfer Ross Drummond for a season, travelling with him on the European Tour from end to end. Donegan’s book is an eyeopening account of what really goes on behind the scenes. The world that caddies live in turns out to be a rather dark place, but lit by bursts of adventure and hilarity. It seems that caddies are mostly a weary, cynical, resentful lot. They cope by gathering together with other caddies, drinking heavily, and swapping stories about how useless are the very golfers who pay their wages. In fairness, it can’t be an easy life being a caddy. They are hired and fired on a whim, blamed for talking too much, or too little, or wincing, or smirking, or standing in the wrong place, or breathing at just the wrong moment. Not to mention recommending the wrong club, or judging the wind direction wrongly, or not finding a lost ball.

WORDS: STEVE JOHNSON PHOTOGRAPHY: HONDA

When Donegan began working for Drummond he didn’t know much about what the role entailed, but he managed to get the job by sheer naïvety and enthusiasm. Drummond told him “I’ve never really had much faith in caddies, they always let you down. It’s almost as if they want to let you down on purpose, make you sack them so they can go and work for a more successful player.” At the end of the season, after Donegan had caddied for him in Cape Town, Morocco, Portugal, Madeira, Madrid, Versailles, Valderrama and a lot more places besides, he admitted that he still didn’t know how to be a ‘proper’ caddy even then, let alone a perfect one. But perhaps the perfect caddy does indeed exist. Enter Asimo. Asimo is a robot that could become the most flawless golfing companion imaginable. Let’s measure it against Donegan’s checklist. Strong legs? No problem there – solid metal. Thick skin? Certainly – solid metal once again. organisational skills? Sure – it’s a computer on legs, for heaven’s sake. It could organise the entire Ryder Cup. So far so good. But what about the rest of the checklist? Expecting a robot to have the golfing skills of Jack Nicklaus is clearly a bit of a stretch. On the other hand, Asimo watches and learns without ever tiring. It sees where the ball goes, and could calculate and locate its position with accuracy. So, during the time it takes you to lick your finger and put it into the air in a pretence that you know how to judge the weather, Asimo has calmly calculated the exact distance to play, the precise wind direction and strength, the difference in height between you and the green, the moisture level of the ground, the length and type of grass, and about a hundred other little things that you hadn’t thought of, including the technical specifications of the clubs and the ball you happen to be using that day. Before your finger is even dry, Asimo has done more calculations than you will do in a lifetime, chosen precisely the right club for the occasion, and given it a nice little polish.

Asimo the perfect caddy

Let’s see what else was on the list. Robust constitution? Look, Asimo has a robot constitution, which is presumably as robust as you can get. Certainly more than a caddy with a hangover. Loyalty? Certainly. In fact, Asimo will never bad-mouth you in its life. It will always be there for you. From early morning practice sessions to late night chores such as cleaning your golf shoes for the following day, Asimo is your faithful assistant. But how about those psychological and motivational powers? The ideal caddy has to be able to lift your game and get you through the low times. How can a robot do that? For my money, Asimo wins on that count as well. Look, do you really want a £500-an-hour shrink shadowing you around a golf course for five hours? Just imagine what would happen when you make a terrible shot. Out of the corner of your eye you would see your psychiatrist weighing up how to say something motivational to you, when all you want is dignified silence. I once heard of a man who hit his shrink over the head with a paperweight, causing a large bump to appear. “Shrink that!”, he said triumphantly. No, a £500-an-hour psychiatrist is the last thing you need. If you do meet one, I recommend you buy him a house and run off. It will be cheaper that way. Asimo The Loyal Robot, however, is a different proposition entirely. Compared with the average playing partner it would be glorious. No fatuous comments, no gratuitous remarks, no smirks or grimaces or whistlings through clenched teeth or feeble hoppings from foot to foot or any of the other peculiar things that caddies and partners do when you play an appalling shot. They say “Oh, bad luck!”, when the truth is that you simply played like a fool. In contrast, Asimo stands discretely on the sidelines, watching with quiet enthusiasm where the ball disappears to, and makes absolutely no editorial comment to make on the subject. No disdain, no boredom, no impatience, no clumsy attempts to cheer you on, nothing. The silence is not of someone thinking you’re an idiot and not saying – It is the peace of a colleague who is incapable of having such thoughts in the first place. Bliss. What’s more, you could program Asimo to recognise a superb shot when it does eventually see one. So, on that rare occasion you would hear the phrase “Oh, well done! Nice work there!” and know that these aren’t the words of someone who really means “You lucky little squirt”or “You couldn’t repeat that shot in a thousand tries, not even if I offered you everything I own.” No, when Asimo says “Well done” it really would mean “Well done”, based on completely objective criteria. No need for false modesty in response – it really was a brilliant shot. How wonderful it would be to have such a colleague, cheerfully sharing your journey with you, never tiring, never losing faith in you. How great to have a caddy who not only doesn’t mind when you are grumpy but who doesn’t even notice when you are.

Asimo the perfect caddy

It’s hard to think of a negative side to such a chum. Would Asimo get rusty if it rained? Not if you gave it waterproofs.What if its battery runs down? Simply place emergency spare ones at strategic points along the course, perhaps next to the refreshment stands. By the way, it turns out that Asimo’s battery is located in its belly. At refreshment times, therefore, you both fill your stomachs and, refreshed, carry on. But what if everyone bought such a robot, thus removing your cunningly-won advantage? Simple. You would all settle down to enjoy the game. Golf would enter a new Civilised Age, where everyone would have the most polite assistants imaginable, a personal Jeeves but without the all-knowing twitch of the upper lip. Who wouldn’t rather like having an intelligent servant on hand 24 hours a day, and without need of guilt. Discrete, supportive, useful, steadfast. Life would be pretty good, don’t you think?

Golf would enter a new Civilised Age, where everyone would have the most polite assistants imaginable, a personal Jeeves but without the allknowing twitch of the upper lip. But how realistic is all this? Does Asimo exist? Yes. Asimo is indeed real. There aren’t many around, but as I write these words there is at least one in Britain. What does it look like? When you encounter it for the first time you are struck by its short stature. It is only 1.2m high, about four feet tall. But what mostly strikes you is its undoubted humanness. You find yourself quickly forgetting it’s a robot at all, because it moves like a little person. In fact, like a boy. Why a boy and not a girl? It’s hard to tell. Perhaps having a name ending in ‘o’ leads you into that direction. Either way, this little character has personality when it moves. It’s partly the arms, the way they are bent in a serious and determined way, like the arms of a little chap proudly walking onto the stage in a school hall on prize-giving day. He seems to lean forward slightly, eager to discover what life is about, but silent and good-mannered in a way that no actual child is today. Actual children of Asimo’s height today watch Celebrity Love Island on their personal TV sets in their bedrooms, thus learning how to become annoying when they grow up. In contrast, Asimo is the model child that listens and watches and learns, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t binge-drink, doesn’t present you with mobile phone bills, doesn’t demand expensive clothes, and doesn’t swear at you or say “Do you think I’m bothered?”

Asimo the perfect caddy

You cannot help smiling at Asimo. I think that anyone who doesn’t smile when watching him must be another robot. Perhaps this is how you tell people and robots apart.

You cannot help smiling at Asimo. I think that anyone who doesn’t smile when watching him must be another robot. Perhaps this is how you tell people and robots apart. Asimo is better natured than most people. You, perhaps. He also has a longer attention span than you have, and is quite possibly an altogether better person than you have ever dreamed of becoming. This makes him a role-model. When he walks, he moves his hips the way a person does. His is not the walk of clunky robots we see in movies, like the one in Star Wars, the tall one with the annoying voice and the stiff action. Asimo moves in a way that can only be described as pleasing. You have to see it to believe it. There’s a website that shows him following a lady across a room. He keeps a respectful distance behind her. She then stops and turns. Asimo stops too, then seems to think for a moment and then takes a small step back in order to maintain the respectful distance. In another sequence he is walking towards a lady and she raises her hand as if to ask him to stop. He obediently stops. In yet another video, she keeps walking into his path and he has to repeatedly walk around her. He never seems to get irritated by this.

When someone nods to him, he nods politely back. When someone holds out a hand, he shakes it with earnest courtesy. He once shook the hand with the Prime Minister of Belgium, which is something. When Asimo walks, he walks with a cheerful eagerness and a strangely naïve deference, but also, perhaps, a hint of wistfulness. I have seen people’s eyes well up when confronting Asimo for the first time. I completely understand. Perhaps it has been so long since we have seen well-behaved children that we find ourselves melting a little at such a sight, drifting off for a moment into a Victorian romantic land of unfeasibly good manners. Yet all we are doing is peering at a robot. Who would have predicted it? But the big question is: could Asimo really be a caddy? Yes, I think so, one day. He can already walk on sloping surfaces, including carpets, so a well-manicured course should be no problem for him. He could be programmed to select the optimum club, taking into account wind and weather conditions deduced from sensors that can be attached to his body. He can watch where the ball went and help you find it. All of this is perfectly possible today.

Asimo the perfect caddy

He walks about, shakes people’s hands, bows, walks up and down stairs, learns his way around, holds a tray of drinks, and generally acts the part of the perfect assistant.

Not only can he walk, but – be amazed at this – he can run. Really. Admittedly we’re not talking about a fast sprinter here. Asimo runs at about 3km per hour. But running it is, and he avoids bumping into people and falling into holes. It’s quite a sight. He could also pull a golf cart. At this point I need to admit a little creative licence with some of the photographs we show here: we have brazenly taken liberties by retouching them slightly, placing golf clubs in his back pack. In reality, his back pack today is full of computer equipment. One day, with future miniaturisation, our photo could easily become real. One day, he will be able to walk in rough grass and tell you amusing anecdotes to help pass the time, and judge your mood from your body language and the electromagnetic waves emitted from your body. One day, he will be not only the perfect caddy but a perfect assistant, cooking your food, mixing your drinks, babysitting your children, cleaning your house and car, ironing your clothes, walking your dog, filling in your tax forms and driving you to work. One fine day all these nice things will happen. But not quite yet. In fact, Asimo is not yet available for purchase. He is participating in various research projects, and occasionally he wows crowds at science museums and as the star guest at store openings, particularly car showroom openings. Honda car showrooms, to be precise. Honda created Asimo. He walks about, shakes people’s hands, bows, walks up and down stairs, learns his way around, holds a tray of drinks, and generally acts the part of the perfect assistant. But it will take time for someone to program him to be a caddy, and until then you will have to be a little patient. When that day comes, the golfing powers-that-be will have to decide what Asimo actually is. As a caddy he can advise you on golf club selection. But as a mechanical device, he can’t. It’s a tough decision for the authorities to make, but it’s my bet that the public demand for such the perfect caddy will be overwhelming. A living, walking, charming, dependable character who everyone will want at their side at all times, in fact. I don’t know if Bobby Jones would have approved, but we have changed a little since those days. Today, we are the We Want It Now generation. Try stopping us. My only hope is that Asimo continues to be trained in pleasing ways. It would be tragic if he learns attitudes from people around him. Imagine if he suddenly throws your clubs into the lake, swears at you, and walks off. “You’re fired!” you shout. “Do you think I’m bothered?” would be his reply, as he disappears towards the bar. WG www.world.honda.com/ASIMO

taste

Tullibardine www.tullibardine.com

Old Course Golf Club

Old

Course,

New Memories

FROM THE COMPANY OF THE DUKE OF YORK, ARNOLD PALMER AND SIR MICHAEL BOLLONACK TO THE RANKS OF THE SNAPPERS AND SCRIBBLERS, THE FREEDMANS HAVE FOND MEMORIES OF ST. ANDREW’S. WORDS: LIONEL FREEDMAN PHOTOGRAPHY: SIMON EVERETT, NICK CHRISTIE AND WITH THANKS TO THE OLD COURSE HOTEL

ou can have too much of a good thing. Nonsense. You can put me in front of a roaring log fire with a glass of single malt as many times as you like and I’ll still come back for more. And the same is true for the Old Course Hotel. I expect by thus nailing my colours to the mast, I might justly stand accused of bias. After all, the last time we stayed there, it was as guests of the hotel for a somewhat unusual golfing competition. However, I would dismiss such thoughts as tittletattle and argue that I’ve been around for long enough to know a good thing when I see one. And twice in recent times, I’ve been lucky enough to see it. Wind the video back. It’s mid-summer, 2004. The 250th anniversary of the R&A. Everyone who is anyone in the world of golf is there. Well, maybe that’s a tad over-enthusiastic but there was ample opportunity to play ‘spot the celebrity.’ Arnold Palmer, Tom Weiskopf, Sir Michael Bollonack, the Duke of York, John Jacobs, Peter Alliss. And the then Secretary and Treasurer of Musselburgh Old Course Golf Club, Lionel Freedman and his wife, Beth. One hundred and twenty tables, each with ten guests. A little over-awed at first? You bet we were. Quite an evening. Indeed, the members themselves must have thought so too, since they appear to have taken leave of both sense and tradition the following morning. Ladies were allowed into the hallowed portals of the Clubhouse. Beth later

recalled one or two scowls from ancient mariners, buried behind their morning coffee and papers but a rare treat indeed. I was put in mind, briefly, of a story told by a friend of mine, who found himself visiting the honourable corridors. Approaching the splendid wooden reception desk, he asked – politely I’m sure – where the toilets might be. “Are you a member, sir?” “No.” “Ah. Then you’ll find them downstairs.” Where would golf be without its traditions? But I digress. Such evenings as the 250th celebrations need time to sink in and a weekend spent at the Old Course proved to be the ideal partner to the occasion. Sunday evening, all the shenanigans over, golfers out on the Old Course, finding their way round this extraordinary corner history in the sunlight of the early evening. And I’m sitting in the Road Hole bar, sipping an extremely good malt and waiting for Beth to finish whatever she’s doing, back in the suite. Two hundred and fifty years. And the rest. For conventional wisdom puts golfers on these links some six hundred summers ago. It seems a shame to have come all this way and not to have found time for a round. No matter. I wouldn’t have missed the night before for anything. Not even a glass of this splendid Glenfiddich.

Old Course Golf Club

Four months later and the long summer evenings have now become shorter, blustery affairs. The autumn nights have taken hold but, since its inception in 1995, this is when Dunhill have chosen to host their annual links competition. Not, I hasten to add, that either Beth or I were playing in it. No, ours was an altogether weightier affair. The eighth Snappers and Writers’ Tournament, no less, hosted by the Old Course Hotel and played at the resort’s own course, the elegant Duke’s. It’s a tradition that seems to have followed in the wake of the Dunhill. I wasn’t there for the first one but I guess, after all the glitterati had gone their gentile ways, a bunch of golfing writers and photographers found themselves at the home of golf and simply turned to each other and said ‘Why not?’ Why not indeed. When in Rome, get out the golf clubs. That it all started in the same year that the Duke of York played the inaugural shot on the Duke’s welds the event to the Alma Mater of the Old Course Hotel and very generous hosts they proved to be.

“Indeed, they don’t,” says Beth over breakfast the next morning, gazing at a mountain of ‘traditional cooked breakfast.’ Beyond the tall windows of the Sands Restaurant, early morning golfers are once again making their way round the Old Course. It’s not so dreick this morning. In fact, there’s even a watery sun emerging in the eastern skies. Yet another extraordinary weekend. Thank you Jane. And thank you to all at the Old Course Hotel. As I said earlier, you really can never have too much of a good thing. WG

They don’t do things by halves up here.

And so to the game itself. It’s Monday morning. The Duke’s. Peter Thomson put this course together and a very fine job he did too. Some short way from the St. Andrew’s town centre, and described as ‘the only inland course at the home of golf,’ the Duke’s is an interesting mixture of links and parkland. Not for the faint-hearted but wonderful views and, as Hagan might have observed, you must give yourself time to see them. Mind you, they’d have been seen better on a sunny day. Today, it was dreick. It’s an old Scottish word that another friend of mine insists is taken from the French. The French for what, she doesn’t say. If it means ‘grey, damp and chilly,’ then dreick will do very nicely to describe that October afternoon. However, it wakes more than a touch of dreick weather to dampen the spirits of we writers and snappers and, eighteen holes and four hours later, we had our winners. After a hardfought, tense and nail-biting struggle that had a frenzied crowd of two or three jumping to their collective feet, the Writers had prevailed. By one point. Safe, once again, in the welcome embrace of the Duke’s splendid clubhouse, cheers, applause and drinks all round as the Club’s captain, Gavin Hastings, steps forward to award the prize. Yes, it’s the same Gavin Hastings, Scotland’s rugby hero. They don’t do things by halves up here.

Aegean Odyssey Greece

Jason’s Footsteps

’ve seen old duffers, usually playing behind them, wandering on an endless journey around a golf course. Zig-zagging rough to rough, hockey slapshots right, snap hooks left, shanking every chance they could into water and sand, working over all the hazards, hunting for their lucky ball. For me, halfway around the world from home, hunting down a course had been the trick. A month-long Aegean odyssey, loaded down with too much luggage, in search of a few holes to play. “What are you looking for? We have everything.“ a street hustler in Athens had asked me, looking to score a few euros for his consulting fee. “I’d like to play golf.” He was stumped. Usually it was questions he could answer – hotels, restaurants, directions. “Golf? In Greece? On the islands? Possibly. But maybe you would like better a nude beach with beautiful women. We have many of these beaches. I think this is better than the golf.” Maybe he was right. I visualised the scene … scantily clad goddesses from all over the globe, fanning me as I tip my head forward to pluck a grape with my lips, calling me Tiger – why not? … Right. With the typical week off for the holidays, it is difficult just to scratch the surface of a place but with a month, I figured my scratching would at least get some paint under my fingernails. And certainly, in my ambling around the one hundred and twenty islands in the Aegean, I would stumble onto a course. I mean, this is a country central to the foundation of western civilisation. There’d have to be golf. So it was off to the boats. The Greek ferry system, short of your own yacht, is the only way to island hop the Aegean, allowing you to cruise the different island chains. The western,

WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHY: JOE HAUKEBO

A NEW MEXICAN LOOSE IN THE GREEK ISLANDS, JOE HAUKEBO IS LOOKING FOR A GAME. northern, central and eastern Cyclades, Ionian, Argo-Sorenic, Aegean and Dodeconese, all the way to Crete and Turkey. And it is a great way to meet “the crazy Greeks,”an animated people, friendly to travellers and lost golfers. Here, on the boat, talk erupts. Conversation is a living art form, a thing of loud beauty. Often, everyone talks at once. And the volume is cranked up as if everyone is hard of hearing, ignited by a strong cup of espresso or thick Greek coffee. Golfers appreciate good eyehand co-ordination. But here, these Mediterraneans have mastered mouth-hand co-ordination. All the subtleties of hand and body gestures. An otherwise impenetrable language with a difficult alphabet becomes much easier if you follow the hand signals. We’re taught that golf is a quiet, dignified game for the most part – maybe not, if you count the tantrums, cussing and club throwing. And while I had imagined coming to play in one of the world’s oldest civilisations – maybe even donkey-drawn golf carts – it was hard to imagine a round of golf with any of the people now before me on a night ferry crossing. They were all wound up pretty tight. Drifting to sleep, the scene became clearer to me. My playing partners stare in disbelief as I snake in a monstrous putt, the ball bending with the double break and ramming into the back of the cup – in my dreams, they always go in. My partner goes berserk, jumping up and down and talking a blue streak. His whole body waves erratically like he was loaded on ouzo and he's about to brain me with his putter. “He says nice putt,” another calmly offers. No nod, wink, thumbs up or pat on the back. Nothing less than pure exuberance.

Aegean Odyssey Greece

But then I wake up and realise that while the history and mythology in Greece is loaded with passion and violence, these are not a violent people. Just a little excited. And while no one I talked to seemed to know where there might be a golf course, they were full of fun and eager to share their wine and their stories with a visitor. “Golf? Here? You crazy? I don't think so,” said a balding, portly restaurant owner who boasted that all his profits were banked in his belly. We were sitting at an outdoor table sharing feta cheese, olives and grilled octopus. He sat with his arm around his twenty-five year old girlfriend, kissing her cheek and sticking out his tongue at the girl’s mother seated across the table, then grinning, then laughing. “Golf I don’t know, but she…” He points with his chin at the mother.“I know she wants to kill me.” It was this way on each of the islands where I landed. Serifos, Milos, Peros, Santorini. Each one having its own character and characters, white-washed villages, ancient ruins, singular beaches, native wines. And they all share a vibrant people.They couldn’t tell me about a golf course, anywhere, but were quick to share a part of their lives. And we shared in halting English. I soon found myself saying,” I am looking for the golf.” I asked old fishermen mending their nets by the sea, widows cloaked in black knitting in the sun, boys kicking a football down a cobbled street, men riding their donkeys down from hilltop chores. I asked Sunday morning worshippers waddling down alleys to the clanging of bells in Greek Orthodox steeples. I asked farmers preparing fields for planting grapes or walking sheep down country roadways and elderly women hanging clothes to dry in the wind. All were polite, even curious. Greece is not a place known for golf. The weather didn't help the search. Had I visited in summer, there would have been hordes of sun-worshippers lining the beaches. But now, in winter, tourists were scarce. And while it was easy to slip into the quiet of the slow season, it was also a time for honking winds, rough seas, gnarly weather. One evening, our ferry ride to a nearby island was cancelled, dumping all passengers at a small port for the night. Everyone was hiding from the weather in their homes. A big angry palm tree by my hotel shook in the wind, growling at me like the angry head of a lion. The door and window shutters – painted blue so that the devil, who can’t see blue, could not enter – rattled loudly. It snowed that night in Serifos, the kind of blizzard that only visits every fifty to one hundred years. Serifos is an out-of-the-way island, remote even by Greek standards. I had heard that in the nearby village of Koutalas was the famed cavern of the Cyclops. His one eye must have been working me over. In my room there was an air conditioner, a big eye on the wall. There were blue shutters for a door where the wind, and some snow, blasted through the cracks. The one blanket wasn’t near enough and I was too cold to get out of bed to ask for more. I mean it’s Greece. How cold can it get? Turns out, pretty dang cold. And turns out, there were more blankets in the closet, the air conditioner was also a heater, and there was a sliding glass door for the shutters hidden behind the curtain, which I almost used for another blanket. Great thing, hindsight.

Aegean Odyssey Greece

“Golf? Here? You crazy? I don’t think so,” said a balding, portly restaurant owner who boasted that all his profits were banked in his belly.

Aegean Odyssey Greece

In the morning, snow blanketed boats in the harbour, and seaside windmills, palm tree fronds, bending bamboo plants near to breaking. Normally, even in winter, the weather was sunny, warm enough you'd think for a quick dip in the sea. Each island has bragging rights to its beaches, especially if they are designated nude beaches. But I was the only nudist I saw. Not what I envisioned, especially after shedding my too-tight speedo which had left deep indentations on my hips, stretched from too much goat cheese. Scariest thing I saw the whole trip. But the days moved on and so did the weather, the Aegean sun staying with me until I finally found what I’d been looking for on the island of Rhodes.“Rodos” sits near the tail end of the Dodeconese, an island chain skirting the west coast of Turkey. From its hilltops you can see both the Aegean and Mediterranean, six shades of blue from the currents in the sea. Mythology tells us that when Zeus divided the world, he forgot Helios, the sun god, who then was given Rhodes. Home to a history of invasion, the largest moated castle on the planet, the Colossus of Rhodes – one of the seven wonders of the world – plenty of archeological ruins and sightseeing, wonderful Rhodes also has a golf course. Midway between Rhodes castle and the cliff-topped acropolis of Lindos, you’ll find a 6,800 foot track, stretched out under “the great blue dome of the Aegean,” An 18-hole run, par 73 bordering a sand-wind beach and lined with cypress, olive and eucalyptus trees, Afandou was designed by Britain’s Donald Harradine. It opened in 1973 and survived the 1987 earthquake that rattled all of Rhodes. Afandou is open all year and at a nominal seventeen euros, a round on a winter’s day seemed very good value. Apparently, the various grasses they’ve chosen to seed the course are such as will guarantee the colour green in all seasons. Sounds unlikely but it seemed to work. A beautiful course, beautiful weather. Everything they said about Rhodes was true and the snows of Serifos seemed a lifetime away. At last, I had found my game of Greek golf and I guess my memory of it is only slightly scarred by the thought of the toothpaste. Toothpaste? The tube that had exploded in my suitcase the night before was now smeared over everything. Thus it had been with minty clean clothes and all of me reeking of fresh breath that I had approached the first tee. It had taken me a month to find this place but at least I smelled good for a duffer bumming round. Later that evening, watching as the reddening sun slowly sank beneath the waters of the Aegean, I stood talking to an elderly Greek man. Not that I really knew what he was talking about, since most of my Greek still involved no more than shrugging and grinning. Maybe he was talking about the smell of toothpaste. Or maybe about golf. But it didn’t really matter. Watching a small herd of goats amble homewards in the cool of the evening, listening to the evening’s insect chorus and to the soft voice of the old man of Rhodes seemed just a good way of spending time and a good place to be. Journey’s end. And worth every minute. WG

Lie of the ball

GOLFING FOR DUMMIES

THE GOLFER’S COMPANION “The secret of golf satisfaction is in the long game. Chicks may dig the long ball but as any dummy can tell …” Once upon a time, there was DOS for Dummies,Windows for Dummies, E-mail for Dummies and so on. Now, the educational lexicon of IT for beginners has subsumed the game of golf. Or, to be more precise, the short game of golf. Dave Pelz, arguably one of golf’s most famous short game experts, might charge five hundred dollars a day in Boca Raton but the writers Michael Shiels and his partner, Michael Kernicki, are asking a mere eleven pounds, ninety-nine for two hundred and fifty six pages of what to do with the ball once you’ve knocked it off the tee. If you want to know that Lee Trevino’s father was a gravedigger or that Tommy Armour took twenty-three strokes on the 17th in the Shawnee Open, then this is the book for you. The Golfer’s Companion, by Chris Martin. Describing it as “a funny, fascinating frolic through eighteen holes of golfing miscellany,” the publishers’ frenzied alliteration should not discourage you from picking up a golfing chronicle that is at once instructive, charming, anecdotal and amusing. Here is the evidence that Rudyard Kipling and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle invented golf in the snow. And details of the longest ever match, when play lasted some eighty-six thousand, three hundred and ninety seven strokes, ending only in 1938, when one of the players died. You’ll also find the story of the Caddie and the Chocolate Chip Muffins, the Etymology of Golfing Words, the par-3 inspired by gin and the observations of writers such as Evelyn Waugh who wrote, for example, that golf “… is a punishment ground on which poor Colonels had to go round and round hitting a ball into a distant hole and then starting all over again before they were allowed anything to eat.” A miscellany, a joy, a bedside book.“Cracking courses, brilliant birdies, fabulous fairways.” Ignore the puff. Chris Martin’s book is far more intelligent than that.

Chipping Off the Ol’ Block. Climbing Bunker Hill.Waging and Wedging a Ground Campaign. Flipping to Flop. Learning from the Stars.The Simple Secrets of Short-Shot Success. All this and more. Much more. It’s a book that was clearly fun to write and certainly, it’s fun to read. Will it improve your game? Answers on a postcard, please. And still on the subject of dummies … Anchor Bay Entertainment have now come up with a DVD called – you’re there already – Golf For Dummies. Based on the hugely successful ‘Dummy’ format of speaking the same language as the reader, CBS golf commentator, Gary McCord, brings wit, wisdom and thirty years’ experience of the game to your screen. Probably not too handy in the summer but save it for those long, dark autumn evenings, which will be here again before you can say Old Tom Morris. Golf’s Short Game for Dummies By Michael Shiels & Michael Kernicki Published by Wiley Publishing, Inc Price £11.99 Golf For Dummies DVD Released by Anchor Bay Entertainment UK Price £12.99

The Golfer’s Companion by Chris Martin Published by Robson Books, Price £9.99

Open your senses

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Lie of the ball

PLAYING GOLF WITHOUT A CLUB No Tie Required –playing golf without a club. Christopher Cairns’ unique, sometimes brilliant, picaresque and political jaunt around golf’s ‘undiscovered country’ – the courses for non-members where democracy and the true spirit of the game are still to be found. Or are they?

“

Rajeev is only occasionally suffering from a loose shot here and there, but Carolyn has really come one to a game. Although on the face of it, her swing is little different from her friend’s, Carolyn is naturally the more sporty of the two. Once into the groove, her loopy, up and down kind of action fairly imparts a decent charge to the back of the ball and she starts recording as many pars as either Rajeev or myself. One less than perfect strike on the eleventh, however, still manages to hop over that ditch that transects the entire course and trundle down near the green.

“

My mood is not helped when five minutes of hunting in the undergrowth of hawthorn bushes, bramble and beer cans proves Michael right and fails to turn up my ball. I drop one in the semi-rough and take a one-shot penalty. Of course, I should have gone back to the tee but that is a rule more honoured in the breach than in the observance – certainly in unofficial golf matches. In any case, the fact that Michael is clearly only going to count the shots that he likes hardly puts him in a position to complain. I have to single putt the second green to match Michael’s five, then watch him take another fresh air ‘practice’ swing before connecting with his next on the third tee, on his way to a four-net-three and a win. I am remembering John Moreton’s leniency with youthful exuberance and am determined not to complain about such trifles as accurate scoring.

”

“Oh, oh. Never mind. A BABU will do,” she says. “BABU?” asks Rajeev.

”

“Yes. Bloody Awful But Useful.

PROBLEM SOLVER And then there’s the Steve Newall golfing panacea, The Golf Rules Problem Solver. Starring some of the most relaxed golfers you’ll ever see this side of Glastonbury and shot on location at Brocket Hall Golf Club in deepest Hertfordshire, the Problem Solver tries to make rules not only accessible but also fun. Touching the ball, kicking the ball, nighttime animals, length of divots, double hits, scooping and pushing – you’ll find a thousand and one ways to throw a golf game and even if, hopefully, few if any of these things ever happen to you, they still add up to a compelling

read. Newall says his intention is “to support the rules while making them understandable.” And he probably does exactly that. What is less certain is his vision of the actual use of the book.“Tucked away in the pocket of the golf bag, this book can be called upon whenever required to settle contentious, possibly scorewrecking predicaments.” An eyebrow must be raised. Experience suggests that any player sufficiently intemperate to reach for a book of rules during a round, no matter how well written, is unlikely to make it as far as the eighteenth. The Golf Rules Problem Solver by Steve Newall Published by Collins and Brown, price £8.99

“

Promoting golf, selling it to the masses, is, of course, the responsibility of those businesses and organisations who run the game in Britain and make a profit from it. Unfortunately, there are rather a lot of them and they seldom seem capable of speaking with one voice. Richard Caborn, the Minister for Sport, was famously asked if the government could not put more money into developing golf. I’d love to, was the gist of his reply, but I have no idea who to give it to.

No Tie Required by Christopher Cairns Published by Headline

”

Lie of the ball

ALFIE’S LEGACY Julie Goyder explains

kay, it has already been established that, without doubt, golfing people are tough, very tough, and surely this is something to be admired, isn’t it? But I’m a little confused about this, because being able to carry on playing during a sudden storm is one thing, but to carry on, in the same nonchalant manner, after a sudden death is quite another. Well, I think it is, anyway. When 97-year-old Alfie – our club’s oldest, most legendary, and toughest, golfer – got off his gopher recently to tee up, he dropped dead. Just like that. As my mother described it to me later, the other players made a group decision to leave him there on the ground and continue playing. Not only that – subsequent golfing parties continued to play over Alfie until the ambulance arrived. As Mother was relating this to me, her lace hanky clutched to her chest, she noticed my shocked expression and said, ‘Darling, Alfie did look ever so peaceful and we all agreed, unanimously, that Alfie would have, most definitely, wanted us to play on.’ When I continued to look shocked, she added, rather defensively,‘I broke my handicap today, darling, not long after Alfie … well … passed on. And I think he’d be terribly proud of me, don’t you agree?’ It wasn’t a question, it was one of those rhetorical commands my mother was so good at. I wanted desperately to say, no, I don’t think so. I also wanted to point out that Alfie wouldn’t have even known my mother, as she’d never had much time for the old folk. But I didn’t say any of this because by now she was dabbing at her eyes rather convincingly – not enough to ruin her mascara, but she was definitely dabbing. Ambulances take quite some time to get to obscure little country towns, so apparently it was a good half an hour before Alfie was transported from the golf course to wherever ambulance drivers take already-dead golfers.

A few days later, one of the other elderly golfers gave Alfie a fine eulogy, but when he made mention of the heroic circumstance of Alfie’s demise, and the way Alfie’s friends had continued to play on as a tribute to him, it was just too much for me. Much to Mother’s horror, I was so overcome I had to leave hastily. Impatiently, she thrust me a clean lace hanky – she always has a spare. I covered my mouth with the hanky as I made my way back down the aisle, out of the funeral parlour and into the sun, where I was finally – at a respectful distance – able to collapse. Somehow, I don’t think Alfie would have minded my mirth. Mother, on the other hand, sent me to Coventry for the rest of the season. That’s when I knew Alfie must have had a little chat with God. Thanks, Alfie.

‘DARLING, ALFIE DID LOOK EVER SO PEACEFUL AND WE ALL AGREED, UNANIMOUSLY, THAT ALFIE WOULD HAVE, MOST DEFINITELY, WANTED US TO PLAY ON.’

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Auction Ludlow Racecourse

Going,

Going…

BAFFING SPOONS, THOMAS CARRUTHERS, POSTERS FOR NORTH BERWICK AND P.G. WODEHOUSE. WHAT DO THEY HAVE IN COMMON? LUDLOW RACECOURSE AND THE AUCTIONEER’S HAMMER. WORDS: NICHOLAS CHRISTIE PHOTOGRAPHY: DAVID F. SIMMONDS

udlow Racecourse. The words conjure up the sight of sweating, angular horses thundering down the narrow furlongs of track, pushed to their physical limits by their brilliantly colourful, tiny riders. Of vast, milling crowds, at once both silent and then erupting as the fortunes of the racing day ebb and flow. And of the distant, blue Shropshire hills, so much beloved of A.E. Houseman, circling this precious corner of England where, as in Ambridge, the sense of years gone by is so easily restored. Appropriate then, on this quiet Wednesday morning, that the Racecourse should now play host to Mullock and Madely, Auctioneers, and their splendid collection of paraphernalia, artefact and treasures from the glorious golfing past. “Did you come up this morning?” “No. Yesterday evening.” “Shall we vary it and have sausage and egg?” “He picked up the M6 and then was rather cross he’d missed the Wolverhampton turning.” “No, no sausage. Just the egg.” Cockney, Scottish, Brummy, Mancunian, Geordie. One thousand years ago, they say that a man from Kent would not have been understood north of Watford. Over the years, there’s been some improvement, due in no small part to the BBC and the joys of received pronunciation, but it remains both a puzzle and a delight that such diversity of speech should be found in so small a country. And this morning, those many accents are to be found gathered round a small, mobile sandwich bar, parked outside the central buildings of Ludlow Racecourse. It’s half past ten. The main action doesn’t start until one, if action can be said to describe the highly mannered, almost discreet process of the British auction room. At other times, these buildings would have been awash with jabbering punters, feverish bookies and relentless tannoy announcements. Today, the main doors open only to reveal

groups of whispering prospectors, moving slowly, almost reverentially, among the many tables of golfing wonders. Two hundred? Three? Probably. John Mullock said it would be busy. Young and old, men and women. Hirsuit, dapper, elegant and dishabille. It seems there is no such animal as the typical collector of memorabilia. As they carefully pick their way among the numberless clubs, balls, pictures and curios, each one of them seems to know exactly what they are doing. Each one an expert, gingerly picking up mashies, niblicks and baffies, turning them over in their hands with a solicitude unmatched since their original maker crafted them. Half past eleven. Time is passing. The numbers inside the two auction rooms are growing perceptibly. Snatches of half-heard conversation suggest the level of interest and, indeed, knowledge that Mullock and Madeley’s clients have brought with them. Stories of the M6 and the A38 have been left outside with the sandwich bar. Now the talk is of Philip, McKenzie and Old Tom Morris. An elderly man gazes with singular intent at a W.J. McDonald Sheringham Norfolk bronzed gun metal blade putter. He pulls a magnifying glass from his pocket. This man might be a millionaire, someone who would think nothing of swapping ninety-eight thousand pounds for a long-nose, curved face baffing spoon. On the other hand, he might be no more than simply curious, delighted to say later that he has handled a club that Old Tom himself might have wielded. There are now slightly anxious glances at watches. It seems that the groups are now moving more quickly, the earlier, almost funereal stroll now replaced by a brisker, more impatient zig-zagging from one exhibit to another. No-one wants to miss the prize.The one jewel that has gone unnoticed, woefully under-valued – a club, picture or a book that is priceless and, as yet, undiscovered. It’s the dream that steers the enthusiast toward seaside junk-shops and to second-hand

Auction Ludlow Racecourse

Lot number eighty-one. The jewel. bookstalls at village fetes. And, as with many dreams, its worth is founded upon hope rather than expectation. “I’m not really a club man. I’m more into books. Especially the inter-war years. Bobby Jones. Sarazen.” The two men moved on. The book man would be in his element here in Ludlow. Wodehouse. Darwin. Longhurst. Ageing collections from Punch magazine. Treatises on the perfect swing by more or less every famous golfer you’ve heard of and by many more that you haven’t. There was even “Golden Jubilee – The Story of Southerndown Ladies Golf Club, 1905 – 1955” by Molly Sibbering-Jones. It’s probably not a title to set the pulse racing but someone, somewhere, will covet it. Albeit only one of Molly’s great grand-children. “I didn’t really know much about him when I started.” There was more than simply books at Ludlow. Here was an actual author. Tom Carruthers. An Edinburgh accountant for much of his life, who gave up on numbers and took up words when he decided to write a book about his great-grandfather, the eponymous Thomas Carruthers, golfer and athlete, 1840 – 1924. Four years of ferreting about in bookshops, museums and libraries can’t have been anything other than a labour of love but it was clearly worth it. 222 pages of Scottish history and anecdote and a worthy addition to the golfing catalogue. Who knows? Wind the clock forward a hundred years or so and it may well be that the history of Thomas Carruthers by Thomas Carruthers will be the star of the show. Lot number eighty-one. The jewel.

Auction Ludlow Racecourse

Half past twelve. They’re closing off the viewing room. For a day and a half, the world has had its chance to pour over the featheries, smooth gutties, standard floaters and large-headed niblicks. To peer at faded railway posters advertising North Berwick or at the 1953 Official Ryder Cup Dinner menu. And to take stock of the thimbles, toast-racks, tobacco jars and china plates celebrating, in one way or another, the noble game. Even the giant Shell corporation has had its chance to reclaim its roll of 35mm film, telling the story of ‘Shell’s Wonderful World of Golf.’ The label on the box had asked that the film be ‘returned promptly’ to the Shell Film Library, 25, The Burroughs, Hendon, London. Presumably, someone forgot. The time for inspection has passed. Now the main business of the day was to begin, presided over by the genial headmaster and auctioneer, John Mullock. He’s done this before. It is a great skill to talk at the speed of Lonnie Donegan singing Rock Island Line and yet remain entirely comprehensible. Lot by lot, the catalogue slowly begins to disappear. Most, if not all, go for their expected price. One or two are withdrawn. Few prove to be undiscovered jewels. “Interest here, ladies and gentlemen, at ninety-five.” The ladies and gentlemen fill the room. Most sit, some stand almost furtively at the edges of what is now a theatre – John Bullock and his assistants the play itself, the bidders an appreciative audience. Hands rise and fall. Fingers twitch. To the left, someone is bidding on the phone. From London, perhaps. Or New York. Or maybe Ludlow town centre.

For a day and a half, the world has had its chance to pour over the featheries, smooth gutties, standard floaters and large-headed niblicks. 47

Auction Ludlow Racecourse

A nod of the head, a wave of the hand, a telephone call and, within fifteen minutes, the Donald Steel Collection is no more. Many thousands of pounds have just been spent.

McKenzie’s Auto Caddy Patent Golf Bag. Rasps, files, braces, clamps – the very stuff of golf club manufacture. Large headedniblicks, deep-grooved face mashies. Mullock works his relentless way through them. At last, Lots 191 – 198. The Donald Steel Collection. Clubs that reach into thousands of pounds. In the novel, a frisson would run around the room, as bids are conjured up for these most famous golf clubs. In the real world, it’s business as usual. A nod of the head, a wave of the hand, a telephone call and, within fifteen minutes, the Donald Steel Collection is no more. Many thousands of pounds have just been spent. Clubs that might have once graced the hallways of Prince Albert and Willie Park are now scattered across the globe and as swiftly as history is dissipated, so Mullock moves on to Lot 199. The auction business thrives on sentiment but has little room for regret. Having started at one, “We should be through by five. Or maybe six.” Rhod McEwan will stay to the end, even if then faced with a six hour journey back to Balmoral. McEwan buys and sells golfing books. He clearly has the patience of a saint and also, quite possibly, the percipience of such a person. “It’s a business. A hobby. A fascination.” A mantra which may well be true for all the good folk at Ludlow Racecourse today. Outside, the sandwich bar has now closed and moved on to pastures new. The early evening is settling on the hallowed acres of the course. The blues of Houseman’s beloved hills deepen and still John Mullock soldiers on, his voice now fainting behind closing doors. “One hundred and twenty. Tell him it’s only money.” And so it is. Another lot, another bid. And another reminder that golf is a game for all ages. WG

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01606 301291

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Travelling Golfer Cork

The IRISH

Answer WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHY: MINTY CLINCH

FOTA, THE OLD HEAD, LISSELAN AND BANTRY BAY. SMALL WONDER THAT BOTH IRISH EYES AND MINTY’S ARE SMILING.

ith the exception of the outstanding Old Head, County Cork has a lower international profile than neighbouring Kerry, where Ballybunion, Tralee and Waterville bear the brunt of the transatlantic heritage trail. However, there is plenty to interest the itinerant golfer, not least a dozen courses within a 20 mile radius of Cork City that are virtually unknown to American tourists. British visitors will find Cork very accessible, especially by comparison with the rest of rural Ireland. The airport is user friendly, with regular daily flights from major cities in the United Kingdom. Driving time is another matter: always remember that distance is not the only factor in a city where a ring road from hell has been signposted by the devil incarnate. If you only have time for one local course, try Fota Island, a parkland layout 10 miles to the east of the city. In Irish golfing terms, it has an impeccable pedigree: conceived by Kevin Mulcahy, whose father founded Waterville; designed by Christy O’Connor Jr and Peter McEvoy; opened in 1993; sold to the owners of upmarket Mount Juliet in 1998 and upgraded to championship standard by Jeff Howes over 15 months at a cost of £2.5 million; hosted the Murphys Irish Open in 2001 and 2002. I played Fota with Shelley and Paul from Vancouver, both 18 handicappers. Walking was easy on smooth fairways and the greens were fast and true. Cork Harbour came into view, though never into play, at the 4th and remained in sight until the 11th,

at times glinting in the sunshine behind rows of pines. Swans preened on artificial lakes and flowers bloomed in rich profusion. Deciduous trees displayed the delicate green of early summer. At the 5th, a stone wall stretched across the fairway stopped my appalling tee shot dead, but otherwise my ball – just the one ball – flew straight and true. No waiting. No hassle. Easy pickings for golfers of all standards. Oh yes, I loved Fota and so did Shelley, though Paul, a victim of many errant shots, had his doubts. After the golf, the lunch. The clubhouse is an attractive barn conversion, a welcome change from today’s dominant post modernist Tesco designs, and the staff were charming, as only on form Irish can be. Definitely a day to remember. As was the next one. On a perfect June morning, I was the only person sitting on the terrace at Old Head of Kinsale. I was drinking good coffee and, in the absence of alternative breakfast options, eating wedding cake plundered from the weekend’s main event. In front, the ruined castle and the lighthouse perched on the tip of its diamond shaped promontory. Behind, the rock and glass clubhouse merged discreetly into the landscape. Understated without, luxuriously appointed within, it signals a mega buck golf course designed for sophisticated American golfers who are happy to pay €250 for a few hours of exclusivity. From the moment you drive through the high iron gates, the place shrieks quality, but does it deliver?

Travelling Golfer Cork

THERE IS PLENTY TO INTEREST THE ITINERANT GOLFER, NOT LEAST A DOZEN COURSES WITHIN A 20 MILE RADIUS OF CORK CITY. As my first invitation to play Old Head was cancelled at the last minute, I knew that getting out on the cliff tops can never be guaranteed. In the gale force winds that lash the south west Irish coast for much of the winter and a significant part of the summer, some of the tee boxes are just too dangerous. In fog or mist, they are out of bounds. It follows that a day when you are comfortable in shirtsleeves at 7.30am is one in a thousand. I could only feel blessed by the gods of golf, but we all know how fickle they can be. Indoors, I asked for a hand-pulled trolley, a request that provoked outrage. It seems that John O’Connor, the Kerry born global entrepreneur who owns Old Head, wouldn’t be after allowing those on his sacred turf, though the buggies required by his core market are permitted. The alternative is to hire a caddie, but he must be pre-booked. If you haven’t, you carry your own clubs. My designated companions, Washington Rod and Texas John, accompanied by local schoolboys, Finbarr and Owen, waited near the first tee. The starter made his standard welcome speech and insisted that we shake hands through the hole in the limestone Stone of Accord, a simple Celtic custom that guarantees as much goodwill at the end of a business deal – or a round of golf – as there was at the beginning. Then we were off. Old Head, which opened in 1997, is something of a committee golf course. Conceived by John O’Connor, a developer who dreamed of turning dodgy farmland bought for £300,000 into golfing magic, it was realised by half a dozen designers who came up with 42 options before deciding on the preferred lay out. Perhaps wisely, they avoided doing anything too fancy with the terrain on the grounds that the 220 acre site is so well defended by nature that artifice might make it unacceptable to the challenged majority who like their scorecards flattering. In other respects, the course is totally man made, with soil and sand trucked in to cover the rockscape below. The bill? Ten million quid. For the purist, the result lacks the ripple and roll that marks a true links course, but there is much to marvel at. The promontory’s ancient Celtic history is ever present in the form of crumbling fortifications and mysterious stone circles. Nine of the holes run along cliffs that rise to 300ft and all have magnificent views. Beware raising your head in mid shot, but if you do, you may be consoled by sightings of whales, dolphins and a variety of sea birds. The encircling sea also conceals the wreckage of the Lusitania, sunk offshore in 1915 by a German submarine, drowning nearly 2,000 passengers.

Travelling Golfer Cork

Burly John, receiving a shot a hole, struggled to find the golf course and bought the lunch.

And then there’s the golf. Steely Rod, playing off seven, found the fairways and green with predictable ease, but struggled with Finbarr’s lines on the greens. Burly John, receiving a shot a hole, struggled to find the golf course and bought the lunch. I trotted behind carrying my clubs and scoring steadily, except on the spectacular, brutally undulating 17th. We all had a wonderful time. After lunch, Rod and John negotiated a reduced price second round with some difficulty and headed out again, while I drove west to little Lisselan, Ireland’s quirky six hole secret. That, anyway, was what I expected but infact, what I found was that a tight six had evolved into an expansive nine. The Lisselan Estate comprises a mid 19th Century French chateau-style house surrounded by richly exotic gardens. When David Blackburn, a major player in Mitsubishi Europe, bought it in 1990, he devised a compact six pack on sloping terrain along the Argideen River, with one of three par 3s in his garden. Though short, his immaculately prepared pay and play course – €16 for 18 holes – was no pushover, especially the par 5 fifth, which crosses the river twice, once off the tee and once onto an island green, which is accessed by a self-operated ferry. On a golden evening, I asked the lone player how he was getting on.“You need a lot of golf balls”, he replied economically. I found Ross Jonas, a self possessed 15-year-old with a

Birmingham accent, in sole charge of the bar-less clubhouse. He readily explained the revised layout, with the original six holes reduced to four, the Blackburn lawn restored to its original purpose and five extra holes added further up the hill. Much further up a very steep hill, as I discovered when he took me on a tour of inspection after he shut up shop. Cut through mature woodland, the new holes run parallel both to each other and to the line of the heavily cambered slope, creating an obvious hazard in dry conditions – happily fairly rare in these parts. The star is the monster 4th/13th, a 593yd arc along the top of the hill. Played twice from different tee boxes, the course presents a severe test, not least for the leg muscles, and there are more improvements to come as the newly formed Lisselan Golf Club gets into its stride. Building the bar would be an obvious place to start. Driving ever westwards into the setting sun, I rattled up the drive to Bantry House at dusk. Built in 1720 and bought 30 years later by Richard White, the first Earl of Bantry, the mellow pile overlooking the bay is impossibly grand for a B&B. Although the earldom fell victim to a matriarchal line a Century ago, the house is still in the family, currently headed by Egerton Shelswell-White, who works tirelessly to preserve its moneydevouring infrastructure for his heirs. The bedrooms are

Travelling Golfer Cork

enormous and it’s not often you get breakfast impeccably served by an almost Earl, let alone a top Irish fry cooked by his Swedish wife, Brigitte. What better preparation could there be for an assault on Bantry Bay, self styled as ‘West Cork’s finest championship course’. As there are only three courses in West Cork, this may well be true, but it certainly doesn’t put it up there with the great classic tracks. Don’t miss it though because this is fine tourist golf, as good a €45’s worth as you’ll find anywhere in Ireland. The views over the mussel beds in the bay are spectacular, the fairways are invitingly wide and the challenge of getting the ball to stay on some of the sloping greens is ever present. Several are so steeply raked that three-putting is hardly the usual disgrace. The first five holes allow you to get into your game before you tackle the heart of the matter, the middle nine that take you up and out along the coast, then down and back again. The terrain is windswept and cambered, with lakes on several of the holes, but the aspect is generally open. Beware of allowing it to lull you into a false sense of security before you hit the ballswallowing card-wrecking home stretch, marked by narrower fairways cut through dense woodland set back from the sea. Be sure to allow time for a sundowner in the 19th, a sleek millennium building with a terrace overlooking the sea. Bantry Bay Golf Club started out as a wild nine holer with a single storey clubhouse back in 1975. I’m sure it always welcomed visitors warmly. It certainly does today. WG

The bedrooms are enormous and it’s not often you get breakfast impeccably served by an almost Earl, let alone a top Irish fry cooked by his Swedish wife, Brigitte.

Sugar and spice and all things nice. Mauritius is like a pretty girl in a summer dress. Beautiful in countenance, charming in manner and nearly always well behaved. A holiday in our lovely island is an experience youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll treasure for ever. Some of the very best hotels in the world are in Mauritius. The cuisine is sensational and varied. The people are truly the most friendly and hospitable anywhere. You can relax by our many uncrowded white sandy beaches, swim or snorkel in our warm southern seas or participate in every conceivable water sport. Most are free. The more energetic can always trek in the wild mountainous

interior, play golf on challenging courses, ride horses or work out in the modern well designed hotel gyms. Other diversions include shopping for designer clothes and exquisite duty-free jewellery, wandering in the colourful local markets or watching horses race on the oldest race course in the southern hemisphere. And its never been easier to get here, with nine wide-bodied jets leaving Heathrow each week. All flights are non-stop and visas and vaccinations unnecessary. So to ensure an experience youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll treasure, visit our website, write or call us during office hours. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be so pleased to hear from you.

For Booking E-mail: mtpa@btinternet.com www.mauritiustourism.co.uk Mauritius Tourism, 32 Elvaston Place, London SW7 5NW. Tel 00 44 (0) 207584 3666

Elected

Golf Resort of the Year excluding North America and Europe

For more information phone (44) 020 7235 3245. Visit www.constancehotels.com. Email : lylie@masonrose.com

Lie of the ball

INDOOR GOLF CLUB This summer, in the unlikely venue of Coleman Street, running between London Wall and the Bank of England, City Golf and Health Clubs will open an indoor golf club. The Club will comprise a gym – not just a jog and flog arena but a dedicated bio mechanical/cardio vascular golf training unit. Along with six full swing simulators, six video training systems and a liberal dosing of PGA professionals, who will also be available to “offer one to one biomechanical golf training to members”. Unlikely though it may seem in such a biomechanical environment, there is a bar which means the club will be also available for corporate entertainment. City Golf and Health are planning to open similar facilities in Manhattan, Hong Kong and Shanghai. So where did Manchester go wrong? www.citygolfclubs.com

“OK, SO WHERE DO I PARK?” The young lad in fluorescent clothing might have had several ideas but we eventually agreed on a tree, alongside the East Course.

And it was still leaning up against the tree as I finally turned to leave. “Nice bike. I had one when I was a lad.”

Wentworth. On a wonderfully sunny morning, the home, for these four days at least, of the BMW PGA Championship. Perhaps I should have turned up in a 7-series, the Chris Bangle inspired monster that reduces such a machine as my own to the realms of Postman Pat. Still, it seemed my tried and tested 45 year-old Triumph Bonneville was nonetheless fairly welcome, resplendent now against the impressive real estate and waves of flowering rhododendrons native to the neck of the woods in Surrey. And even if I’d left the 7-series at home in my dreams, BMW were charm itself. A tented village, which might have rivalled Kubla Khan. Hospitality lounges that, rather than putting it to shame, might as easily have put the Ritz to the test. And a General Manager of Sports Marketing, one Peter Walker, who quietly points out that BMW are very much at the top of the sporting tree. Formula One. The America’s Cup. And, of corse, Wentworth. And good luck to them. I just hope the speed of Beemers, racing cars and sailing can rub off on the likes of Els, Faldo, Montgomerie and Woosnam, who take more time making a putt on the eighteenth than you and I spend doing number eight across. Seven and ten. A victory for a motorbike in a beautiful French town.

Clearly someone with taste. The big Beemers, Wentworth 2005, the planet’s great golfers et al. A wonderful day in the early summer. But I still raise a glass to the Triumph designers of the 60s, who forgot to put a silencer on the Bonneville. www.bwm.com

Journalist

The WRITES and WRONGS THE STYLE OF HENRY COTTON, THE WIT OF NOEL COWARD AND THE LIFE OF O’REILLY. MEET A REAL GOLF WRITER. PHOTOGRAPHY: KEVIN PILLEY AND WITH THANKS TO THE HALF MOON HOTEL

Journalist

itting on the beach, I had a bottle of ‘Veuve Clicquot’ chilling in an ice-bucket at my side and a ‘Bloody Mary’ already inside me. The only thing lying in front of me was deciding what I was going to have for dinner. I stared out at the Caribbean for inspiration. I felt the sun on my face and tried to relax as a pretty waitress and Halle Berry looka-like gently kneaded more coconut oil into my shoulders. A golf writer’s life is a very stressful one. It is fraught with many problems and dilemmas. They are mainly artistic. And mostly linguistic. The layman does not realise the burdens a writer must bear or the considerable stress he works under. The professional writer must constantly wrestle with his Muse. He must tussle with the English language every minute of every day. He must choose his words carefully. There is a world of difference between ‘Smoked marlin’ and ‘Jamaican lobster’. Every moment of every golf writer’s working day is a literary challenge. What may sound easy is usually the fruit of lengthy soul-searching. For instance, it can take me an hour to come up with such naturalistic phrases as,“My champagne bottle seems to be empty” and convincing dialogue like,“May I have a fresh jeroboam of bubbly, please.“ Is a golf journalist to be envied? Is his life enviable? I don’t think so. Generally, it is Hell. We suffer for our art. You would not want my job if you’ve ever had ‘Freelance Golf Writer’s Block’. For five long days in Jamaica just before Christmas I stared out to sea and wondered how to describe it. It was agony and I began to doubt my own powers of expressiveness. ‘Azure’ sounded all right. But then again so did ‘cobalt’. ‘Turquoise’ too. I was in turmoil. And, to make matters worse, my deadline was less than two months away. You have got it all wrong about me. And people like me. Ours is not a glamorous or privileged life at all. Although there are moments of consolation, such as a life entirely free of green fees, we golf writers are not all Lotus Eaters. It’s a very hard work the job requires special gifts. Like having a high tolerance threshold for luxury five-star hotels. And being able to cope with winter-time temperatures of over 90ºC. As a golf writer, I am paid to travel the world and bring back my impressions about places for my readers. The soap from my room I bring back for my wife. On my last trip I had to go to Jamaica and stay in the ‘Half Moon Hotel’ in Montego Bay. It was a terrible ordeal. It is one of the finest hotels in the world and they refused to let me pay for anything. I had my own ocean-front Royal suite, a boy to ferry my ‘Red Stripe’ and a girl to break open the champagne. I was a VIP. They rolled out the red carpet. They made it easy for me. It is easy to say something is great value when it costs nothing. It is hard not to say a course is great when you are let on free. It’s called ‘being objective’. Everything in Jamaica was on the house. Everything was ‘comped’. And all I was expected to do in return was to play golf and make some flattering remarks about the place. They treated me like royalty hoping that I would say nice things about their bunkers. And attract trade.

I STARED OUT AT THE CARIBBEAN FOR INSPIRATION. I FELT THE SUN ON MY FACE AND TRIED TO RELAX AS A PRETTY WAITRESS AND HALLE BERRY LOOK-A-LIKE GENTLY KNEADED MORE COCONUT OIL INTO MY SHOULDERS.

Journalist

That is a terrible responsibility to have. The weak often crack up and become teachers. Being a globe-trotting golf writer has many other drawbacks. They are called ‘People’. Witless marketing types, trying to sell their golf holidays, take you to dinner and you have to nod at them as if the frenzy of trivial endeavour that is their daily lives exerts a powerful fascination over you. Whereas, throughout the meal, you are shrieking obscenities inside your head at them. Other golf writers are another drawback. Frequently you have to go on a press trip. Otherwise known as a junket, a jolly, a freebie – or a swanny. This comprises a group of hacks who can’t afford to stay at home and who are all supposed to be writing an article about the same destination. In reality, this means a fact-box at the end of the article containing vital toll-free reservations lines. We are all supposed to have a novel inside us. Most travel writers just have a fact-box. I like composing fact-boxes. I get great artistic satisfaction from getting Air Jamaica’s central reservation number just right. Or very nearly. But no literary work is ever perfect. And no piece of journalism is ever 100% accurate. Unless, of course, they bump you up to ‘Business Class.’ Publicity is, of course, a cheaper form of advertising. That’s why people in the travel industry employ people in the PR industry called a ‘travel account director’. This is someone who likes travel journalists for their editorial worth rather than personality. Their column inches rather than their IQs. The PR is sometimes called a ‘smile-on-a-stick’ and is usually a conversationally-impaired pseudo-aristocratic type with a face like a burst grape.

Her job is to pretend that the Earth is poorly publicised. Her company is paid a fortune to take hacks to far-flung places so they can spell them correctly and be able to describe the sea evocatively. Just as you pay a surveyor to tell you that the house you want to buy is really there so a PR invites a travel writer to remind the reading public that a country is there too. You don’t believe me? OK, let me take you on a recent press trip when I found myself in the West Indies, along with a posse of fellow golf writers. Not reporters. Note the distinction here. Reporters are proper writers who write brilliantly about other people playing golf brilliantly. Golf writers are mainly freeloaders who write badly about themselves playing golf badly. Only crude stereotypes go on press trips. And only archetypal crude stereotypes go on golf trips. And this trip was no different. Except for the PR girls. Usually you get the obligatory long-necked one in pearls accompanied by her nasal and very unmarried friend with cheap scent and strong opinions on ‘EastEnders’. The one who’s make up has been put on in a way to suggest she snogs clowns. They’re both invariably called Kitty, partly because that is how the writers see them and partly because it’s an easy word to spell. But ours weren’t like that. They seemed literate. The other schmoozers were the usual suspects. For some reason there’s always a very mauve man in roomy corduroys. Let’s call this one Charles. Despite his over-anxious conviviality, Charles was very likeable. Until he appeared for breakfast smelling of papaya, his hair covered in half-digested vegetable matter and his shirt denoting that he has spent the night on a speedway track.

Journalist

There is always one big drinker on any press trip and Charlie boy was ours. Which meant he got on very well with the selfappointed ‘wag’, whose comic repertoire consisted of imitating a walrus by putting chopsticks up his nose and staging western shootouts with two pork chops. The unfunny comedian and the mauve man have much in common. They have a penchant for not going easy on the beers. At some stage of any trip one, or both, will be caught on CCTV being violently sick into a potted palm. Then you have the old man who never speaks, implying that speech and perhaps life bores him. This time round, it was Jeff, who spent most of time staring at nothing with great intentness. The former editor of a once-respected provincial newspaper he now lives an equally lonely life in a caravan, his social life revolving entirely around conversation with the man who comes to empty his septic tank. And, finally, you have the ‘Master Blagger’. Over the years, he has amassed a covetable collection of airline razors and toothpaste, in-flight socks and tropically-inspired toiletries. Henry was easy to pick out. He had a complimentary golf ‘Polo’ shirt for every occasion. When we landed back at Heathrow, the police sniffer dogs checked him, not for drugs, but to see whether he had exceeded the allowance for mango re-plenishing moisturising cream or possibly trying to smuggle into the country somewhere about his person a trouser-press. Their obvious peculiarities apart, golf travel writers have three things in common. They all share an aversion to one sort of travelling – the sort that involves paying. They hate being mistaken for tourists. And they are useless at golf.

Just because you write about golf doesn’t mean you are automatically good at it. Just because you can talk and write a good game doesn’t mean you can play it. Recently, in Jamaica for example, I found myself teeing off at Cinnamon Hill in Montego Bay. My partner was the charming Canadian pro, Gary Slatter who normally has the patience of a saint, I’m sure, but it really wasn’t too long before the poor man was glancing furtively across at me, almost as if I was something Nostredamus had failed to warn the world about. For the four days on four wonderful courses – ’Tryall’, ‘The White Witch’, ‘Half Moon’ and ‘Ironshore’ – I did more damage than Hurricane Ivan. But my hosts politely ignored it in the hope that I would say how much I had enjoyed shooting 126. And how much the caddies had helped me. Once you know the sort of people golf writers are the more you can make sophisticated conclusions about their work. Once you know who is writing the article you are reading you can understand it much better. Knowing golf writers as I do, whenever I see the words ‘hardto-read greens’ I see a chubby, mottled face writing it and translate the text as ‘I have the shakes and my central nervous system is shot to bits by years of systematic pancreatic abuse.’ Whenever I see ‘unforgiving water features’ mentioned, I see a well-tanned, elder statesman but nicely-spoken man who barely plays off 36 and read, ‘24-hour-a-day life-threatening shanks mitigated by weeklong rum cocktails and unstinting all-inclusive hospitality’. ‘Strategically positioned traps’, I instinctively translate as ‘serial duck hooking’ and ‘breath-taking views’, I interpret as ‘many humiliating airshots’

Journalist

AS EVERY GOLF WRITER KNOWS, IT IS ESSENTIAL TO EAT AND DRINK A COUNTRY AND GENERALLY LARGE IT UP BEFORE YOU CAN EVEN START WRITING ABOUT IT. Golf journalists are not professional golfers. But, despite being exceptionally poor golfers, they do keep their readers in mind at all times. That is why it is essential when writing a golf piece to insist on going out deep fishing. And why it is vital to have a tennis lesson, do some scuba diving, swim with some dolphins, spend a whole day in the spa and all night in the local casinos and clubs. As every golf writer knows, it is essential to eat and drink a country and generally large it up before you can even start writing about it. And if the writer knows that, then so does everyone else. In Jamaica we asked one of our hosts what he recommended to eat. Looking us over, he suggested “some genuine jerk specialities.” It is an exhausting business being a golf writer. And it’s a much misunderstood and maligned profession, so please don’t run away with the idea that being a golf writer is a great job. Or any fun. It reads and looks much better than it lives. And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything. WG

Mallorca

Mallorca The Mallorcan Cold Cup

IT SNOWED, IT RAINED AND MALLORCA MIGHT HAVE HAD MORE IN COMMON WITH THE OUTER HEBRIDES, BUT IT TAKES MORE THAN THE WEATHER TO DENT THE PAN EUROPEAN TOURISM GOLF CUP. WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHY: DAVID WYKE

alking down the high street the other day, I noticed a poster in a Chinese restaurant window. ‘Book Early for Christmas.’ Now, unless they know something I don’t, it seems to me that there’s a good six months to go before the season of overindulgence and occasional goodwill hits us again.Which means that, good as their food might be and doubtless in great demand, it must simply be the case that it’s a hangover from winter that’s loathe to leave the stage. And, in the same spirit of thoughts of winter at the height of the summer, let me take you back to February and the Pan European Tourism Golf Cup. Taxiing towards the runway at Liverpool’s John Lennon Airport, the Easyjet pilot announced that temperature in Palma was –4°C and it was snowing. He later cheered up the entire planeload of passengers by announcing, as we crossed the Pyrenees, that the temperature had risen to –2°C, and the snow had “slowed down”. When we arrived in Mallorca, the airport was full of people shivering in their all-tooinadequate clothing, better suited to the 14°C temperatures of the previous week. For once, however, my wife had been right on with the packing and, having retrieved anoraks and gillets from our luggage, we then managed to persuade the car hire people that we could drive in the snow. The hotel was no more than a few miles away. About ninety minutes later we found it, having run foul of the fact that most of the population of Mallorca couldn’t drive in the snow. But still tried. That the road works near the cathedral meant the road went from three lanes to one without any warning. And that the hotel, “situated overlooking the marina with an entrance on the harbour road” was actually exactly where thy said it was. Only the entrance was closed. Happily, we did eventually find another one and very welcome it was too.

A final word about the snow. “First time since records began” became “first time in living memory”. The following day, the newspapers printed a picture of snow on the beach, taken in 1978. Either people don’t live very long in Mallorca, or something affects the memory. We were in Mallorca to cover the Pan European Tourism Golf Cup, a tournament designed to assist those people in the travel trade who play golf to enjoy the delights and attractions of the island and its twenty-one golf courses. Pity no one told whoever it is that controls the weather. Still, it made for interesting reading. Oranges on the trees, almond blossom and snow made for a fascinating first impression. The tournament itself attracted some two hundred and fifty players of golf. Most of them from Germany, with an additional mix of players from another eleven nations, including some British, Irish, Poles, Austrians, Belgians, Dutch and Italians. And a Hungarian. It is in its second year and looks like being a great success. The plan was for ten courses across the island to be used, although the weather had its say in just how much and how many of them actually got round to being played. Most, is probably the answer. Those courses deemed playable had, in fact, dried out very well during the first day, even if one or two of the greens were still a tad frozen for the earlier tee times. Day two of the tournament brought rain. Which I suppose was an improvement of sorts. Now I know rain, living as I do within splashing distance of Capel Curig, where six inches of the stuff fell in a twenty-four hour period not three weeks before we found ourselves in Mallorca. And here we were again. This was rain. Not the Mediteranean soft kiss of dawn type rain, nor the Scottish soaking mist type stuff. But real rain. Great sheets of cold, horrid, water that sought out all your nooks and crannies and seriously left you soaking.

Mallorca

It was at this stage that once I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself, I now began to feel sorry for the Tourism Cup. And clearly, this sudden flight of altruism had its effect for the rain slowed, stopped and suddenly gave way to weather that was fine, almost warm. We would later find that the rain had simply moved back to whence it had come. Liverpool. As it turns out, the golf seemed to be as varied as the weather. Players were of mixed ability, with a couple of scratch players, some low handicap players and the majority playing off anything between eighteen and twenty-six. However, we did have one or two some claiming – and being given – handicaps of forty-five. I thought this kind of practice went out with Ned Kelly. Over the two-day period of the tournament, I managed to visit most of the courses being played. The majority were hospitable, in as playable a condition as they might be, given the conditions, and, not surprisingly perhaps, not too busy. And, as the game always does, it brought its own delights. For example, the memory of a “mixed handicap” four ball teeing off. The first player away hit what was to have been an outstanding drive but which, sadly, barely made the ladies tee. Not to be outdone, one of his playing companions hit a drive that struck a tee, rebounded and finished up some twenty metres behind the tee. The third player, getting into the spirit of the thing, sliced a stunning drive of some one hundred and fifty yards onto the nearby parallel 14th fairway. And the fourth and final member of the quartet spoilt the whole farrago by hitting a straight drive of some two hundred yards.

Oranges on the trees, almond blossom and snow made for a fascinating first impression. Subsequent shots followed a similar pattern, the tree surgeon hitting another tree but this time rebounding onto the fairway.The player on the 14th hacking his way onward against the “traffic” actually coming down the same fairway. And the guy on the ladies tee hit a remarkable shot of some one hundred yards that barely flew more than six inches above the fairway for its entire length and narrowly missed taking the head off a duck, sauntering innocently across the fairway. Needless to say, the fourth member was by now out of sight, having played a perfectly good shot to the green. I decided to visit another course.

Mallorca

Another interesting example of skills on display was to be found that day when, braving the horizontal wind and rain, I happened upon a course near to the south-eastern corner of the island. In the bar, I found a number of players from an island to the west of Wales, who, having completed nine holes, looked for all the world like seals recently pulled out of the south Atlantic. Shivering, the benighted souls were busily engaged in some creative scoring for the back nine. This was in case it didn’t stop raining. Which it didn’t. They didn’t win any of the prizes. In fact, the prizes were won largely by members of the German contingent, who were very much in a majority at the splendid Pueblo Español, where the gala dinner was held and the prizes at last awarded. On balance, despite the weather and the occasional interesting umpiring decision, it’s fair to have deemed the Tourism Cup a success. Longmere’s Allan Pepper thought it a ‘great way to start the year’ which, considering it was February, puts him in a slightly different time-frame to the rest of us. Thanks are due to all concerned and, for my own part, I shall award myself a hearty pat on the back for having manfully resisted the temptation to strangle the very next person to come up to me saying “It’s all great fun but you should have been here last week. It was really sunny and warm.” WG

In the bar, I found a number of players from an island to the west of Wales, who, having completed nine holes, looked for all the world like seals recently pulled out of the south Atlantic. 65

USA Kentucky

STATE to be in

DANIEL BOONE FOUND IT BUT SEEMS TO HAVE KEPT QUIET ABOUT IT. TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY YEARS LATER, THE SECRET IS OUT. THE SECRET OF THE BLUEGRASS STATE. WORDS: NICHOLAS GRANT PHOTOGRAPHY: DAN STROHMEIER AND WITH THANKS TO THE KENTUCKY DEPARTMENT OF TOURISM

ay 1st, 1769. Six men stand at the edges of the legendary Cumberland Gap. The so-called ‘doorway to the West.’ A gaping hole made in the massive bulk of the Appalachian Mountains that range down the eastern flanks of America. At the men’s back, the sea-facing states of the Carolinas and Virginia. Ahead of them, Ken-tah-ten. The land of tomorrow. Kentucky. Among them was a man who, more than anyone else, would drive the exploration and development of the state. Daniel Boone. A legend of the American west. And the man who first coined what shall always serve as the mantra for all wannabee explorers. “I have never been lost but I will admit to being confused for several weeks.” Finding themselves at last in Kentucky, Boone and his companions were amazed by the sheer brilliance of the countryside. Apart from the odd Shawnee Indian taking pot-shots at them, they found a broad, colourful and peaceful countryside that teemed with buffalo and deer and offered vast tracts of land ideal for farming. Boone spent the next two years wandering round this ‘hunter’s paradise.’ Not that his wife, Rebecca, back in Pennsylvania, can have thought too much of that, although history records that she was ‘a very patient woman.’ Four years later, Boone was back, carving the Wilderness Trail through the mountains and tracking down to the very heart of the state. He brought his family, built a fort and a village and, being a modest man, promptly called it Boonesborough. Not that the Shawnees in general and Chief Blackfish in particular seemed to taken by this idea since, aided and abetted by the French, they immediately laid siege to the place.

‘The Great Siege’ lasted nine days and, as something of a tribute to Boone’s building skills, perhaps, the Boonesborough walls stood firm and the unhappy besiegers finally shouldered arms and went off back home. Sadly, where the Shawnees failed, the inexorable march of time succeeded. By 1820, Boonesborough had all but died as a community. And perhaps its memory would have faded entirely from the history books but for the intervention of the 21st Century. For Boonesborough has been reconstructed and, along with fifty-eight other sites, Daniel Boone’s settlement is now one of Kentucky’s acclaimed State Parks. And, at this point, let us introduce a second Daniel to the story. In many ways, as pioneering and as visionary as his eponymous predecessor and certainly his equal in his enthusiasm for the bluegrass state. “I’d say Kentucky’s unique. Wherever you go, you’ll find just some of the most beautiful views in the country. I don’t know. There’s a kind of magic. Kentucky’s, well…” Dan Strohmeier pauses for a moment. “Well, I guess the word is ‘rich.’ I just couldn’t wait to get back.” Boonesborough itself doesn’t have a golf course. Well, that’s not quite true. There’s an eighteen hole pitch-and-putt and, as attractive as it no doubt is, that wasn’t the lure that brought Strohmeier back from Florida. They might not have seen fit to grace Daniel Boone’s legacy with eighteen holes of championship golf but elsewhere in the state, there are thirteen full-blooded, grade A courses, six smaller but equally enjoyable nine-holers and three very small but perfectlyformed par-three tracks. Ranging from the magnificent to the merely graceful, these are the twenty-two courses of the

USA Kentucky

Kentucky State Parks. And these were the lure that brought Strohmeier back to his native state. “This is my home and just the thought of being able to come back here and work for the Commonwealth was just a great opportunity. And to be Director of Golf? Well, that’s when an opportunity just becomes a dream.” Strohmeier started off his professional life working in a bank. Well, somebody has to. Moving on after two years or so, he took his newly-learned commercial skills into the world of golf. “I was intrigued by golf as a business. I could see some twenty-seven thousand professional golfers out there, guys running their own business, day by day. Teaching, retailing, training, hiring staff, making a living. I knew I could get to like this business.” Four years in Ohio, five more in Florida. And now, Kentucky. And it’s a fair bet that Strohmeier’s hung up his travelling boots. And it’s not too difficult to see why. OK, so the day-to-day routines are probably much the same as they are in any corner of the management universe. Staff training. Inspection. Publicspeaking. Marketing. Media-handling. But the massive consolation prize at the end of the day is the sheer beauty of the place. “It’s just nature. Everywhere. Beautiful lakes, rolling hills, treelined fairways. I mean, when you walk down those fairways, or even just look across them…it’s just the magic of nature. And I just don’t think you can get that feeling anywhere else in the world. That Kentucky magic.”

“This is my home and just the thought of being able to come back here and work for the Commonwealth was just a great opportunity. And to be Director of Golf? Well, that’s when an opportunity just becomes a dream.”

USA Kentucky

“It’s just nature. Everywhere. Beautiful lakes, rolling hills, tree-lined fairways. I mean, when you walk down those fairways, or even just look across them…it’s just the magic of nature.

And even if Strohmeier is the Director of Golf, he’s right.There is a magic about Kentucky.The bluegrass State.The state flower might be the golfenrod, probably because there are more than thirty varieties of the plant to be found inside Kentucky’s fortyodd thousand square miles, but it’s the bluegrass that has always caught the imagination. Bluegrass means music. It also means Lexington, home to some of the world’s finest race horses. There have been the bad times. Caught in the Civil War between the Confederate south and the Yankee north, Kentucky, although allegedly neutral, hosted some of the most brutal fighting of that unhappy period of national bloodletting. A historical footnote made all the more ironic by the fact that both Abraham Lincoln and the Confederate President, Jefferson Davis, were born in the state, within one year and within one hundred miles of each other.

USA Kentucky

But that was then and the now is something quintessentially American. My Old Kentucky Home. The defining written tract by Stephen Foster and, just for good measure, also the name of one of the State Park golf courses. The Swanee River. Oh Susannah. I Would Not Die in Summertime. The titles, the words, the music. Even the covered bridges scattered across the countryside. It’s an old-fashioned America. But with a 21st Century vision. Each day, Strohmeier drives one hundred miles from his home in Louiseville to the office in Frankfurt and back again. Here it’s called misery on the M6. In Kentucky, it’s almost a pleasure. But it’s a journey that has given him thinking time and his conclusion is simple. “The biggest problem we have is to get the word out. OK, so it’s a fact that we built the courses to attract visitors. Sure, Kentuckians play them but we also want the out-of-state golfers. Mainly because, once they come here, they almost always come back.” What about the Brits? “Absolutely. For them, it’s almost a home from home. The people are friendly. The pace of life is easy. The scenery’s fantastic. It’s safe. It’s affordable. And it’s big enough. This is a big state with a load of room for everyone. And I mean everyone.” A million miles away from Strohmeier and the blue grasses of Kentucky, sitting in the immaculate lounge of Manchester’s Lowry Hotel, Randy Fiveash smiles. Fiveash is Mr. Kentucky Tourism. “It’s the best kept secret in the world. But I’ll tell you this, the word is getting out.” The rain splashes against the windows. Low, grey clouds sweep down from the distant Pennines. It is a welcome diversion to listen to ‘the word.’ Lodges. Lakes. Fishing. Walking. Mountains. Vast splashes of every colour you can imagine washing the rolling, gentle countryside. A world at peace with itself and its people. No wonder they dreamt up Bourbon in Kentucky. Fiveash paints a vital and compelling canvas and yet, no matter that he is the state’s Commissioner for Tourism, ‘the word’nonetheless rings true. And who said romance was dead? Two hundred and thirty-six years ago, Daniel Boone found the best kept secret in the world. And maybe Strohmeier and Fiveash are right. Maybe it’s now time for the world to share it. WG

It’s an old-fashioned America. But with a 21st Century vision.

USA Kentucky

Two hundred and thirty-six years ago, Daniel Boone found the best kept secret in the world.

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OSBORNE HOUSE L l a n d u d n o , N o r t h Wa l e s AA Welsh Hotel of the Year, 2004 rior to visiting Osborne House I met the proprietor, Elyse Waddy, at its sister establishment, The Empire Hotel, where she explained some of the background to the Osborne. Then I walked the 150 yards to Osborne House, stopped outside it to admire the view across Llandudno’s renowned promenade and entered a truly astonishing building and was quite unprepared for the elegance that confronted me. Elyse had warned me that it was “kind of quirky” and no one would argue with that point of view. But what quirks. From the minute you enter Osborne House you are transported into a cross between an English Country House of the Bertie Wooster era, a gentleman’s club, and a thoroughly modern townhouse/hotel. The discrete exterior belies a warm and inviting interior with Victorian fireplaces and furnishing that hark back to the long past age of elegance, but do not get to nostalgic, this small establishment has everything for the demanding businessman or woman. Each of the six fully air-conditioned and large suites is fitted with a wide screen TV and DVD player, a desk with telephone, fax and

modem point, but I am willing to wager that when you see the magnificent sea views, or enjoy the comfort of the kingsize bed, or the luxury of the Italian marble Bathroom then work will be the last thing on your mind. Each of the suites also has an ironing board, a safe, a refrigerator, tea and coffee facilities, in fact everything you could really wish for, and on the ground floor is a very well appointed bar and restaurant, both open to the general public. There is also a private residents lounge, which has a supply of DVDs and books for guests to borrow. Sadly there is no Jeeves. Residents can also use the facilities of the Empire Hotel including the indoor and outdoor heated pools, sauna and the beauty parlour. Osborne House is a largely undiscovered gem in a beautiful position on Llandudno promenade. It is discrete, private and yet offers all the comfort that you are likely to need, whether you visit on business, or pleasure. It is ideally situated for touring Snowdonia, or for just enjoying those special relaxing times associated with sheer indulgent pleasure. www.osbornehouse.com

Millar Low

The LOW down From the St Andrew’s coastline, Millar Low looks back, with affection to the more gentlemanly days of yore and, in particular, the golfer FREDDIE TAIT WORDS: MILLAR LOW

aving digested John L. Low’s reasons for his opposition to the introduction of the rubber-cored ball, it is tempting to wonder if the guttie ball era that he prized so dearly could, or should, be regarded as the first – or last – period of a purer golf than known today. A game played to simple, straightforward rules, by individuals giving their maximum effort, without having to consider any commercial incitement to improve their game. And, if the word can be used without any disparagement, maybe the dominating influence might then have been labelled as ‘gentlemanly.’ Let me look back a little more closely at those fascinating fifty years. The guttie balls were fairly consistent in their quality and offered the golfer a minimum of assistance. Accuracy, rather than distance, was at a premium and the top players had found that the swing that served them best was a controlled, rhythmic movement, producing a spectacle that satisfied the eye of even the most critical spectator. To select a name from what was a broad panel of experts may seem unfair but the story of the Edinburgh military man who played his golf at St. Andrew’s, becoming their favourite son, is worth re-telling, not only to emphasise his skill on the links but also the consistent and universal popularity that his approach to the game inspired in so many Scottish golfers. Both during and long after his all too short life. Freddie Tait’s example lasted well into the 1900s. He played the game well but is remembered as someone whose life, his contemporary, Andrew Lang, described as ‘one of real beneficence, bringing sunshine wherever he appeared, a reflection of his own considerable happiness, his strong, friendly face and honest eyes, full of goodwill.’ Freddie Tait had always wanted to join the Army. Having done so, he enjoyed the life and was a successful officer, eventually winning the posting to the Black Watch, on which he

PHOTOGRAPHY: SIMON EVERETT

had set his sights. Because of his all-round sports ability, taking in rugby and cricket, as well as golf, he was offered a staff physical training course. However, he already elected to go overseas with his regiment, hopefully to India. In the event, they went to South Africa to fight in the Boer War. There, Tait was wounded. He recovered, went immediately back into action and was killed at Magersfontein in February, 1900. Aged thirty. Many letters of genuine and sincere sympathy were received by his parents in Edinburgh from people he had met at all stages of his life. All spoke highly of his personal qualities, as well as his golfing skills, each echoing the tributes from his own club, the Royal and Ancient, where his portrait still hangs in a place of honour. He was a regular letter writer to his family and, through his writing, we have some of his thoughts that played such an important part in his life. In 1888, he was attending Edinburgh University, with a view to applying to Sandhurst, but spent all his summer holidays at St. Andrew’s, where his golf started to develop into a serious game. He played regularly with Old Tom Morris and, on one occasion, sought consolation from the great man after something that had happened earlier in the day. Tait’s driving had been off-line and he’d hit a passer-by on the head, the ball going straight through the poor man’s hat.To buy a replacement, Tait had had to part with five shillings from his student’s pocket money. Old Tom, who knew him well, wasn’t over-sympathetic. He offered some brief advice on controlling the drive and then added, ‘Aye, Master Freddie. Ye may be verra thankful that it’s only a hat and no’ a coffin you had to pay for.’ His scores at St. Andrew’s gradually improved and he played regularly in competitions, with scores ranging from the midseventies to the high eighties. However, in 1894, he broke the Old Course record with a 72. He was posted, with his regiment, to Barry Camp, next to Carnoustie. There, he played with the local professionals, Bob and Archie Simpson and, before he left,

Millar Low

In 1894, Freddie Tait broke the Old Course record with a 72.

he’d broken Archie’s course record. Again with a 72. Every round he’d played there had attracted at least a hundred spectators. With good reason. In that year of 1894, he won both the R&A Calcutta Cup, the Autumn Glennie Medal and finished first amateur in the Open Championship. Although having to work hard to mix a full sporting life with an army career, Tait’s golf continued to prosper and, in 1896, he won the St. George’s vase at Sandwich, the Amateur Championship and, in the Open itself, he finished third to Vardon and Taylor. Two years later, he went on the win the Amateur again. Over the next three years, Tait would go on to break many a course record and, in 1899, once again won the Calcutta Cup and the Glennie Medal. That year also included a 36-hole marathon against John Ball at Lytham St. Anne’s, described by a contemporary as ‘a match between two of the greatest golfers and finest sportsmen that the world has ever produced.’ Tait won by a hole. Within three weeks, he sailed for South Africa. Four months later, he was dead. Tait rarely wrote about his style. But what we do know is that he had very strong hands and wrists and this determined his method of playing his approach shots, the strongest part of his game. His was essentially the original ‘wrist’ shot, hardly appearing to swing into the stroke and rarely using a threequarter or even half swing. He was generally anxious about his putting and yet, he was regarded as the best putter of his day. He would stand, almost facing the hole, his body bent forward, as if in a position to start running. His hands followed well through, going ahead of the club-head after striking the ball. He putted with a lofted cleek, as he felt the lift gave him more control of the ball. He also used the wood putter but, later, tended toward the newer iron-head for his tighter games. His approach shot, with the strong wrist, he could play either as a short pitch or as a long run. Thus, it could be adapted to differing ground conditions. Driving, he was more of a ‘hitter’ than a ‘swinger.’ A ‘swinging hit’ seemed best to describe his action. A very slow take-away from the ball – a drawing away, rather than a swing. A brief pause until he felt

fully balanced. Then, feet, arms and hands moved forward with both power and graceful rhythm. As he had also learned to play the bagpipes, perhaps the two skills had something in common. Although he undoubtedly had a strong sense of humour, jokes do not often appear in his letters. Except once. He had heard, from a legal friend, a story he repeated in more than one letter and one that will bear repetition… An elderly Edinburgh lady had been brought to court for assaulting her husband, biting a chunk off his nose. The presiding judge remarked that it was most painful and disgusting but, as she did not appear to have any previous convictions, all he could do was to bind her over to keep the peace. She replied that she as very sorry but she couldn’t, as she had already given it to the cat. All in all, Freddie Tait was an attractive man – someone with whom we would all have enjoyed a round. A full, short but active life, having golf very much to its fore. Missed by his family and friends, we could do no better than to finish with the copy of a letter, echoing so many others, sent to his father from the St. Andrew’s Golf Club.

Dear Professor Tait, ire, through Andrew ’s Golf Club des The members of the St. . Tait and family, Mrs f, rsel you to der ten me, to respectfully are but in your time of sorrow. We their sincere sympathy Andrew ’s, to whom St old r dea of n me humble working men. Not ing apart from all other Freddie Tait was someth er golfer oth no of s was he so, for only by his golfing abilitie y possessed the t tha said be n eve it of this generation could given to ip which was so readily the love and hero-worsh your soldier son. Yours Most Respectfully, Alexander Milne, Hon. Sec.

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Australia Kooyonga Club

Finding

twins in

Australia IN THIS SECOND PART OF HIS STORY, WEST HILL’S INVETERATE GOLFER, KEVIN THOMAS, COMPLETES HIS SEARCH FOR HIS TWINS DOWN UNDER. WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHY: KEVIN THOMAS

o far, so good. My first kangaroo. My first games of golf down under and my first acquaintance with Aussies on their home turf. Three very different experiences and you couldn’t fault any of them. On now to Adelaide and the Kooyonga Club. Home ground of the late, great Sir Donald Bradman and approached, inevitably, by the Sir Donald Bradman Drive. Our partners were to be a former doctor to the South Australian cricket team, Dr. Clive Masters, and a pro tennis coach, Bill Jeffrey. Why is it that tennis players are so often good at golf? I teed off with Clive, a man with a fund of stories and a wealth of Aussie charm. So much so that, by the sixth, we were a hundred and one laughs to the good and three shots down. Which was a pity, since the match stakes had been set at twenty-six million dollars. Some holes later, Clive suggested a trip round the nearby Penfold winery. A very good idea and a timely shot to the system as we proceeded to then scramble our way towards a one-shot victory. A champion at Kooyanga and twenty-six million in the bank? Forget it. The stake turned out to be a lottery ticket. And no, it didn’t win. But what about the Don? Padding round the hallowed corridors of the clubhouse, I flicked through the pages of “Kooyonga, 1923 – 1983. The

Story of a Golf Club.’ Here, surely, I would find memories of the great man. Not a bit of it. Pages seventy-two and seventy-three made brief reference to a Don Bradman who played in the1951 Simpson Cup team. And that’s it. The club itself was no more revealing. Sir Don appears to have won the Captain’s Trophy in 1950 and again in 1966 but any other clues that one of the world’s greatest ever sportsmen might have passed this way were nowhere to be seen. But, when in doubt, go and find the Secretary. Kingsley Robinson couldn’t have been more helpful, calling on the Captain, Tony Oldfield, to add his four pennyworth. It was what I shall call an Adelaide afternoon. Sunshine, a few beers and stories of the Don. I think my favourite was one of Bradman in his later years when he prevailed upon Kingsley to raise his handicap to twentyseven. Kingsley duly obliged and, within a week, the Don had won at Royal Adelaide with fifty-seven points. Inevitably, the wombats in the press room were up in arms with the predictable nonsense of insidertrading, until it was pointed out that the competition allowed an extra shot for each year that the player was older than seventy. At the time, the Don was a remarkable eighty-five and even the press could work out that meant that he was given fifteen extra shots. Peace and quiet returned to the Adelaide fairways. Later, Kingsley and Tony showed me the locker Bradman had used for over fifty years. OK, so a locker’s a locker but, for a

Australia Kooyonga Club

21 degrees Celsius and clear blue skies. Did life ever come any better than this?

Australia Kooyonga Club

moment, I found myself standing in the presence of greatness. There may be no mention of him in the club’s records. No framed green caps or cricket bats hanging on the walls. But rest assured. The Don made this his golfing home. Small wonder that so many people from across the world tread the pilgrim’s path to Kooyonga. I’m told one of Michael Parkinson’s greatest regrets was that he never interviewed Bradman. That, I can understand. True to his word and, doubtless, still celebrating the memory of our victory, the following morning found us joining Clive on the promised visit to the Penfold winery. I can tell you that it’s in the hills above Adelaide. I can also tell you that it’s approached by a long, sweeping drive, lined with lavender bushes. But don’t press me too much on what happened next. Glass after glass of truly wonderful wines. All morning. And his spirit and enthusiasm for the chase undimmed, Clive then hurried us on to a local restaurant, armed with yet more bottles of something special to wash down the food. Oysters, I think. Followed by steak. Heaven knows how we made it to the airport. Fond, if somewhat hazy, farewells. A promise to meet again in England and all too soon, goodbye to Adelaide and hello Sydney, courtesy of Virgin Blue.

I teed off with Clive, a man with a fund of stories and a wealth of Aussie charm. So much so that, by the sixth, we were a hundred and one laughs to the good and three shots down. The Vibe Hotel sits in Albert Street, in the shadows of Sydney’s famous harbour bridge. Curious name, the Vibe Hotel. But then, this was Australia. Bob and I sat down to dinner in the Rocks, Sydney’s Soho-by-the-sea, the bridge to our left and the extraordinary Opera House to our right. Stunning. It’s probably the only word for it. It was here that sailors from the British First Fleet first set foot on Australia, way back in 1788 and frankly, they couldn’t have found a better place to set their collective feet.

Australia Kooyonga Club

The bridge intrigued me. Built in 1923 and complete with a plaque to all those involved in its construction and design. Despite a lifetime tinkering with my beloved Triumph Bonneville, I’m no engineer but I was in thrall to the magnificence of this vast mechanical achievement towering above me. I was almost jealous. I think I’d like to have had my name on that plaque. So much for the sight-seeing.Time for golf and a train-ride to Pymble, hidden away in the city’s northern suburbs and our fourth and last twinned club. 21 degrees Celsius and clear blue skies. Did life ever come any better than this? Apparently not, since we both played heroic golf with more of a flock than a scattering of birdies and we ended up all-square on the eighteenth. A couple of beers and back to The Vibe. Heaven. And I’d like to say that the next day was much the same. I’d like to but it wasn’t. Bob holed half a dozen titanic putts on some of the best greens in Australia and all my hard-earned money, won in Perth, was handed back with interest.

Small wonder that so many people from across the world tread the pilgrim’s path to Kooyonga. And that, sadly, was that. Bob left the next day and I followed twenty-four hours later. Sitting in the taxi, bundling through the Sydney traffic, en-route for the airport, I found myself turning over the past two weeks in my mind. What a great idea. What a truly great idea it had been. Great golf, great courses, great people. It may seem like a million miles away but if you haven’t played Australia, then don’t take my word for it. Just do it. “Can we go past Bondi?” “It’s not exactly on the way.” “I know. I’d just like to say I’ve seen it.” “Your call.” And there it was. Roughly one kilometre of sand, surf, sunshine and Australia taking time out. Much as I love the green acres of Surrey and much as I wanted to be home, there was a nagging feeling deep inside that was asking me how on earth I could turn my back on all this. “You going home?” “Afraid so.” “And are you coming back?” I smiled as the taxi now turned away from the beach and headed once more for the airport and the waiting Malaysian jumbo. The question didn’t need an answer. WG

Alec Bickerdike

In the

REAL WORLD THIS SUMMER, HALE GOLF CLUB IN CHESHIRE WILL HOST A TESTIMONIAL WEEKEND FOR THEIR PROFESSIONAL ALEC BICKERDIKE. FORGET THE TOUR. BICKERDIKE’S STORY IS A TIMELY REMINDER OF WHO THE GAME’S PROFESSIONALS REALLY ARE. WORDS: NICHOLAS GRANT PHOTOGRAPHY: ARCHIVE

was given my first set of clubs for Christmas. 1947.” McGregor? Spalding? John Letters? “No. They were made by a man called Tommy Stout.” Alec smiles at the memory. “He was a bus driver.” Now, as Tommy Stout hasn’t since found himself sitting alongside Old Tom Morris et al as one of the giants of the clubmaking business, it’s probably fair to say that he was better off sticking to the day job. But, having said that, it seems very much the case that it was Tommy’s collection of home-made niblicks and mashies that first set a young West Yorkshire lad on course for a lifetime in the game. “I’m not sure what I’d have done otherwise.” By the time he was nine, Alec was playing head-to-head with the members of Marsden Golf Club. His father, Alex, was the club professional and although Alec fondly remembers his father’s teaching as ‘a little oldfashioned,’ it clearly worked. “I remember one Sunday morning, I was supposed to be playing with this man called Popplewell. Anyway, the first tee was full, so old Popplewell starts up his motorbike, sticks me on the back and off we went to Woodsome Hall. So I must have been OK.” Modest, as ever. At the age of twelve, this OK golfer won his first Marsden tournament – the Founder’s Cup. Open to all-comers. And this in an age when there was no such golfing concept as ‘juniors.’ Golfing culture, later in the twentieth Century, would have labelled the young Bickerdike a prodigy, signed him up to a sizeable endorsement contract and bundled him off to the American College circuit to hone his game. But the world was a very different place back in the 1950s.

“I spent most of my time playing at Marsden. I couldn’t drive, so I didn’t really have much choice.” And National Service with the Duke of Wellington’s finest probably didn’t do much for his game. “I didn’t play for two years. When I joined up, I was down to three. When I left, I was lucky if I could hit the ball.” By now, the swinging 60s had arrived and the likes of Arnold Palmer were beginning to bring a new meaning to the word ‘professional.’ Not that the McCormack vision seems to have taken much of a hold in West Yorkshire, where young Alec was now starting to carve out something of a reputation for himself. In 1964, he won the HalifaxHuddersfield Championship, local headlines increasingly trumpeted the name ‘Bickerdike’ and the invitations to play for the County dropped through the letter box like confetti. Man does not, however, live by a Dunlop 65 alone and by 1967, married to June and with two children and a Mini to worry about, Alec finally turned professional. Crosland Heath. An 18-hole course circling round the Pennine hills to the west of Huddersfield. And where Alec was to be the resident professional for the next twelve years. Life at Crosland, complete with country cottage, would furnish the young Bickerdike family with many happy memories in the years to come but it was a curious introduction to the world of professional golf. Because they deemed that the Crosland job should have gone to an existing PGA member, the Association advised Alec that he couldn’t take part in any of their tournaments for the first five years of his appointment. Except, of course, the Open.

Alec Bickerdike

Curious, maybe. Counter-productive, certainly. Because, the five years over, Alec once again set about the business of making a name for himself – and most surely did, to which contemporary headlines can once again bear eloquent witness. Sitting behind his desk, some thirty years later, Alec can even now conjure up the names, the faces and the games of what was clearly a very special Bickerdike decade. And no memories, perhaps, are more fondly recalled than his appearances in the Opens of ’74 and ’75. Royal Lytham and Royal Birkdale. Gary Player and Johnny Miller might have emerged as the eventual winners but it’s unlikely that their smiles could be any broader than Alec’s in his recollection of those summer days. “I remember, at Lytham, someone asking why I wasn’t out practicing. I told him that, with all those people watching, I didn’t want to kill anyone.” On day one, Alec went out to record a seventy-four. “And then at Birkdale. Come the second day, I was up there with the leaders when we reached the twelfth. A fairly frightening par-3. I wanted to use a 7-iron. My caddie said a 6. I took the 6, plugged in a bunker and ended up with a seven on the card and that was the end of that. Mind you, I must have done something right. There hadn’t been a drop of rain all summer and on the way home, it poured down.” Lytham, Birkdale, Yorkshire Open Champion 1979, PGA Cup Team reserve, 1979 – the 70s were good for Alec, a tradition he carried through into the 80s, becoming a full member of the

Alec Bickerdike

PGA Cup Team and winning The Leeds Cup, the Wansbeck Classic and The PGA Northern Order of Merit in 1982. And if time was moving on, so too was Alec, firstly to the Manchester Golf Club, then Tunshill and finally, to Pappenburg in Germany – which might well have seemed an unlikely choice at the time, since they only had eleven members, there wasn’t a course and they wanted someone who spoke fluent German. Not that such trifles would ever trouble a lad from West Yorkshire and, by the time Alec and June left some four years later, Pappenburg was well and truly on the golfing map. The Seniors’ Tour beckoned. Originally the brainchild of Hedley Muscroft and then swallowed up by the European PGA, the Seniors provided a welcome reminder that there is indeed life after fifty. For five years, Alec played the circuit with enthusiasm and no little success but, ultimately, found himself having to retire gracefully from the cut and thrust. A recurring eye problem was the cause. For the average hacker, glasses aren’t an issue. For the tournament professional, they’re about as handy as a plastic putter. “But I was lucky.”The Yorkshire smile as broad as ever.“My old friend, Mike Grantham, called me out of the blue to say he was going back to Germany and would I be interested in talking to Hale?” And the rest, as they say, is history. Looking back, it’s difficult to believe Alec would have ever had it any other way. Despite appearances, life as a professional golfer is never going to be an easy option. Even the phenomenon that is Tiger Woods must have sometimes rued his decision not to pursue a rather easier career as a brain doctor. “But I couldn’t have done anything else. If it hadn’t been for golf, I might have been slaving at a machine.” The smile briefly disappears at the thought. “And I know it’s sometimes been a struggle but there’s always been fresh air. And you can’t put a value on that.” True. Nor can you put a value on the worth of professionals, such as Alec Bickerdike, not only to the game of golf but also to the clubs they represent. “Hale? Fantastic. One of the best clubs I’ve ever worked at. And the members are great.” Alec, it cuts both ways. Have a great day. WG

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CLUB RULES

To the non-golfer, a club is a cold, impersonal lump of metal with some bits attached to it. However, as one who has paid a great deal of money for them over twenty-five years, ALLAN PEPPER begs to differ.

n the 1930s, a professional by the name of Ky Laffoon played the US Tour. There were those who no doubt thought Ky a trifle eccentric, since, had the thing not played as well as it might, he was wont to tie his putter to the back of his car before travelling on to his next tournament. This was simply to teach it how to behave and to demonstrate who was the boss in their relationship. Believe me, far from being a sandwich short of a picnic, this guy was onto a good thing. Laffoon was an early trailblazer in the art of managing one’s beloved sticks and of deriving the maximum performance from them. Initially, I guess, a golfer’s relationship with a particular club can be likened to a relationship with a more obviously human partner. Take the phenomenon of love at first sight, for example. You see this vision from afar.They’re either in the pro-shop or in the pub, depending on which side of this analogy you’re sitting. You stroll over, nonchalantly, to investigate further. You notice that your heartbeat has perceptibly risen a notch or two. The thought is beginning to hit you that this could be the one. The one with whom you’re going to spend the rest of your days. The one that will be by your side through the summer, autumn and winter of your life, until the sun finally sets over the fairways. I know, I know. But there’s nothing wrong with a bit of poetic licence from time to time. So, the furtive glancing over and the first acquaintance made, the first date is arranged.

Allan Pepper

This, my golfing friends, is the start of the proverbial honeymoon period.

Staying with the human analogy for a moment more, the small talk is now hitting a few short irons on the practice ground, by way of warming up. All the while ignoring The Gleaming One that you could swear is winking at you. Seductively. The evidence is that this warm-up period will last for precisely two shots before lust, desire and red-hot passion take over even the most disciplined golfer. There are such people apparently. Before you can say Tiger Montague, the ball’s on the peg and the brand new big stick is in the Vardon interlocking grip of its new soul-mate. Strangely, the evidence is also there to prove that the very first shot with a new driver – even for the golfer standing on one leg with eyes closed and the wrong side of several pints of Fullker’s finest – will invariably scream off the centre of the clubface to go long, straight and true. Oh dear, another victory for consumerism. This, my golfing friends, is the start of the proverbial honeymoon period. Once the folding stuff’s been handed over, the new owner – sorry, partner – won’t let their new sidekick out of their sight. The most extraordinary breakthrough in the history of golfing technology will be driven home – on the passenger seat, naturally – and will enjoy pride of place in the lounge.The head-cover will be laid to one side and there will no doubt be a spot of indoor waggling. And incredibly, the traditional evening bottle of wine may remain unopened. Possibly from a sense of wonder, possibly from a newlydiscovered commitment to performance. I have a drinking and a golfing buddy who runs a large property development company. What’s his most repeated tale in the pub over the last few weeks? That latest deal on the Costa del Sol? The Docklands apartment development? No. It’s actually the endless story of his first full round with his brand new driver and the beautiful sound it makes whenever Titanium makes contact with Balata-substitute. For legal reasons, I am currently unable to name the specific make and model but if interested manufacturers would like to contact me by e-mail, I would be delighted to give them details of my home address, to which all demo drivers can be dispatched. This will, of course, allow me to reveal the actual identity of the club in due course.

Back to the Wondrous One. The first couple of rounds are journeys of energetic exploration, barely-contained excitement and wild exaggeration. You can’t believe how far it went. Absolutely straight.Tiger himself would have been chewing the carpet. And so on. You’ve heard it all before and if you come across one standing in the bar, you make your excuses and leave. Happily, all good things come to an end and, for many, it isn’t too long before the brand new relationship begins to cool. The absolutely straight-down-the-middle-drive takes on more the characteristics of a banana. The extra thirty yards takes the ball thirty yards further into the rubbish on the right. And before too long, the wretched thing, far from being coddled on the passenger seat, is left in the rusty bowels of the dressing-room locker with a soaking cover clamped over its head.

Allan Pepper

Were a cynical non-golfer to look at this crisis point in a golfer’s relationship with his club, the straightforward answer would be a productive, if expensive, series of lessons with the local pro. This, however, would be altogether too obvious for the true golfer. For him and for her, mercifully, help is at hand in the form of an even more Wondrous One coming onto the market and available for immediate purchase. And it is at this point that I can reveal the ideal method – the Pepper Plan, if you like – of putting the Wondrous One back into perfect working order. Buy a new one and condemn the old to the tried and tested Naughty Cupboard technique. If there is a better way than the NC technique to get your drive back onto the fairways and close to the green, then it should be patented, bottled and sold at reputable sports shops. But don’t tell the pro, since they tend to get a bit liverish at any suggestion of losing revenue. Simply put, take the offending driver, remove its head-cover and then put the thing into a cold cupboard, garage corner or garden shed. Make sure it doesn’t get any light and refuse it any contact with any living creature. Apart from very large spiders, of course, which should be encouraged. And the result of all this? When finally freed from the NC, you’ve now got one very relieved and eager-too-please driver, more than willing to keep your ball on the short-cut stuff for evermore.

The NC technique, I should add, works so well that my advice would be to keep at least one of your drivers in the NC on a rotational basis. Just in case. For more advanced users of the NC, the technique can also be adapted for other clubs, putters in particular. Apart from my brand new belly putter which, of course, will never let me down. But beware. There can never be more than one club in the NC. Otherwise, they all start to talk to each other and develop a deep-rooted common hatred for all human golfers. Believe me, this is true. Only the other day, I heard voices that told me so. So, raise a glass to old Ky Laffoon. Like I said. A trailblazer. And had he gone on to become a sports psychologist in later years, instead of playing golf, who knows? He might have been laffoon all the way to the bank. WG

Switzerland Geneva

ON A

SWISS Roll ORSON WELLES DIDN’T GIVE THE PLACE MUCH OF A PRESS BUT THERE’S MORE TO SWITZERLAND THAN CUCKOO CLOCKS AND CHOCOLATE. THERE IS, FOR EXAMPLE, SOME VERY FINE GOLF TO BE HAD. WORDS: MINTY CLINCH PHOTOTGRAPHY: MINTY CLINCH AND WITH THANKS TO THE SWISS TOURIST BOARD

stood on the first tee and contemplated an uncertain future. Ahead of me, a manicured fairway rolling away into the distance. Behind me, the secretary of the Geneva Golf Club, hands on hips, waiting expectantly. I’d had to talk a good game to get on this dauntingly exclusive course. Now I would have to deliver. Duffer’s panic doesn’t get much worse than this. As my playing partner struck his ball straight and true, two women members walked out of the clubhouse wheeling their trolleys. Dressed for golf in suede and cashmere, they greeted the secretary warmly, their immaculately made up faces breaking into neat smiles. He had no option but to turn and talk to them. Seizing the moment, I scuttled forward and teed up my ball. So, there is a God… The Geneva Golf Club, located in the leafy suburb of Cologny in the wealthiest part of a very wealthy town, caters mainly for diplomats and financiers. The clubhouse is impressively large and white, set among banks of bright flowers. The course was designed by the senior Robert Trent Jones in 1972, a time when Switzerland had very few golf facilities.

With money no object and expansive views over Lake Geneva, it had everything going for it. More than thirty years later, it is a mature layout with dog legs and trees in awkward places and enormous greens, including an Old Course style double at the 9th and 18th. High scoring requires a strategic game plan and the skills to execute it, but no expense spared preparation reduces the scope for valid whingeing. If you can’t play on green velvet, you probably can’t play at all. Unless you know a member, you literally can’t play at all at Domaine Imperial, a Pete Dye track on a promontory near Nyon on Lake Geneva. By way of agreeing with its rating as the best course in Switzerland by the usually accurate Peugeot Guide, it often treats requests for tee times from passing strangers with contempt. As I was one of those passing strangers, I can only say that the Guide praises it for being walkable, technical, impeccable and, above all, American. If these things appeal, track down your club member, which may not be as difficult as you might expect. I found mine in St. Moritz, a civilised and charming Swiss who said he’d take me to Domaine Imperial any time. The only problem was I’d run out of time.

Switzerland Geneva

Where Domaine can be a trifle aloof, Lausanne, an equally prestigious but more traditional private club a few miles to the east, is endearingly friendly. From the moment you arrive in this peaceful corner in the hills above the lake, everyone goes out of their way to make you feel at home. The spacious clubhouse remains comfortably retro, but the course has been extensively redesigned since it opened in 1931. The terrain unfolds over wooded hills, the fairways often narrow, the shots often blind, so you may need some luck to score well at the first attempt. As is the modern custom, refurbishment has incorporated deeper greenside bunkers, imposing a need for accurate lob shots rather than soft option chips. So much for top golf in the Lake Geneva region. Green fees are in the CHF130-150 bracket, not expensive for the quality delivered but probably rather more than many holiday players want to pay. Historically, cost conscious Swiss joined more modestly priced clubs over the French border, notably Divonne and Evian. However, times are changing fast. Switzerland may still be awaiting a breakthrough high profile tour player, but stirrings of interest in the game at grass roots level have created some newer cheaper options, especially in the densely populated Geneva region. Of the clubs I visited, Lavaux, in the foothills above Lausanne, is the most impressive. No one will come on this pastoral hideaway by chance, but the narrow hairpin bends up from the lake are forgotten the moment you get out of the car. Although it only opened in 1999, the place has an established feel to it. Already it is very much a member’s club, a chatty relaxed refuge from the turmoil and traffic jams that characterise the ribbon development along the northern shores of Lake Geneva. The oblong Lac de Bret never comes into play, but it forms an attractive boundary, especially for the massive 557m, par-5 twelfth which runs alongside it. The clubhouse is ‘faux’ chalet, but intelligently designed, with terraces that make the most of spectacular views of the Jura range to the north. Peter Harradine’s well judged course avoids the straight up and straight down trap. Given finely tuned challenges involving doglegs, unruly stands of trees in awkward places, fairways with hostile slopes and large lakes, there is no danger of boredom or complacency, though every possibility of a disastrous

Switzerland Geneva

scorecard. Best buy lots of balls and keep the 19th in mind if things should go wrong. Signal de Bougy, owned by the Migros supermarket chain and located to the west of Lausanne, is the first public course in Switzerland. The initial, ferociously cambered nine holes that straggle down the steep hillside toward Lake Geneva have now been uneasily mated with a flatter characterless loop surrounded by impenetrable rough. Even allowing for immaturity, the result can be something of a dogâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dinner of a golf course, but as pay and play is the best way of opening up the game to a wider clientele, the concept at least should have many imitators. Appropriately, there is great emphasis on tuition, with an eighty-five bay driving range, two short game areas, two putting greens and indoor facilities for video analysis. By comparison with Lavaux, the clubhouse lacks sophistication, with a cafeteria rather than a restaurant, but again the welcome could not be faulted. And itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a beautiful country. Orson Welles might have chuntered on about cuckoo clocks and chocolate but frankly, he was missing the point. The Swiss landscape is one of the very few in the world that simply exudes vitality. Towering mountains, glorious pine-covered hillsides, brilliant colours and contours, both natural and man-made. And if the mountain chalets do look like cuckoo clocks, then so what? Their singularity simply adds to the charm of the place. Castles pepper the hillsides, each one with its own story to tell. A land of fairy-tale, which somehow seems appropriate for golfers.

Switzerland Geneva

For our climactic tournament against a team of French golfers, we opted for genuine Alpine conditions in Villars, a chic resort on a sunny shelf with distant views of Mont Blanc across the Rhone Valley. When you ski over the course in winter, it seems seductively gentle, much of it beginner territory, with the occasional intermediate blast, but in summer, it reinvents itself as a searching, and at times brutal, test of mountain golf. On the early par 4s, which are both short and relatively flat, you may well be lulled into a false sense of security. Was it necessary to hire a cart? Will I break 90? Or even 80? As the hills get steeper, the fairways narrower and the views ever more spectacular, it becomes clear that the answers to these questions are yes and no. At the par-3, 17th, we passed players who had dared to walk sitting on a bench. Ostensibly they were looking at the scenery, but their scarlet faces and slumped posture gave the game away. This is definitely a buggy course. And the back nine will deal with any illusions of golfing grandeur. Hook the ball and it’s over the precipice. Slice it and it disappears into high altitude rough that is no less dangerous, even if looking like a film set for Heidi. Hit it even slightly off the perfect line and it’s a goner. Hit it short and it’s swallowed up by bright summer flowers. A no-win situation? Happily not for Team UK, who heroically overwhelmed their traditional rivals to bring the trophy home. Triumphalist winners and sporting losers celebrated together far into the night, initially in the clubhouse, which has an excellent restaurant that is open all the year round, and then in the bar of the Hotel du Golf, which lives up to its name as one of the best billets in town. Much later still, we finished up at Gringo’s, a club with a quality dancing pole on a raised plinth and a high tolerance for exhibitionists who like to strut their stuff on it as the sun rises over the mountains. Provided you don’t have to play the next day, golf doesn’t come much better than this. WG

Lake Geneva Region.

Villars, Lake Geneva Region

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19 Green

Tales from the 19th Green

KENTUCKY GOLF MEMORIES, THANKS DAD WORDS: R. DAVID SHEW

R. David Shew is now the CFO of The Axcess Group. a Texas-based marketing and media company. He still takes his clubs back to Kentucky to relive old memories, every chance he gets. s I grew up playing golf with him and working for him at the local newspaper, my Dad was always giving me advice. Not the heavy stuff. More just tips really. On how the world worked, how to deal with folk and yes, how to play the noble game. Dad worked for a small newspaper chain and, during the summer of 1970, he moved my family from northern Alabama to Richmond, Kentucky. The Bluegrass State. Dad said that it was a chance for me to meet some new friends and hustle somebody else on the golf course. Dad first taught me how to play golf when I was five years old. I seem to remember that he told me I was “always going to be one of the smallest individuals in my age group growing up” but that golf was a game where I could “learn to compete with everyone, play a lifetime, learn respect for others as well as Mother Nature, meet a lot of people and make some good friends while doing business.” Just another tip but Dad was right on target. I had three brothers and, along with Dad, we made a nice foursome during those early stages of my golfing career. Moving to Kentucky, my brothers were now in college and suddenly not very interested in playing golf. Undeterred, Dad joined the Madison Country Club and, needless to say, I followed suit. The MCC, as the locals dubbed it, was only a nine-hole track, but the clubhouse was awash with fascinating people who had fun, drank whatever and bet on anything that moved, from their golf game to cards, dice, football and basketball. And even if was going to rain.

Tales from the 19th Green

This game of chance worked most of the time and I enjoyed it thoroughly when they wanted to play for “big” money.

Richmond and the MCC were unique to say the least and, as ever, Dad was there to hand out the odd piece of advice. For example, “David, it’s probably a good idea to get out now before the President has you escorted out.” At the time, Dad was President and his son had, once again, found out what made Milwaukee famous. Early on at the MCC, my favourite hustle was letting the beginners play from the women’s tee and then hit two balls on every shot. I calculated that if I could stay close on the front nine, then I would get them on the second nine when their legs and arms would become weary from playing thirty-six holes in one match. This game of chance worked most of the time and I enjoyed it thoroughly when they wanted to play for “big” money. At the back of my mind, I knew that Dad would bail me out if it was necessary. Maybe. Thankfully, I never had to put the theory to the test. The MCC always hosted their annual invitational tournament at the end of the summer. Pleas Park was the president in 1975, and he let me play in the tournament because, according to Pleas, I was nine-months old when I was born. You see, you had had to be 21 to play in the MCC Invitational due to some sort of gambling rule that still confuses me. My birth certificate said 20, but when Pleas did the maths I was qualified to participate. The MCC was that kind of place. Just by the by, I recorded my second hole-in-one with Pleas on the third hole at the MCC during a golf scramble. He never let me forget it. And for the record, Gay Brewer won the MCC Invitational in the Kentucky stage of his illustrious golfing career. One especially fond memory is of the summer Dad and I played in the Kentucky Father-Son Tournament in Louisville, at the Wildwood Country Club. Wildwood had tight fairways that were tree-lined. Many years before, Dad and I had cut our golfing teeth on a similar course in Alabama, clearly an advantage. It was a two day tournament and we won the fourth flight. That day, Dad taught me to be a gracious winner. And how to celebrate a victory. Not that it was a lesson I was to need too often in golf. My sole tournament victory was to be in ’76, in the nine-hole EKU Intramural Golf Tournament. Celebrated with beers and fine Cuban cigars.

Working for Dad twelve years was truly a pleasure and a great learning experience. I’ll never forget the “spend less money than you take in”lesson. It still works well today for most businesses. He taught me to respect people and to treat employees with dignity and gratitude and to take care of their families when you can. He also taught me that the “customer comes first,” and that a newspaper person works twenty-four hours a day. I was to be “a representative of the newspaper at all times.” Today, I understand what he was saying so much better and I thank him as often as I can for teaching me these basic lessons. My memories of Kentucky are many, almost all good, and measured, more often than not, by a sweet seven iron or nice curling putt. Dad had advice there too.“Son, hit it straight; be a gentleman and leave the course in better shape than when you started.” Kentucky and Dad. You don’t get a better start either in golf or life. Thanks Dad, I love you. WG