It’s always had a powerful draw for me, Royal Wimbledon. Years ago we lived down the bottom of the hill, and my Cairn Terrier and I would take afternoon strolls through the woodland that borders the course, and sometimes peer through the fence at the rolling green contours. Then I played it a few times, and then a spell working there, so now when I walk back through that central courtyard and emerge out to the bright panorama of the first and beyond, it feels a bit like coming home.
I walk around the corner, towards the vast putting green, and then in through the windowed door with the black curled doorknob, and the warm welcome of the nineteenth is so familiar. Those dark leather armchairs, the gentle chatter through the bar. I know that back staircase so well I could probably climb it blindfolded, but in doing so I’d miss the glint in the eyes of all those club Captains, custodians of this special place for decades; proof of their loyal service preserved in an endless parade of black and white mugshots.
But for all the splendour of the clubhouse, and all the heritage on display, the real star is always the course. Willie Park’s initial routing, the genial touch of Harry Colt; Royal Wimbledon has a pedigree that persists. The holes lead us around this gorgeous shelf of south-west London, with fine views of the North Downs, and a glimpse of Abercromby’s Coombe Hill across the valley. We move under an enormous sky and grapple with the ancient ramparts of Caesar’s Camp, another reminder of all the history this piece of land has absorbed.
The vast greens perplex us, often raised up to tempt us, and when we miss them, the fine, short grass all around creates such variety in our desperate attempts to recover. The bunkering feels sparse but relevant; often sitting just where the wretched ball goes, and we feel relieved to escape, when eventually we do. On one occasion, short of the fifth, I am reminded of the old Hamlet advert, and Bach’s “Air on a G String” follows me round for the rest of today’s game, and I smile quietly and think of another dear friend of this parish, as we nurse a warm drink at the recently improved and magnificent halfway hut.
The par threes have always been strong, both in their individual challenge and as a collective, but today, with some trees cleared on the far bank of the first fairway, both the thirteenth and seventeenth are exposed to the fresh wind that keeps us moving; their original challenge restored. And those long, swinging par fours keep cropping up, throwing our golf balls this way and that. The land pulls at our legs, too, dropping down and up both three and four, and again for the final few holes, and by the time we’re back under the Wisteria, we’ll know we’ve played golf for our muscles will tell us so.
But before we shake hands, golf again charms us with its spells over this wonderful track. One partner plays like he’s ready for the tour, splitting fairways and ripping iron shots from the fine turf every time I glance over; the other seems possessed by some spirit today. He has found a fleeting secret in his takeaway, and goes on a wild spree of pars and birdies, much to his amusement.
We marvel at this form, as all golfers know this stuff cannot last, but then he holes a monster; the type where we all know how it will end when it is yet ten feet out, and it is still ridiculous, and these fragments of our round add up to yet another great morning in pursuit of the delights of this mysterious game. Winter golf ought not to be so enjoyable, but once again this outing turns out to be more than the sum of its parts, and the company and surroundings are such that it is hard to think of a better way to invest three hours.
And then, all too soon, it is over, and I pass back out through the gate, across the Wombles’ Common, and away from this haven that is Royal Wimbledon. But for days, I am cheered by how special it remains, this institution perched at the top of the hill. For they - those people whose thing this is - seem to have the perfect recipe for change. The land, the course, the club - they all have so much in the way of history, to the roots of the inland game and way beyond. Cabinets full of treasures; lives filled with stories.
But somehow in all of the change that the last hundred and fifty-something years have thrown at the world, the sort of gentle evolution that this club has been blessed with manages to protect what is most important here - the course and the members - and in this it remains one of golf’s great communities. Every tweak seems to be just another masterful touch of polish to something already extraordinary, and in each visit over twenty years or so, I notice yet more of Royal Wimbledon’s quiet grandeur.
It is a place for friendship and fun, for kindness and courtesy, and for all that is best about this game that we play. It is one of my favourite places on earth, this, and it will always feel a bit like coming home.
Hi from snow covered Canada.Enjoy and look forward to your writing. Thanks for sharing!
A glorious image and fine description. Nothing like 'Going Home', if you will forgive the reference ;-)