In the front lobby of my childhood home in Cardiff sat an empty porcelain vase, on whose white surface was calligraphed a quote in dark blue from Samuel Johnson - “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”. Somewhere down the line, the vase has been lost, but for the first time in perhaps two decades I thought of it and its message the other day, when driving towards that metropolis in which we once lived.
The route is so familiar I could take a nap and still arrive at my destination, for today’s golf is at Royal Wimbledon, and the van’s wheels know the way up the hill and across the common. My destination is not so much Camp Road as Memory Lane, today. For years we dwelled nearby, and I walked my Cairn in the adjacent woodlands, peering through the trees at this understated, underrated masterpiece in the precinct of The Wombles.
Later, I would have the honour of working there for a time, to serve and rub shoulders with the great and the good of the village, and exploring the endless quarry of golfing heritage on which this finest of clubs was built. For Royal Wimbledon, founded in 1865, grew out of, or outgrew, London Scottish Golf Club, and moved from the original clubhouse on the Common (The Iron Room) to Camp Cottage seventeen years later, taking the old wooden lockers with them.
In the meantime, Tom Dunn had extended the Common course to 18 holes, but in 1907 Willie Park Jnr was given the chance to design a new course on a different piece of land, of which Darwin said “a wonderful place is this new Wimbledon course…” Park’s work would be altered shortly, though, with Harry Colt’s version opening in 1924, and what remains today must be one of his best-preserved courses, an oasis within just seven miles of Marble Arch.
Alongside the course’s architectural pedigree, the history of the Club itself fills a couple of books. Its members were pivotal in the development of golf in England, of the game’s Rules, and in the formation of the Ladies’ Golf Union. In 1885, legend has it that Laidlaw Purves was idly peering out of the stained glass windows of St Clement’s Church in Sandwich when he spotted the tall dunes that would soon frame Royal St George’s, where he and fellow Royal Wimbledon Captain Henry Lamb (whose image adorns the club’s own Bruichladdich blend, another delightful touch) would create England’s answer to St Andrews.
And throughout this illustrious history, many great players - Roger Wethered’s clubs from his house next door are framed in the Old Dining Room, Darwin himself. J.H. Taylor the Professional for a time. And endless other rituals - the Spring & Autumn Dinners, the Drive-In, the Schools Putting. The long Red Coats of the Captains, the tranquil ambience one finds “under the arch” in the bar.
So we wish each other luck and begin, soon disappearing round the dogleg of the first, from where this parcel of land opens up, and in the glorious early morning my heart sings in the fresh air of SW19. Recent work to restore playing corridors and encourage the native plants of the adjacent heath have improved both the turf and the vistas, which are extraordinary; across the A3 lies Abercromby’s Coombe Hill, towards which the eleventh runs, and occasional glimpses of the south London skyline remind you that this natural haven is still golf within the capital, though this place is so tranquil.
It is nothing short of wonderful to see it in such fine condition, and as we take in the various loops of this ingenious routing, stopping to catch our breath at the equally magnificent halfway hut, I reflect on how strong an influence this place has had on me in the twenty-five years since I first glimpsed the fairways beyond the chain-link fence.
We squint in the low sunlight while I nurse a black coffee, and it feels like exactly the sort of thing one should do to maintain “Slàinte Mhaith” (good health), as the late member whose parting gift rebuilt this pit-stop demands of us.
Royal Wimbledon has a subtlety about it that somehow reflects in the eyes of its members; they congregate in the main bar, or sometimes in the dappled sunlight by the croquet lawn, and while it remains a Club that pays a respectful homage to those who have gone before - both between these old walls and across those fabulous greens - it retains the forward-looking stance of its founders and forefathers. That its future could be as magnificent as the past seems inevitable when you spend enough time here; it is the place where everything is done simply, but really, really well.
And so the game is over, and the van carries me home as I ponder a stunning morning in the beloved nooks and crannies of this hidden, private gem. It occurs to me that I tired of London itself many years ago, forgoing train journeys in favour of a ride-on mower, and when we moved further west a dozen years ago, that same sense of fresh air and space that Wimbledon Common used to give me was suddenly all around in the distant Surrey Hills that form part of Royal Wimbledon’s horizon.
Johnson would no doubt dismiss me as a fool for this desertion, but there is one chunk of The Big Smoke that I will never tire of, and it is the one over whose gorgeous turf I have spent the morning. The vast, immaculate, flowing greens; the tight surrounds, and wicked run-offs. Long, sweeping doglegs and picture-postcard short holes. Royal Wimbledon has endless pedigree in its archive and traditions, but also so much quality in the golf, as you’d expect with Park & Colt in the mix.
I will never tire of the cunning sixth, which rides the Iron Age ridge of Caesar’s Camp, or the testing eighth. Or the short-four ninth, under whose right hand Oak the members warm themselves with a Scotch come the annual turkey trot. Never tire of the perpetual search for the thirteenth green, or the climb up to the pin on the fourth, perched atop a demanding slope. Every hole an old friend, even when they act more foe; every time I’ve played here a privilege. I will also never tire of M’s sparkling eyes as he turns to me after hammering a driver down the third, or sinking a comedy putt across the fifth, whetting his appetite for an obligatory Shovril.
This place is full of golfing heritage, but it is also part of my story, my journey. Life has changed in so many ways since it first took my breath away, but as we both grow older apart, it is so wonderful to come together again. As long as this is what I mean by London, I will never, ever tire of it.
Wonderful memories