"Love thy neighbour..."

Or, "The Growing Charms of West Byfleet..."

I love a golfing trip as much as the next person. A handful of times, this has meant boarding a plane - carefully cramming all the precious kit into a flight bag only to watch it drift away across the baggage racks. More often, and particularly of late, it has been a case of an early alarm, and weaving my way across the empty roads of a fresh English morning to discover new ground, or re-visit old haunts.

There is something magical in the journey each time, an eagerness to spend the hours with eyes wide open, exploring new territory whilst full of anticipation. The crunch of the gravel as the van approaches the immaculate gates at Muirfield; the sharp intake of breath atop the plateau that is Minchinhampton Common, as the Old floods my field of vision with its stubborn, rustic charm.

These “Grass Routes” I’ve been taking have been more than simply an expansion of my golfing horizons, after too many years neglecting this fundamental - and fundamentally silly - obsession of mine. It has also been a way of making up for lost time, and of examining and re-setting my compass in these strange times we’re living through. These pilgrimages have become a roadmap into my soul, with the signposts a series of silk flags and yardages, and the lessons ranging from a dose of the shanks to the occasional holed seven iron.

Many miles have been covered, but alongside the enjoyment of these new and infrequent pitches, there have also been chances to re-acquaint myself with old friends, such as Deal, and Royal Wimbledon, and my beloved childhood course, Wenvoe Castle. And there is something profound about this deepening of a relationship that occurs when we take the time to really get to know a great course. Besides the three above, I’ve also developed a particularly meaningful with a handful of others of significant pedigree, through regular trips, membership, or as a result of working in golf for all this time.

For me, much of the genius of the Golden Age architects - masterful artists that they were - lies in their ability to create routings and holes whose variety and rhythm continue to charm not only the naive debutante, but the lifer. Where what at first glance seem the quieter, more withdrawn holes turn out to be the most beguiling, puzzling friends as time performs its magic. I’m thinking here of the seventeenth at Abercromby’s Worplesdon, perhaps - straightforward on paper, but so subtly dangerous - or Simpson’s revised fourth at New Zealand, whose natural contour in front of the green just about precludes seeing the flag from the fairway, the simplest of devices but devastating for distance perception, particularly for a DMD-refusenik like me.

Or perhaps it could be the eleventh at Woking, hidden among a dozen other good holes, but with the craftiest of green countours - the work of Low & Paton, we suppose - to throw the short ball back down the slope, or anything moving left in the air into a deep, greenside trap. Or the genius tenth at St George’s Hill, Colt’s mischievous side the cause of a million bogeys or worse, or any one of perhaps half a dozen at his masterful - “least bad course” - Swinley Forest, a layout where it is as hard to find a hole that stands out as it is to find a single weakness. They are all so good.

Like delving deep into the story behind a great oil painting, or absorbing oneself in the intricate world of Beethoven’s piano concertos, the finest canvases of the golfing Grandmasters are the gifts that keep on giving, that reveal their secrets in stages to the most patient of students. And so, many years since I last felt the deepening of that sort of connection, it is with a sense of grateful anticipation that I recently stumbled upon another of golf’s quiet secrets.

I’ve lived within a mile of West Byfleet Golf Club for over a decade, and worked within reach of it for longer still. But despite having travelled to the four corners of the UK with my clubs, I’d somehow never got past the entrance to this Club, passing by a thousand times while headed instead for the gates of the many other Home Counties gems. I’d peered at an aerial map of the course a few times, noting how slim the strip of land is, enclosed by the same train line whose carriages rattle past many a heathland golfing corridor, but never taken the time to try out this most convenient of courses.

Wind forward a few weeks, and the charms of West Byfleet, whose architectural pedigree warrants greater recognition, are growing on me with every additional loop. As the club celebrates the Centenary of Abercromby’s re-design, amending and improving Butchart’s original Bleakdown course, a major renovation has brought this cunning routing, full of charming holes, back to where it always should have been - as one of the finest, most charming tests of this rich part of the golfing world.

I get to learn the best angles for approach shots, and how the wind normally moves through the trees. I find, through trial and regular error, the places to be avoided, and make an occasional, involuntary inspection of the boundaries of this sliver of golfing paradise. The careful bunkering and genial green sites both amuse and confound me, and as I pass through the holes, becoming ever more at home in this immaculate grass playground, a fondness for this local marvel - hidden in plain sight within a few good three woods of my house - grows by the day.

I start to notice the views across the terrain, and the clattering rhythm of the approaching locomotive catches my attention earlier each time. All around the blackbirds and starlings sing of the glory of this natural scene, and in between the swishing sound of my clubface, urgently seeking the ball, I hear the red kites mew from up above and the yaffles chortle from their perch in the oaks.

The holes that stunned me on that eventual first visit continue to delight - the long seventh, with its wicked countours around the green; the short thirteenth across what is becoming a place of contemplation for me, my Walden Pond in a quiet corner of suburban life. But alongside this, as our relationship builds, Aber whispers to me of the hidden charms of his least-heralded work. The short-four eighth teases the rabbit and the tiger alike, to use Darwin’s terms, and the clever, angled fourteenth is a wicked trap disguised in simplicity.

I know over time other holes will emerge and speak to me, and in this unravelling of West Byfleet’s secrets, a profound connection with this patch of land will continue to build, but for now, ecstatic in the early days of a love affair with yet another great golf course, I am only in a hurry to arrive for the next date, and to step onto that first tee - this place I’d ignored for far too long - and try to slide a tee shot between the bunkers and bounce up between the light and dark stripes in search of more joyful moments.

For sometimes - perhaps always - the best things in this life are not elsewhere. The grass is not always greener on the other side, and if we are too busy searching for some other thing, we run the risk of failing to see beauty, and meaning, right in front of our eyes. So I will carry on making these journeys further afield, but right now, I’m grateful for the masterpiece on my doorstep. West Byfleet, thank you.

Thank you for reading this, and if you are already subscribed, or have helped spread the word about Stymied, I am hugely grateful. The number of subscribers somehow crept over 500 the other day, and while it baffles me that people have either the time or the inclination to read these musings, it does bring me pleasure to know that some feel the same way about this silly old game, and these majestic golfing playgrounds.

If you are not subscribed but have enjoyed this particular edition, please subscribe now (it’s free!), and pass it on to a few golfing mates. If you are new in these parts, here’s one from the archive that I am particularly fond of, and which seems to tie in well with the above effort:

Ashes to Ashes

You can find a link to some other pieces here, so check out the older ones, and please also consider following my twitter feed here. Thank you, sincerely! Happy golfing…