Last week’s edition of pitchmarks talked a little about the benefits of balancing new golfing adventures with the building of stronger connections to the paths we already know, and when I think about this process of courting a golf course - of getting to know the architect’s most intimate secrets day by day, shot by wretched shot - I often think of Worplesdon.
For in this embarrassment of golfing riches that is the United Kingdom, there are the ones that grab me hook, line and sinker from day one, perhaps even hole one - New Zealand, Deal. Cleeve Hill, Pennard, and of course The Addington. And my love for them does not diminish from this initial swoon, but as I have grasped a great deal of their virtue in an instant, they just sort of sit in some happy place in my mind.
It is often said of The Old Course (whose sacred turf I strolled past on Friday en route for another new adventure on The Jubilee) that one must play it a great deal in order to understand it, and after a handful of ballot lottery wins myself, I am sufficiently confused and beguiled to believe that such a mission is a life’s work. But, as the Bobby Jones proved, not everyone likes TOC on first impression, though he fell as deeply for the place as anyone in the end. In the great man’s words “the more I studied The Old Course, the more I loved it. And the more I loved it, the more I studied it", and some works of art are like this, too - impenetrable at first glance but worth the effort to explore further - “Exile on Main Street” is said to be one of these, though it lingers on a bucket list still…waiting for the investment of my time. And “Ulysses”; same again.
But somewhere between the ones that immediately knock you off your feet and the slow burners lies a third category for me. A few places have seemed both hugely impressive the first time and then grown on me. And with repeated visits, their humps and hollows gradually reveal hidden depths, greater complexity. The subtleties of a grand design turn what you thought was a top Championship side into Premier League contenders, and you can hardly wait for the next trip, for this growing passion to build further.
And that’s where Worpy fits in, for me. I still recall how much I enjoyed the initial outing - maybe twenty years ago now - and how it has always been a pleasure to pull in there, and drag sticks from the boot. But a strong affection has grown into a deep love for those holes and that glorious heathland, and so this week I ask you to take a moment to delve deeper on this - here - and to swing by Worplesdon next time you are in the area. And if you are not due to be in the area, then start plotting a route. It’s about time…you can thank me, J.F. Abercromby and Willie Park Junior later on…
At the other end of the familiarity scale lies Hayling, whose fine, firm turf I have only strolled upon relatively recently, though it was on the wishlist nearly as long as “Exile…” and its charm is slowly taking hold of my mind. And so it was wonderful to return and take another step in building that and another relationship - with a fellow lover of golf and writing - through this coastal routing.
Robin Down and I met last year up in Northumberland, and as a gifted writer himself, he kicked off my idea of having others contribute to pitchmarks with a gorgeous piece on Warkworth (here). As we wandered through the windy, gorse-framed corridors of Hayling, golf was merely the conduit for a conversation that changed direction as often as our golf balls, and it was a glorious example of the friendships that this game enables. We’d never have met outside golf, Robin and I, so once again I am in the game’s debt. And so, so happy to be. So please refresh your cup and enjoy another lovely piece of writing from a new friend Robin (click here or the “Read full story” button below), about my new friend Hayling…
From the archive
pitchmarks is a trial, really. The previous version of this blog was called Stymied, and posts would arrive as standalone pieces on this course or that, or on other things that occurred to me whilst in the supermarket or the shower. I hoped that by incorporating some other materials - like those referenced below or the occasional guest pieces - it might turn into something the reader looks forward to - a little voyage of exploration every weekend, time to slow down and treat yourself.
But in thinking about this, and looking at the number of people who click through to the various links, it occurred to me that there is a whole load of older pieces that more recent subscribers may not be aware of, or that the stalwart might like to see again. So, to tie in with Worplesdon’s inclusion above, here is an early piece from the archive on the all-important topic of golf club car parks…
Reading
Somewhere up above I mentioned the growing affection Bobby Jones had for St Andrews, and for the Old Course in particular. But there was a gnawing feeling that I didn’t exactly know where this idea had come from - perhaps my beloved Alistair Cooke, who was friends with Jones and wrote with unadulterated respect for this unique individual. So I searched for quotes to back up this claim, and disappeared down the same sublime rabbit hole I offer you here.
Early on, Jones “considered St. Andrews among the very worst courses I had ever seen”, but later on he reflected that “the more I studied the Old Course, the more I loved it. And the more I loved it, the more I studied it”. By the time he was granted Freedom of St Andrews, he felt sufficiently moved to declare that "I could take out of my life everything except my experiences at St Andrews and I would still have a rich, full life”. And that’s sort of how I feel about golf, really. Golf and the people who love it.
Next I found a compendium of quotes on the subject of St Andrews - here - and was amused by the range of opinions. But one I had not seen before is attributed to Old Tom Morris, who knew a thing or two about the Home of Golf, and said this while looking through a telescope at the moon: "she looks like The Old Course”. Is that why the full moon beguiles me, I wonder? A common lunatic, in terms of the Latin roots of the term.
Having prepared all this for you, I then saw some discussion around last weekend’s Walker Cup, and the seemingly endless archival mastery of Simon Haines (thank you!) had resulted in the article below. As usual, Jones’s own words do such a good job of telling the story…
Watching
I meant to send this edition a good hour ago, but a friend kindly sent me this Fried Egg video about an internship programme at the sublime (as in borderline transcendent) Sand Hills, near Mullen, Nebraska, and I have been as if in a trance ever since. I drove a battered rental Pontiac a thousand-odd miles off my designated route to play Sand Hills in 2004, and had as close to a revelatory experience as I’ve had on a golf course, so to peer at the waving grasses and endless horizons of this remote outpost of golfing excellence was emotional. The rental car went back after we’d put a few thousand more miles on it, but those memories are strong, and the urge to get back there - on a bike if need be - is growing. But for now, I need the number of my careers adviser in school. Why did no one tell me this sort of programme existed?
And before you go, one more snippet on Jones, which seems fitting after the fine spectacle of amateur golf that finished last Sunday. Here he is, accepting an honour he described as “the finest thing that has ever happened to me”.
Enjoy your week!