Strange the things I remember from childhood, glinting out from the shady recesses of my mind. I have some image of Mrs Brass, my art teacher, peering at the paint on my canvas and taking a deep breath, as if my effort might represent her final straw.
She seemed somehow at odds with the world of secondary education, perhaps at odds with the world itself, and yet there was something calm in her manner that makes me wonder if the world was, in fact, at odds with her. Whatever odds are.
Anyway, she seemed to grimace at my efforts as I shrank into the cold, curved wood of my chair, before telling me that “an artist sees things differently, picks up the world’s detail as material for their work”, and off she moved to the next victim, leaving me with just that fragment to show for a year in her mysterious classroom.
There are a couple of dozen cars already parked outside Piltdown’s charming farmhouse when I arrive, and a handful of golfers at various points in their preparation. One arguing with a shoelace, muttering as he goes; another dragging their buckled trolley towards the shop. Several are putting as I pass, trying to get the misses out of their system early, and one swings a driver to loosen up, and loosens up a clod of earth in the process.
But though we’ve only chatted on the phone, I know which of these hopeful souls is Will Hylton, of Hylton Goods, for he has something of Mrs Brass’s intensity peering out from under a stylish cap. At once, I can see the artist in him, soaking up his surroundings, seeing “things differently”. For he is an artist, too, the sort who she might have celebrated rather than dismissed. From his boot he shows me a few of his own paintings - watercolours of the great and the good of golf clubhouses - and I feel as helpless in the face of such skill as I will soon on the front nine, when he applies this artist’s touch to iron play.
So we head into this particular clubhouse carrying bags he has himself designed, with that same attention to detail built in, and chase down black coffee until it is time to push wooden pegs into pristine turf and begin another adventure. And golf does what it always will for me - sets this world alight - and all these years later I am at last looking for the detail the way my art teacher did, through this game’s prism.
Between us, our two carry bags have about a full set in total, though they’re not exactly state of the art. On Will’s shoulder are a few old Mizuno blades (odds, of course), plus a wedge and a putter, and I wonder whether his driver is still in the boot with the watercolours. But no, he mainly plays without one, which makes me feel better about the old “set” of hickories that inhabit my bag.
And Piltdown, which I know only by reputation at this stage, seems the ideal place for us to play, and to chat about this game and its people and places. For almost three hours, we take it in turns to talk and to listen, trading stories as we trade pars and bogeys, all the while trying to avoid “the dreaded other”, as another artist of this manor - Henry Longhurst - described that which lies beyond the double bogey.
By the time we walk off the first green, one thing is clear, and it is that Piltdown plays like a proper heathland, the firm ground ideal for the running game that my old sticks demand of me. The mowing lines are flowing and attractive; the cylinder blades sharp. The whole presentation is crisp, like a well-framed picture whose casing permits the art to shine forth. Somehow on a plot of about 160 acres, the routing seems to dance through quiet corridors of this ancient Sussex heathland, offering occasional glimpses of the North and South Downs between whose chalky ridges we stroll.
Piltdown is famous for having no bunkers, as does the Old Course at nearby Royal Ashdown Forest, whose professional Jack Rowe laid out the original ten holes here in 1904. And as it was the mention of our shared affection for Ashdown that made me think of Piltdown as a natural scene for our rendezvous, I smile upon this discovery, this detail.
Just a few years later, J.H. Taylor invoiced the club some two guineas in exchange for the design of a further eight holes, seven of which lie south of the quiet Shortbridge Road that dissects the course. But it was only in 1924 that the club abandoned sand bunkers, and in that paring down of the design, brought into focus the many grassy hollows and runoffs that make golf here so appealing. And though Piltdown just creeps over 6,000 yards from the tips, its par of 68 with half a dozen par fours over 400 yards tests every club in the bag, full set or not.
Rather like Ashdown - and Painswick for that matter - the absence of carefully raked sand does nothing to diminish the challenge, and I try to avoid thinking too much about the modern golfer’s preoccupation with fairness and perfect bunkering, for it is an aesthetic for which I have little time. The game evolves of course, but I am charmed by a sort of reverse evolution here, where in returning to a state of greater simplicity, the golfing experience is enhanced.
An iterative process; thoughtful changes not for the sake of change - or yardage or green speed or ego - but for the sake of gradual, subtle improvement. Piltdown’s greens replacement program a decade ago was a large-scale investment, but judging by the glorious surfaces on which we putt today, it was the right call, and I am amused by the parallels in the approach of my playing partner - “an artist” - to both getting his ball around the golf course and designing the bags that are slung over our shoulders. These “Walker” bags are tinkered with as Will’s brand steadily grows, and like the course they just keep getting better.
The driver often complicated matters for Will - created more problems than it solved - so rather than carry it around and risk further trouble, he hits some butter-knife long iron off most tees, and continues his side of the conversation from the centre of each immaculate fairway. And where most golf bags have too many pockets and all sorts of hooks and straps, ours just have the bare essentials. One hole in the top, for the clubs. One strap. One pocket. Where else in life is such simplicity to be found, amid such style? At Piltdown…
Will and I reach the last, and shake hands and chase down a swift refreshment before we part, but first, we share our thoughts on the golf we’ve just played, and I am thrilled - in light of Mrs Brass’s earlier dressing down - that much of the detail that Will has picked up in the course chimes with my own feelings. This is a course that lives in conversation with its habitat, not at odds with it (“whatever odds are”). The club have long been in partnership with DEFRA, and Natural England, and other bodies whose objectives are around protection of the ecology that abounds here, and it is truly wonderful to see golf and the environment in such a harmonious state.
And truly wonderful to enjoy it in the company of a kindred spirit; someone who see this game through the same lens I do, as something to be cherished. And off we go, down our separate ways, but we are both enriched once more by the game, and by the delicate charm of Piltdown…
To explore Piltdown’s majesty, click here. For more on Hylton Goods, here, and Will Hylton’s painting, here. All are marvellous! With grateful thanks to Phil Bonsall & Will Hylton, artists in their own fields!
My list grows ⛳️
Nice looking bags. I love the logo/wording on the website, especially the one involving Kümmel!