Pitchmarks #155 - “Denham Late”

Of course there are no tee times; it’s that sort of club. During lockdowns they were mandated, but the moment freedom swept across the Buckinghamshire countryside, they blew away. We have a plan, of course, and aim to get going by a little after one, but in the comfortable splendour of this old hunting lodge, the plan slips, along with our best intentions; the sticky toffee pudding lies beyond the scope of words.

Dark timbers soften the noise to a gentle chatter, and then our host, Rob - transplanted from another of golf’s iconic buildings, a little place in the dunes of Pegwell Bay - taps a silver knife against a glass drained of Bordeaux, and welcomes us to his new abode. We are gathered here to celebrate Denham, this self-styled “club with a course”, and it is great to see this old place in such safe hands. We are - in Rob’s words - “Denham late”, but it matters not, for there is room for us all this afternoon, and we manage to reach and tie our laces despite the banquet, and emerge into the cool air that freshens this ledge above West London, with Rob’s trusty Labrador Fawkes as a fore-caddie for the group.

This was my third time languishing in the Dining Room, but my first attempt to actually play the course, somehow. And straightaway, an impression. The first tip-toes over a little crest to a green tucked in a hollow, and though the temperatures are not yet stimulating much growth, Denham is in fine fettle; wonderful, true greens and vibrant fairways. Peter knocks it close off the tee, and a routine birdie follows; we shall become very familiar with this by the time the nineteenth is back in play.

At the second, we swing slightly right past the remnants of an old quarry, towards another green with skilful contours to protect it, and plenty of tightly-mown grass to surround it, and I notice Jasper lingering in the fairway, working out the angles. This architecture bug is not a condition for which a remedy exists, it seems, and it is a joy and an education to watch his keen eye find focus round here.

As we make our way up the third, a bright orange wind-sock flaps urgently from the right, and then a bi-plane appears, its engine screaming as it jerks against the gusting breeze, and then another, battling to stay clear of our own shaky flight paths. I imagine the pilots, white-knuckled in their grip on the controls, but before long I will feel that way about my scorecard, as the shots dribble away around Denham.

The fourth is a little marvel, swinging right from the cambered fairway over a string of bunkers; visually reminiscent of some of Colt’s other marvels, Royal Wimbledon and St George’s Hill. Then the first of a marvellous set of short holes - the fifth - where we imagine the job almost done in reaching the green from the tee, though the puzzling contours of another golfing blanket prove us wrong in effortless style.

This phrase - “effortless style” - seems about right for the front nine, a delightful loop that brings us back to the little hut via the magnificent eighth, dropping down into a windless valley to then climb to a fiercely protected green. We sip on a half-time beverage, and I am wondering why I never made it here with sticks before, but then the back nine kicks in, and with it all hope of scoring well disintegrates.

The tenth must make for a dangerous start for some; a tight drive for a change, then a green that hides behind a bunker and gently slopes towards the railway line below. And the eleventh is a gem of a hole, and it is a relief to know that the Denham congregation love it too, for it’s the sort of challenge that’s rarely built these days. You push one up the fairway, right to left, towards the brow, then plunge over a cliff, our balls hanging shakily in the air like the bi-planes, then hammering towards earth, and our target cut into the hill.

It’s a riveting shot, made all the more exciting from the glimpse of the twelfth out right, and I imagine the thrill of those people who first come here by train, via the “Denham Golf Club” station on our left - the only station in this country named after a golf club - as they take the path across our fairway and up through Colsell’s Woods, the patch of ancient woodland in the centre of Denham’s patch. Perhaps that’s where the phrase “Denham late” came from, as the one thing our modern train network can guarantee is being unreliable…

Of the twelfth, Bernard Darwin wrote that “there is no more picturesque hole in the world, adorned with a carpet of bluebells” and they are in force today as we flick our modern wedges at the flag, which hangs still in the lee of the cleared bank on the left. Rob’s tee-shot threatens the cup for a moment, but decides to stay up, and we cross the road for the finishing stretch, leaving that “dream of beauty” behind for now.

At the fifteenth, the twin, rear bunkers Jasper helped re-shape stare us down from the fairway; frog’s eyes that distract from the more urgent danger out front. It seems this green was re-modelled by Hawtree Snr, and that Braid also spent time at the club, in addition to Colt’s inspired footprint. So the end product of those key historic influences plus the inspired, recent renovation work of the gifted Clyde Johnson is a golf course that shines almost as brightly as the hospitality that frames it. As a club, it’s among the finest in the land - a true community of golf lovers - but it would be wrong to dismiss the course itself, for it is a gorgeous walk and a stunning test. But perhaps the members like it this way, going quietly under the radar, and under the bi-planes, and leaving the tee more or less open for play when the urge comes on.

Rob hands us each a delightful map of the routing - from Clyde’s hand, ink pen on thick cartridge paper - and I realise how brilliant Colt’s routing is, for we weave in and out, always changing direction, buffeted by the wind. And somehow the sparse nature of this artwork reflects Denham itself; a club and a course whose priorities are clear, a place that doesn’t feel the need to shout too loud.

We head for the bar, and could easily stay there until morning, so charming is the space, but instead we devour - somehow hungry again! - homemade fruit slice, with strong tea. And we part ways and reluctantly trundle back down the drive, out of the gate and back into life, but not before a glance at the clock on the clubhouse wall, which remains stuck at five to eleven. Even I know that it’s not that time yet, but somehow this all makes sense to me now. For time slips away gently here, in the convivial chat over lunch, or in the rattling in of long putts (for Peter at least). No-one cares what the clock says, and no one cares if you’re “Denham late”. We’re all too busy immersed in the old game, and the old game most certainly resides here.