Pitchmarks #31 - 4th February 2024 - "A Charm That Belongs to Itself"

“Sandwich has a charm that belongs to itself…[on[ a fine spring day with the larks singing as they seem to sing nowhere else; the sun shining on the waters of Pegwell Bay and lighting up the white cliffs in the distance; this is as nearly my idea of Heaven as is to be attained on any earthly links”
Bernard Darwin

The odometer reads a little under 200,000 miles as we set off, a distance that would take us eight times around the equator, but we are far too sensible to attempt that, and so the latest increment is in pursuit of the same goal as most other miles this car has registered - Royal St George’s Golf Club.

It is dark when we leave and already the traffic is building, but in this vehicle there’s no impatience, for we have a day of simple glories ahead. I enquire after our tee time when a lane closure slows our passage, but I needn’t worry, for there is at least some scope to re-jig things if we need to. “There’s a 2-ball heading out as well”; clearly not the busiest morning in Sandwich.

As the light slowly peers over the horizon, we talk about our love for this game and this place, and Bob defines the single drawback of his home club - “the only thing” - as the distance it lies from his other home. But I love these journeys, for they give time for anticipation to grow, and we are free to talk golf all the way there.

By the time we reach Thanet, my face aches from laughter, and I’m wondering how the ball will fly for me today, my first game at Sandwich in several years. Bob has reminded me of the details of our earlier encounter at Woking, in which I was drafted as the least effective “ringer” in history to battle hickories against the Seniors. As per normal, the burgundy sweaters prevailed, but I am intrigued by Bob’s admission that his diary records the details of every game since retirement, together with at least one positive shot.

There’ve been days when I might choose from a shortlist of only one - for golf always grants us one moment; enough to drag us out again the next day - and I wonder where and when today’s exception may emerge. I like this habit - like a golfing gratitude list - and decide to adopt it as a way of blanking out the abominations, for why shouldn’t we get to choose which bits we hang on to?

When we reach the driveway, the flag of St George is flapping in the breeze, white and red against a deep blue sky. “Prepare to step back in time”, Bob jokes as we head towards the car park, and while it could be 1924 down here, it could also be June, rather than St Brigid’s Day. Through the open window of the car next to us peer two Scottish Deerhounds, quietly preparing for a morning in and around these mighty dunes. But Hamish and Archie must wait a while longer, for the humans require coffee first.

Before long we are strolling past the quaint starter’s hut and onto the tee, where four balls are tossed to determine pairs, then two tucked away. Charles must carry the burden of partnering me in our foursome, and Nic will defend Bob from my attempt to correct that earlier, diarised thrashing. At no point does anyone even mention handicaps, let alone look for a slope table, and I am delighted by this. We shall play the way they often do here - fast and friendly, with some dogs for good measure.

I soon realise it’s been far too long since I played here. Some features are as crisp in the flesh as they were in the memory, but other elements had drifted away from me in the sands of time. The green contours, the vicious slopes of certain approaches, and the dark shadows of the revetted hell-holes we hope to spare our partners from. We move between vast dunes, and the blinding reflection of the Channel and the white cliffs of my childhood play hide and seek between these geological curtains.

I have somehow forgotten how utterly gorgeous this place is - perhaps this is why I now write, in order to encase this breathless joy for future reference, just as Bob records the match details, and his shot of the day. As we move into the back nine, I wonder how on earth he will choose only one, for he strikes almost every shot from the battered sweet spots of his trusty weapons, then putts like a demon on the odd occasion they even need to putt. There’s an embarrassment of riches in his ball-striking that is matched only by the comical quality of the golf course, hole after hole providing a stern but thrilling test, and each of them beautiful enough in this low wintry sunlight to hang on the walls of any gallery.

We talk of the rollercoaster nature of golf here, drifting across the property and in and around the dunes, and it is a thrilling ride. One of these regulars reflects that “there are no easy shots” at Sandwich, and he’s right, but it never feels punishing; only inviting. In between turns, I find myself gazing lovingly at the details that make it unique - the wooden tee boxes and simple markers; the thatched huts dotted across the links. Cream marram grasses wave gently in the breeze. Through the green the surfaces are immaculate; years of painstaking work with fine fescue now paying dividends, and the mowing lines so in tune with each hole that you don’t even notice them. The grass just looks happy to be here, and so am I.

On one green - perhaps the seventh - Charles strokes a putt and immediately declares himself “a bloody idiot”, but the ball disagrees and drops in anyway, toppling over the left edge. Bob looks away in disbelief or perhaps disgust, but then repeats the phrase as his ball rolls right in the centre, as usual. From beside the green, Charles’s enormous canines look on as if to say “you’re all bloody idiots”, and they’re probably right, but out here, it feels far too marvellous to be only the first of February, and so we’ve not four smiles between us, but six.

The holes race away, via some difficulties up “Suez”, and before long we are strolling off the seventeenth, whereupon Bob and Charles start to discuss the score. We’ve not spoken of this detail since about the third, but these two friends - half a century into their golfing lives together - drill into their recollections of the last two hours with a precision I cannot muster. All I can remember are the endless views across Pegwell Bay and the delightful company, and so Nic and I chuckle and walk ahead, happy to ignore any notion of competition.

By the time we stand on this final tee, we have two scores, for Charles felt we snuck home 2&1, and Bob believes he and Nic are dormie one. They play the last like champions, while Charles and I suffer not only the same fairway bunker (“no apologies in foursomes”, but I’ll sneak mine in here, Charles) but also the devastating ridge that brought Sandy to his knees in the first golf I ever watched, the ‘85 Open. So they win the last, but I realise it makes no odds to the two scorelines, for both sides still prevail if we permit these differences of opinion to co-exist.

Later, Bob will talk about introducing one of his grandchildren to the eternal charm of “Pooh Sticks”, and after letting her win the first, he draws level at the second, ready for the decider. The sticks are dropped, and time stands suspended until the two appear absolutely level - a perfect tie - and she is delighted: “you know what this means - we both win!”. Bob has a diary entry to complete when he gets home, and alongside somehow choosing the best of his wide array of triumphant strokes, he must also write down a result, but I love the granddaughter’s solution here. Gazing across this patch of historic golfing pasture, how could any of us be losers today?

The lunch course is almost as sublime as the golf course, and we pluck salt and pepper from tiny red tee boxes on the table; another delightful touch in a place full of them. And Charles and Nic and Hamish and Archie must go, while Bob and I - both in receipt of “a pass” to play a few more, but each with a thousand other things awaiting, have to make a decision. The day has been just perfect already, so I ask my host to decide, and I truly believe I don’t mind which way he leans, until he leans towards getting the clubs out again, and I am elated once more. We play another eleven - the front nine and the last two - and there are just two other people on the links though we seem to be in the Heavenly world Darwin wrote of, “with the larks singing as they seem to sing nowhere else”. At one point, Bob says “I don’t want this day to end”, and though we can’t agree on a score, we are in unison on this point.

Eventually, we clamber back into the car, and yet again golf is the conduit for the sort of connections I just don’t find outside this magical realm. I recall passing this way forty years ago, when “God’s Boots” were the coal chimneys in the distance, now gone, and when hovercraft went shuddering across to France from this bay. And I recall my first few years in this corner of England, and Bob talks of his parents, and of the conversations we wish we’d had while we could. And we talk of our love for our own children, and of the primacy of these bonds in our lives, and when he says that all he ever wants is for those two children of his “to be healthy and happy”, it occurs to me that I know no finer formula for helping these twin goals to manifest than golf.

We spend such days in gentle exercise in the fresh air, and are kind and considerate, regardless of the number of swipes we attempt. The game humbles and delights us in equal measure, and it takes a two hour return journey to come down from the giddy heights of golf like this. We have to acclimatise, and as I try to make sense of how wonderful all this is, it occurs to me that I’ve not really stepped “back in time”, as Bob suggested swinging into that driveway, but “out of time”. The leap year’s gift comes at the other end of February, but this Thursday at “George’s” feels like a gimme from the universe to me, a timeless moment.

Bob sends me a note that says “I’m not sure I’ll have a happier day on a golf course this year”, but promises to try, and I shall try too, but at the same time to have any days like this in the midst of modern life feels like the most incredible privilege. Next time I see Bob, I shall ask him which of his many great shots made the diary entry, and which of the two scores he wrote down, but my choice of what to write about the first element is by far my simplest task today.

1st February 2024. Royal St George’s, with Bob, Charles, Nic, Archie & Hamish.
One great shot - a copper 1 iron from way out left on the 5th, soaring high above the dunes in the realm of the skylarks. The score - they won 2 up, and we won 2&1.