Pitchmarks #38 - 24th March 2024 - NO NONSENSE

On the simple pleasures of Perranporth

Gazing out at “Cow & Calf”; image courtesy of Dogleg Media: https://www.instagram.com/dogleg_media/

I’d wanted to see Perranporth for ages. A few summers ago, when a gap appeared in the horror show of facemasks and blind panic, we found a campsite down the coast, and spent an afternoon on Perran Sands, basking in the sun and splashing in the breaking waves. But I also recall spending a fair amount of the time staring up at distant movement on the land up above us, where flags fluttered in the breeze and small groups of shuffling golfers delighted in the restored legality of their chosen vice.

I park at Simon’s, and we drive down together, arriving in the dark though the Worm Moon is waxing, and under that natural light we can see waving marram grass and the shadows of some bold contours. We find our lodge, perched in the centre of the course, and talk golf until we can talk no more, and out here on the headland I sleep like a log while the wind rages outside.

In the early morning, all is calm, and I run down the hill and come back through the links, and some idea of the challenge ahead builds as the markers posts and greens slowly reveal themselves. If the run hadn’t taken my breath away, the views surely would have. In the final few steps, I run past a green perched beside the track, angled left to right against the approach, and marvel at the proud integrity of that position, standing like some castle daring visiting balls to approach. I will later realise that this is the closing hole, but there is a roller-coaster of a ride to take before we’ll arrive there.

So we layer on waterproofs and bobble hats, for the forecast is “iffy”, and outside the Shop we find Richard, the Professional. Armed with an intermittent snap-hook and those early glimpses of what looked a dangerous golf course, I was a little nervous of exposing my frailties in front of such an accomplished player, but I needn’t have been, for in his company Simon and I played well, perhaps helpfully distracted by our wandering conversation.

Richard would set the tone for each hole, his drives soaring above the golden beach or the mighty dunes, and we would try our best to follow as we talked of “Perran” and the club, and life on tour, and our families and everything else under the (occasionally visible) sun. And in the gaps we’d try and sneak our balls through the winding passages of the routing; so many glorious reveals as we reach a brow or pass some mountainous obstacle.

The front nine builds, working its way through the lower half of the property, and then from the turn we take the higher ground, the turf and feel reminiscent of Pennard at times; always a good thing. Much is made of the blind shots here, but they are, to me, utterly charming. There is space to play into, and it is a very welcoming driving course, though you sometimes don’t know where it will land.

“It’s only blind once”, Richard reminds us, and he is preaching to the choir for I love the simple exhilaration of thinking you’ve hit a great one, and running to find out. I point out in reply that my memory is such that I could play here tomorrow and quite possibly have forgotten how to solve each of these puzzles, but I am glad about that, for while in most other walks of life a failing memory is unhelpful, here I will get to discover that thrill of the blind shots - which Darwin said “appeal to the child in us and make one think of robbers’ caves and underground passages” - all over again.

“Aim it out over there…”; image courtesy of Dogleg Media: https://www.instagram.com/dogleg_media/

I stare with love at the false fronts and vicious contours, and at the subtle blend of natural beauty and menace that Perran offers my little golf ball, and wonder whether they need any of the few bunkers dotted around here. Some theme of austerity is gnawing at me as the wind picks up and our legs start to carry an aching sense of the toil to this point, and then we reach the last and I get to hit the approach I’d been looking forward to since the light came up this morning. And Richard and Simon hit theirs close, and I slap mine out right and just about hang on, but I don’t mind, for it means I have to come back to try that shot again, amidst a hundred other reasons.

We’ve a date with Betjeman later, so we shake hands with Richard, and thank him for a delightful adventure. I am lost in thought as we head north, but my appetite is building and Simon and I exchange a smile as we hammer past a banner that reads “NO NONSENSE CAFFEINE & BRUNCH”, and the car turns round and we head into “Rem’s”, for this sign promises exactly that which we lack. My oat latte arrives in a tin camping mug, Simon’s trademark flat white in bone china, and a couple of “Hallouminators” later we are replenished, and ready for St Enodoc.

But something in the style of this cafe has caught my attention. The art on the walls, the decor. The slightly punky vibe in the music played, and the confident smiles of the wonderful staff. There’s some magic in here - an aura of authenticity, perhaps - and it is not only my stomach that is delighted we spotted the sign, but my brain, too. And so as we drift towards the next mouth-watering golf course, my weekly confusion over what to write is slowly eased by latching on to the clue that had been laid out for me at the side of the road, in black and white. We surely have enough nonsense in our lives these days, but in the wild yet elegant links of Perranporth lies a valuable lesson in simplicity. This is “NO NONSENSE” golf, and it is adorable. More of this is required, and soon.