Pitchmarks #42 - 21st April 2024 - "In love with Liverpool, again"
There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
“In My Life”, The Beatles
By the time an alarm vibrates on my wrist, I am not only wide awake, but pacing along the coastal path that leads north, into a fresh draught. I pass Leasowe’s links and castle as a mower casts its headlamps across The Wirral, and peer longingly at Wallasey through a tall metal fence as the natural light lifts. Then I turn and walk back, this time downwind, and think about how life itself seems to have its own three club wind some days. It’s my first time golfing on this stretch of coast, and after Royal Lytham the previous afternoon, I feel as if the breeze is definitely helping just now.
It means a lot to me, Liverpool. Almost went to Uni here; grew up listening to my brother’s Beatles records. That blue collection, Rubber Soul. Later someone would recommend Revolver - my appetite for personal recommendation as strong as it is now for those relating to golf - and if someone cast me away to a Desert Island today, it’d be among the few possessions I’d reach for, along with a cleek and a ball or two. And some Darwin. And in that decade, as I played golf and football until both arms and legs ached, both the Reds and the Blues of this city had their moments, set apart by Stanley Park, but I chose Red, and Mum chose Blue.
My sat-nav takes me the wrong side of the links, down Stanley Road and out towards the headland, but the view back across to the clubhouse is intoxicating, and before long I am on the right side of the fence again, pouring coffee in the gorgeous lounge. I choose a table in the corner, and as the regulars stream in and out, weather-worn faces smiling with hope at the thought of another morning in this golfing paradise, our four comes together. I glance up at the framed photos on the wall, and am amused to see a great friend holding yet another cup while peering out from the ‘80’s, that same wide grin unchanged from the one he wears today.
Our turn comes, and our host admits that he’s put a few on the roof tiles from here, which is not helpful. “Don’t go hard left” is the message, but my body never listens so it is a relief to make contact at all, and a further relief to see it remain on the golf course. We play Royal Liverpool in the members’ order, so the internal out of bounds that the pros whinge about is right of the opening tee-shot for us amateurs. They should try playing it with our ability levels…
By the time we reach the green on “Course”, my ball is the only one that hasn’t slipped across the little ridge into no man’s land, and so we win the hole - last man standing. And that is about the last time anyone considers the score, let alone mentions it. And we don’t refer to hole numbers either, for even the members get confused when The Open rolls into town. Instead we spend a few hours absorbing for ourselves some sense of the history here; the story of English golf stitched into every fold of the land, every cavernous bunker.
The course gradually draws us towards the dunes, which is where our gaze naturally drifts. The first few holes look simple, but are clever. We learn where to put our ball and where not to, and our hearts sing that golf which looks this plain on the surface can be this good, for this is the sort of golf we love. By the time we putt out on “Far”, and turn right at “Punchbowl”, we are on the Dee Estuary, with Snowdonia on the horizon, and the sun that has been covered by clouds for months appears. Windcheaters are stripped away for short sleeves, and we wonder whether the golfing season has arrived, though play carries on here regardless. Since 1869.
At “Alps”, all four of us take out cameras, and all four of us make threes, but our brittle confidence is shattered at “Hilbre”, and the roller-coaster ride of Hoylake rumbles on. By the time we reach “Little Eye”, we know a great deal about what has been a long and steady evolution of golf in these parts, and as this latest addition is edited before our eyes, I think about innovation, and the sheer bloody-mindedness of the club’s founders. Without the courage to try things, this marvel would never be here, or would never have survived.
We play only one of the original greens today - “Road” - but the modern Hoylake is what it is - precious, glorious - for all that has gone before, and all that is to come. We walk in the footsteps of the greats here, and even the shoreline is changing. So we don’t dwell too much on the recent, but just accept this moving masterpiece as it is right now, as the light dances on every shivering blade of fescue.
We finish up, and shake hands, and the shower pressure is marvellous and the towels world-class, and then we face the lunch - oh, the lunch. I dodge the crisp white then the claret - another drive to Birkdale ahead - but it matters not, for I am as high as a kite sat here, gazing out across one more incredible golf course. At this level, it hardly matters which layout is strongest or which club is best, for links like this are to me heavenly, and to split hairs wastes valuable time that could instead be spent in rapturous devotion.
This March and my life have been enriched by this place, and by the company of these wonderful, passionate people; my soul as replenished by this day as my stomach by the quite extraordinary meal. So when the time comes to leave, I walk as slowly as I possibly can, to breathe a few more lungfuls of Hoylake’s air while I am here.
Every few months, I bore my wife by trying to explain what it is like to stand a few miles from here in The Kop, and to join fifty odd thousand other hearts in belting out the local anthem, and as I quietly stare across this old racecourse, I somehow understand that we’ll “never walk alone” round here. Something about Liverpool makes me feel part of a larger picture, and anything that makes us feel that way seems important. All of the history, that drama, that romance. All of those heroes. Rush and Dalglish; Lennon and McCartney; Tait and Ball.
It is all too much for one day, so I park up the van, and hit the pillow, but first send a few notes as thank-yous. And the last one ends, “in love with Liverpool, again”, and so I am.
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more
“In My Life”, The Beatles
Great piece Richard. I too love Liverpool. Truly, madly and deeply. I went to university there purely to watch football and because it was a place I had been travelling to to do just that in my teens. I found so much more in my three years living in the city, including the incredible golf courses that lie not far beyond its limits. As a member of the university golf team we paid around £35 a year for 5-day membership at Royal Liverpool. We witnessed the start of the course’s (b not the club’s) steady ascent back to the pinnacle of the game with the Curtis Cup it staged in the early 90s, and were lucky enough to play friendly matches against the likes of Formby, Birkdale, Southport & Ainsdale, Wallasey et al. Some of the happiest times in my life, even if the football wasn’t all that during that period.
Ah the words, yours & The Beatles!