Pitchmarks #50 - 16th June 2024 - The Amateur Spirit

Ballyliffin, on a very different morning to the one we had! Image courtesy of Ballyliffin Golf Club.

Next week, one of the game’s great traditions rolls into the crumpled dunes of Ballyliffin, in County Donegal. The list of courses that the previous 127 Amateurs have graced is mouth-watering - not just the ones that have held Opens, but the places that should host it. Or could host it, if the damned ball didn’t fly so far…Porthcawl and Portmarnock; Hillside and Dornoch.

Alongside those places, an equally impressive roster of winners, many of whom competed in The Amateur as a stepping stone to the professional ranks - Olazabal & Garcia past Champions. Beaten finalists Montgomerie & Fleetwood. Then there were the career amateurs, an extinct breed - Bonallack & Ball. Tolley & Tait. Wethered, Hilton and Carr, and of course - the greatest of them all - Jones, in 1930.

I had the pleasure of seeing Ballyliffin as part of a small group in October last year, to play the Old Links. Coming straight off the back of pitstops at Royal Portrush and St Patrick’s Links, you could forgive us for being marginally less enthusiastic as the dark clouds that had been threatened all week seemed to gather over this far corner of the Inishowen Peninsula. As we climbed from the coach, a vicious wind sent hats and papers flying across the car park, and we glanced with concern at the three men who strolled merrily past, heading for the Glashedy Links with cards in their hands for some weekly medal. Surely they must be deranged to go out in search of a score in these conditions; if they weren’t themselves dangerous, their golf balls soon would be.

In the locker room, we dug deep into luggage bags for extra layers, and checked multiple weather apps in case one of them might offer a threat of lightning, and therefore a ceasefire. But each told the same story - of heavy rain and violent, gusting winds. Emerging into what light there was, we discovered that the heavens had now parted, and we felt more like the intrepid explorers of old than a small party of casual golfing tourists.

Sodden well before the first uncomfortable lunge of the day, we split into groups, and I am glad that in our four, Clive is for some reason wearing a luminous cycling jacket, for it means we might keep track of him amidst the gloomy dunescape. The first on the Old sprawls before us, turning right to face the mighty power of the Atlantic squall. One high drive seems to run out of juice in mid-air, gently drifting back towards us, and by the time our four balls are at rest beneath the urgent vibration of the opening flagstick, we’ve already spent two dozen shots between us.

The second runs steadily uphill, and as we zigzag our way down the third, each of us gazes wistfully at the lights of the clubhouse towards which we are now facing. For it has lights, and walls. And a roof. And we sometimes take such things for granted. The fourth fairway swings right again, this time without bunkers, and by the time we stand - angled into the gale - on the fifth tee, not a single thread of our multi-layer clothing is dry. This hole - “The Tank” - often offers a precious view through its bordering dunes to Glashedy Rock, after which the other course is named, but today it just looked an impenetrable fortress.

The defending slope before the green was menacing in this light; the hillocks on each side oppressive. After battling to get ourselves and our balls onto that grail of a green, we’d discover to Nic’s cost that long is dangerous, too, and wonder how difficult the hole would be without the storm. From there, the sixth heads inland for a bit, and when Clive’s ball disappears forever into ferocious gorse left of the seventh carry, he follows with his head down and we wonder if we’ll ever see him again. He is utterly drenched and shaking uncontrollably, and Nic kindly pushes him in the direction of the clubhouse, for his own good. We will find him still warming up in the shower a few hours later, having spent most of what liquid fell from the sky in this deluge. I suspect his cycling jacket still smells just a little of Ballyliffin rain.

By the ninth green, the only turn five of the remaining seven hacks can possibly make is towards the bar, and when Alex and I declare that we “think it’s getting lighter”, and contemplate continuing, the elders among this party simply shrug and walk away, barely hiding disgust. But continue we do, although I ditch my tweed golf bag - which weighs more than I do by this point - and instead just walk with a six iron.

As we struggle towards the tenth green, the deafening wall of sound that engulfs Ballyliffin seems to soften ever so slightly. The rain is still lashing us, and we are utterly, devastatingly soaked, but this marginal easing off of the storm seems to bring the faintest sliver of hope. The eleventh is another long four with a gorgeous, rumpled fairway, and the par three twelfth - “The Dell” - needs one and a half six irons even down-wind. Or down-gale, as it plays today.

Halfway up the thirteenth, the rain stops altogether, and as we march towards the green, hidden in the very far corner of the Old Links property, shafts of sunlight split the clouds and bless the mountains, and the whole thing feels cinematic. Maybe it’s the urgent pace of play, maybe the simplicity of playing with only a six iron, but I have got my rhythm back, and can’t seem to do anything but flush it, and Alex more than once casts a curious look my way...

Then the par five fourteenth hugs the sandy beach, sliding right to a bunkerless green perched behind a hairy lump in the left hand side of the approach. It is bold, natural, brilliant design, this, and we savour it and are grateful to have carried on, for the course just seems to get better with every few yards we cover. The right hand dogleg fifteenth - “Ardascanlan” - is as hard to figure out as to pronounce, but the sixteenth also has us scratching our dripping heads; the target just a fabulous, tiered hourglass tucked behind a Road Hole bunker. This green complex alone is worth the travel, and the incomparable soaking.

We long to be dry and warm, of course, and from the tee of the short seventeenth - at last, a shot designed for a six iron! - the clubhouse looks so inviting. But at the same time, we’re so glad to have carried on, so glad to have seen this scintillating back nine, and by the time we negotiate the final hole, putting out under the gaze of the rest of the crowd through the steaming bar window, I no longer want to stop. For the Old Links is a masterpiece; a tutorial in purity and strategy and conditioning.

We change, and slowly regain some feeling in our limbs, and lunch has never been so well earned. And then we try and squeeze sodden clothing into flight bags, and shuffle out to the coach, but as the engine starts up and we drift away from Ballyliffin, all I want to do is turn around and explore the rest of it. Tantalising glimpses of Glashedy Links - perched up on the higher ground - are enough to know I need to come back properly and immerse myself in Ballyliffin, with or without a rainstorm, and then I notice the Pollan Links - a nine hole, par three course - and my appetite doubles in an instant.

But the other thing that stands out, looking back at one of the fastest nine holes that I’ve ever played, was that the elemental challenge of the Old Links was somehow matched by the experience of golfing with only one club. Decisions were removed; I just walked after it and hit it again, and in the dissolution of any cares about how far I hit it, or how many strokes I took, I found a purity of strike that my golf ball rarely enjoys.

And next week, when these amateur masters descend on the Old and the Glashedy, my bet is on the player who can somehow forget about the prize, forget about the leaderboard. Forget about the Masters invite, and the Open, and good or bad bounces, and dry or (very) wet conditions, and instead immerse themselves in this glorious stretch of rugged dunesland and just let the golf come through them.

Remember the roots of the word “amateur” - from the Latin “amare” - “to love”? Ballyliffin is wonderful, and worthy of love, and so is this disturbing game we play. So play as if you love it. It helps!