Pitchmarks #66 - 29th September 2024 - Flempton

Two questions, close together. “Where are you playing next?” - to which the answer is, for a while, “Flempton” - and then “Where is that?”

A few times I attempt to explain what little I know, and how this shy marvel came to my attention, and who I am going there with, but I learn that not everyone needs to see the whole picture…they are looking for something familiar to them, perhaps. A course they have been to, or somewhere they long for. And not that many people long to get to Flempton, but maybe they should, and they just don’t know it yet.

One kind soul, Mike, mentioned Flempton to me when planning his trans-Atlantic trip, a voyage beyond the headline courses with a particular emphasis on nine hole courses, an intriguing twist. By the time we met at Woking, he’d already seen Flempton, and there was this enigmatic glint in Mike’s eyes at the discovery of something of value there.

Then another person got in touch - Tim, who’d just finished reading “Grass Routes”. He’d enjoyed the accompanying letter, and our shared nostalgia for Olivetti typewriters was a strong early point of connection. Tim’s message mentioned the “Flempton Hickory Players”, and though I don’t play hickory enough, it dawns on me that the places I love to see can mostly be played with hickories, along the ground. The old way.

And then he answered for me the second question, for Flempton is “just down the road from Mildenhall”, and in this geographical detail lay the seed of a plan, and our diaries and the stars aligned, and as I swung into the club’s entrance, past the white picket fence and open gate, and carefully slipped behind the clubhouse, a smiling face pulled away from important business on the putting green and offered his hand.

So we sling bags on our backs, and Tim tells me where I might hit it, and my ball has other ideas, but this strong initial impression continues as the late summer sun wicks the dew from this fine turf. J.H. Taylor’s nine holes clamour for our attention, but on first glance the most striking thing is how consistently good they are.

The bunkering is both gorgeous and devastating, with ground contours like recruiters for these genial hazards. Once you’ve made your way past those, the greens offer plenty of interest but very little respite, and I realise that Tim has said something along the lines of “now this is my favourite hole” four times, and for good reason. We start at the first, though the routing brings the fourth and seventh tees back to the clubhouse, and it feels when played in order as if the holes gently build in drama as we battle our way round, with the final loop of three a tiny course of merit in its own right.

The seventh fairway looks vast when glancing back down it, but from the tee the bunkering feels threatening, and Tim and I both topple into the left hand example, which makes things difficult. The second shot isn’t really blind, for even from the sand we can see the top of the flag, but the green lies in a mischievous hollow, with vicious pockets of sand to guard the front. There are acres of space towards the back, but this front pin is alluring, and I wonder if it is no longer one of Tim’s favourites by the time we throw in our respective towels.

The eighth dares us to drive past a right hand cavern, in order to straighten out the hole, but when we climb the gentle slope and the second half of this chapter comes into view, I understand that all along the right lies danger, and that the wise route is a more cautious one, approaching from the left hand side though it calls for a longer stroke. Another brilliant green, and then we pitch down towards the clubhouse for the ninth, and like Royal Worlington & Newmarket, where I will spend the afternoon, loops of Flempton conclude with a shot over the entrance road.

Equally delightful is the lounge, with large windows looking over the first tee, and so as we pause, another few groups begin to take their medicine. We decide to swap out this modern gear for the real thing, and tackle Flempton with Taylor’s style of weapon if not play. Having a second circuit required no discussion, and this feels to me like the acid test of a nine hole course - that you feel compelled to do it all over again.

Flempton has only one set of tees (though we play the eighth from a thrilling special hickory spot), and I love this clarity of purpose. The holes are great, and though many smaller courses try and manufacture different playing lines and angles for the second round, here there is an evident pride in the special nature of a collection of holes that require no deviation or apology. So off we go, and it is even more delightful this time, and somehow - with clubs of the same vintage as this Grand cru of golf courses - we both play better this time.

Of course, that left hand bunker on the seventh catches both our brassies, but other than that we keep it in play, and the quieter holes are given a chance to shine, which they do. The delicate cambers of the first and sixth fairways are more pronounced with the ball rattling along the ground, and a key feature of Flempton’s subtlety - the little swales and contours of the approaches - are magnified by the splendid condition. Now and then you come across a patch of land that seems to beam with the dedication of its custodians, and though we never quite catch Kimberley and her small team as they move through the course ahead of us, we get to bask in the magnificent fruits of their labour.

Tim is well-travelled, and we speak of many places and courses, but when he describes his path to living not so far from here, something clicks for me. A friend warned him that the Norfolk/Suffolk borders are the “graveyard of ambition”, and I can’t think of anything I like the sound of more, besides ball on persimmon. Ambition feels dangerous to me, such striving a state in which it is too simple on a morning like this to miss the simple beauty in the dewy silks of a funnel-web spider’s lair, or the violent ricochet of a pulled cleek. For golfers this often means bucket lists, and exorbitant green fees, and the lining of pockets that are already full to bursting with gold, and for what? To say we’ve played the very same places as all the other folk?

Tim and I handle ancient hickory shafts, with worn leather grips, funny dimpled heads and no real indication of how far we might hit the ball with each. And it is as glorious as it is ridiculous, to make this mortifying game harder still, but here we are, laughing when we flush it, and laughing when we top it. It occurs to me that hickory golf itself might be the “graveyard of ambition”, but it is also a chance to find something remarkable, something intoxicating. Which is sort of how I feel about Flempton.

The sound of Tim’s lacquered spoon as it nurses a ball towards that kink in the eighth fairway rings across my eardrums with the same welcome feeling that the Olivetti gives me, and though correcting our many faults with hickories is as difficult as is the application of long-dried Tippex to cartridge paper, this stubborn resistance to ambition feels like a powerful secret to have unearthed this morning.

It is hard to leave here - to drive past that empty first tee - without feeling tempted by another quick nine, but I have to leave, and on the short drive to Mildenhall, I find myself stunned. Stunned that there are so many wonderful people who find joy in the exploration of these golfing backwaters (Tim, Mike; that’s both of you, by the way); stunned that they are willing to read my rambling missives and put up with my equally rambling golf. Stunned that two courses this good exist in quiet isolation in these parts, and stunned that this is but a fraction of the embarrassment of riches that English golf has to offer. Nowhere, not even Scotland, has so much variety in its ranks.

We don’t tend to talk much about Taylor as an architect for his playing career was so phenomenal, but his renovation work just to the side of Bury Road left behind something simple yet quietly complex, and it is still going strong, and still relevant to the modern game. And it is so much fun, so much fun. If this is the “graveyard of ambition”, then sign me up. I’m all in. Can’t wait…