Pitchmarks #74 - 24th November 2024 - Thanksgiving

Pennard, South Wales

As I sit here reflecting on another marvellous mission, I realise that it is now eighteen years since I first set eyes on the links at Pennard. First gazed out across those rolling fairways at the flapping silks, and the ruined castle, and the glorious sands of Three Cliffs Bay.

Vast swathes of life seem to have drifted by since then, but somehow the last couple of years - spent unearthing my dormant love for golf via these missives, with a growing band of kindred spirits - have brought me closer to the person I was back then, and so it is fitting that I once again step from this same clubhouse out into the gentle breeze.

A fellow named Sean first brought me here, I recall, and also, much later, to Cleeve Hill, so that my partner today will be Simon of Cleeve brings with it a certain satisfaction. For it was places like that, and Minch Old, and Borth that rekindled my interest in a starker version of the game whilst writing Grass Routes. Much of the time since then has been spent hunting down other such spots, but no volume that wished to speak of these rugged golfing outposts could be complete without Pennard for me, for it was Pennard all those years ago that sparked some sense of another, purer type of golf, away from the headline tracks.

So even though it is now late November, even though the temperature is two below, it is very much west we are heading. I will spend four times as long on the road as I will on the course today, but Pennard is open, so we shall be playing.

We arrive, and sneak out before the fourballs, the course ahead now empty after a morning shotgun. That strong start floods back immediately, a tough par four under the gaze of a packed lounge then a stunning par three; the course in fabulous condition. And then off running down towards that far corner, and the views that go on for ever. The turf cares not that it is meant to be winter, for the ball runs and bounds and skips along just like us. Mounds and hollows play havoc with our strokes, but now and then Pennard gives back with the odd friendly bounce, and we marvel at how natural it all seems up here. I try to capture some faint facsimile of how inspiring the day feels, but Simon just laughs, for taking snaps into the sun is “a mug’s game”, but so is golf.

Geological time laid out this place; James Braid just added a few flags, but his gift for golfing adventure can’t be more perfectly displayed anywhere else, can it? The first loop is subtle, and strategic, and quietly thrilling, then the back nine swings out towards the cliffs and the remnants of the Norman fort, and I recall Sean telling me he paused between nines his first time here, to pop into the office and join. No greater compliment could one bestow than this, yet it was not a rash decision but an indication of his instant affection for this place, and the quality of his judgement. Love at first sight, and his subsequent back nine will have done little to dampen it, for it gets more dramatic, more exhilarating, as you go.

By the end of it all, I feel like Pennard transcends golf, somehow. It’s the whole package, wrapped up in one brilliant parcel, and I am no longer sad that I’ve been away for so long, but instead delighted, for I get to discover it all over again with fresh eyes. It’s like someone plucked my favourite parts of Cleeve Hill, and Brora, and St Enodoc, and blended them into one, and that the golf can compete at all with the breath-taking, mind-bending views of this Gower Peninsula speaks volumes.

I am, despite playing like a novice, elated to be back, and grateful for days like these for they make me feel so very alive. I started playing this “mug’s game” across another of Braid’s Welsh routings aged ten, and by the end of Thanksgiving this coming Thursday, I’ll be five times that number, ready for the Seniors Tour. And yet the childlike joy of those initial golfing years has never quite gone away, the flame fanned by days that go like this, and by the act of trying to make sense of it all with my little old fountain pen. And no words can do it justice, and of course neither could my photos, but I long for these moments to linger, and linger they do, in my heart.

We have much to be thankful for, this Thanksgiving, but I shall limit my gratitude here to just a few things that make me very, very happy. To places like Pennard, and people like Sean and Simon, and Jamie and Dai, and a thousand others who cherish and celebrate them as I do. And to each and every one of you who bother to spend your precious Sunday morning here, drinking coffee and hunting for pitchmarks. That’s the best birthday present I’ve ever known. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.