Pitchmarks #84 - "Dearly Preloved"
(Text reproduced with the kind permission of The Links Diary, in whose Number 10 Edition the original appears)
I’ve always had a weakness for charity shops. There’s sometimes a sense in which you feel like you are giving a specific purchase a second chance; a new lease of life. Relieving them of the ignominy of sitting unwanted on the shelf, stripped of the lure of the shiny new label.
Plus there’s the uncertainty of it all. What might you find, hidden amongst the tat? A book that might change you, a classic record that has been ditched for the digital age? Now and then, some golf equipment - an old set, some found balls. I will never forget the look of horror across my children’s faces as I caught them up in the streets of Woking, where the old furniture shop had yielded not one but two sets of pyratone-shafted clubs. Mortified, they were, but there was a delightful hickory putter lurking in the corner of one of those battered bags. I was thrilled.
Rumbling down the road from another dose of golf’s freshest air, upon Cleeve Hill, my van knows the way home and I can relax, and reflect. And then - on a quiet corner of nearby Prestbury - I notice a sign I’ve not spotted before, and realise there is a charity shop at the foot of this incline I love so much. It doesn’t take a lot to make me whip out the diary and plot another visit to Cleeve, but here, in a casual glance to my right as the traffic slows through the village, is a compelling factor in the planning process. For next time, I will ensure I have a few spare minutes, in order to step across another threshold; that of “Dearly Preloved”.
The limestone perch that peers down on Cheltenham has brought me so much already. The pearl in the great golfing secret that is the Cotswolds, Cleeve Hill encapsulates most of what I hold dear in golf these days. It is rugged and raw; sacred and sustainable. The architecture shines despite the staggering nature of the surroundings - “more than fifty percent air”, as I routinely say, as if caught in a mantra. And there’s a thousand stories here - of different clubs and times, and here and there you can still see some old signs, like a tee marker that reads “Cleeve Cloud Golf Club”; an unimaginably poetic name for a wonderful place like this. Except there are no other places like this.
So the days charge past, and the next pilgrimage begins, and I find a place to park and venture in - heading for the bookshelf to begin with. And there’s bits and bobs - Spike Milligan’s memoir is tempting, but my pile of books “to read” is unstable at its current height, so I resist. A couple of other volumes pique my interest, but I have in the back of my mind a need to declutter, so the terms of engagement are strict these days.
But then, as I am about to head out empty-handed and slightly relieved, a tall box lurking behind the strip curtains of the back office catches my eye, and I spot the unmistakable black and green livery of an old “Golf Pride Victory” grip poking out. Beneath it is a tatty sticker that screams “Dynamic Gold”. So I give the kind lady her fifty pence piece, and tell her she ought to have charged more. I buy a few arty cards to go with this latest discovery, and then carry on up the Hill.
In the pro shop, the hire sets are legendary, and tempting. Original PING Eye irons, the first ones. A Golden Goose putter; some Big Berthas. And the most exquisite set of butter-knife Hogan blades; ready to deliver pain and pleasure up some old romantic’s arms in unequal measure.
The sort of “retro” feel fits Cleeve so well, I think to myself, as Eric the club Land Rover rumbles past the window. But once I have swapped out an old, disloyal lob wedge for my new flame - the Vokey - even the club’s stock can’t tempt me from playing with my own assembly. For in the red Sayers bag someone left leaning against their recycling, I have my own collection of little beauties to wield. And that this half-set cost me less than ten pounds brings nothing but delight.