Pitchmarks Archive ADVENTure #12 - "If you know, you know"

A northerly gale at Western Gailes

It is extraordinary, the lengths to which a golf addict will stretch in order to quench their thirst, grab that fix. As I walk towards the clubhouse of my latest maiden voyage, I am amused by how much in the way of organisation and mileage have passed in the last 21 hours, in order to be here, at Western Gailes, with just enough light to get round. But the moment I step into the foyer, and glance right into the Dining Room, I can hear amidst the clinking glasses and roars of laughter some accents that remind me that my journey here is modest by comparison. Others have crossed the Atlantic.

For though Western Gailes isn’t the most famous course on this fine stretch of coast, I have come to understand that it is far more than just another links. One friend’s eyes light up when I mention that I am heading here; another well-travelled golfer declares that for him “it will always be in the top five, though the other four may change”, and thus my anticipation has steadily grown in the last few weeks.

But my research stops there, for I have come to value turning up with minimal preparation, and soaking in the whole experience free of preconceptions. And, as so often is the case, a first impression sets the tone. In the shop, a young man called Grant gets me organised; a passionate golfer himself, he is visibly excited for me to play these holes for the first time, though an injury means I can’t drag him out with me. But he is an asset to this club with his warm welcome and cheerful demeanour.

In between the old timber lockers, I change my shoes and enjoy small-talk with those who have already battled the course today. As usual, each player has a different tale of woe to tell, but it feels as if they regard the details as unimportant beside the joy of having played. I am told the weather up here has been awful all week - awful by even Scottish, coastal standards - though I have picked a fine weekend to explore Ayrshire. But the weather for me is rather like the score for them - just one of the details of the day, but not critical to my enjoyment.

I stroke a few putts and then wander over to the starter’s hut, where Freddie is waiting under a bucket hat. He has been here since half past seven, gently encouraging members and visitors alike through the last really busy day of the season up here. But though I am a single, and happy to work it out for myself, he takes pride in his role here, and rightly so for he does it well.

I arrive on his doorstep fifteen minutes before my slot, but we chew the fat for most of those, and then I spot behind him the sort of detail I might have known about had I done my research. For years, Freddie and his predecessor in this role have quietly relieved visitors of their bag tags, and as I peer at the wide range of styles, clubs and continents featured, I can’t help taking a few photos. For research purposes, you understand!

But among the dozens of mysterious new leads to be found on this collage, there are many world-famous clubs represented, and it feels like a clue. Western Gailes sits happily in the shadow of some pretty famous neighbours and yet from this wall, and the list of great players who have plotted their way through the links - Vardon, Sarazen, Player, Watson, McIlroy - it is clear that this is no ordinary golf course. Freddie gets no tag from me - I am these days a nomadic golfer - so I promise him a book instead, and he wishes me luck out there in the wind, and another precious golfing encounter is over.

The first four are straight into the breeze, which makes for a challenging start, but I am instantly charmed by the wonderful conditioning and some beautiful green complexes. The turf is as links should be - firm, strong, resisting the club through impact. The fairways flow between strategic bunkers and marram-clad hillocks, but it is around the hole where the course stands out. Each approach seems to offer a different challenge, but the contours both on and around the green make for fascinating recovery play if you miss the green, which I invariably do.

The wind seems to pick up as I head towards the northern end of this layout, and I realise that while I’ve played a bit of links golf recently, it’s been a while since I’ve been out in this strong a draught. And then it dawns on me that I’ve not played alone for months - alone with only my thoughts for company. This is mainly how I started playing golf - endless loops round the pitch and putt, just me and a club and a ball - and it is just what I need, this space to think.

Or maybe to not think, for life has been busy of late, and somehow this afternoon feels like respite. All I can hear through these opening holes is the rhythmic clink of my blades as I walk, an occasional herring gull squawking overhead, and the perpetual bluster of the wind, flapping my trouser legs and blasting all thoughts from my head. Once or twice, I even notice a train slide by along the eastern boundary of the course, but despite their proximity - “GAILES” was a halt on this line when the club opened in 1897, as evidenced by the original sign in the clubhouse - I can’t hear them above the wind. And I realise how much I miss this elemental experience, and how the same, soothing blanket of sound is present atop the mountains I occasionally visit.

I drop down onto a little path through the dunes to reach the fifth tee, and suddenly the noise drops away in the shelter of the mounds, and a gentle peace emerges. The wind has not abated, of course, and I am glad to feel it as I emerge to the southbound carriageway of Western Gailes, for I have earned the right to now play downwind for a while. In the morning, it will have blown itself out, and I shall then face Prestwick in the calmest conditions imaginable, but this afternoon it “blows a hoolie”, and the occasional pockets where the wind can’t get at me feel like a recharge, a chance to re-set.

And these trips, these golfing adventures to explore new horizons or to revisit old haunts, are the same refuge on a larger scale for me. Out of the buffeting gales of life, golf is a sanctuary through which I can replenish my soul, and return to the fairways of the rest of life inspired. I manage to salvage a par on the 5th by virtue of a rare visitor to my game, a well executed chip, and then the best strike of my afternoon soars over the flag at the fabulous 6th - “Lappock” - pitching near the “Barber’s Pole” - a red and white marker that shows the way for anyone straying off the centreline from the tee.

I am immediately back in the realms of the hopeless chip after finally locating my ball, but with no-one behind, I linger around to hit a few putts, marvelling at the contours in and around this elusive green. The severity of the slopes are reminiscent of some of the complexes at Deal, and the presentation is on a par with that Kentish marvel, though even there I don’t recall a wind this persistent.

The holes continue to delight and defeat me - both the 8th and 10th are short fours, downwind, but with burns that carry water down from the distant quarry to my left. Combine these watery graves with firm playing surfaces and all hope of control goes out of the window. The 11th green - appropriately named “Plateau” - is at a tangent to the fairway, guarded by a devilish hollow on the left, and the vista from the 12th tee along the vast sandy beaches of Irvine Bay and across to Arran is as beguiling as the view down the fairway.

After the picture-postcard 13th swings across the bottom angle of the property, my planner informs me that the 14th - “Whins” - should now be down the prevailing wind, but the only thing that is prevailing out here is the golf course, and the last five are played into the same howling gusts that greeted me as I started. The temperature has dropped, along with the sun, and as the shadows lengthen and my hunger grows, I am already wanting to slow things down, to savour each remaining shot, each view, each blistering gust of this northerly gale.

By the time I putt out - a par, par finish broadens the smile across my aching face - it is almost dark, but when I go in to retrieve my shoes, Grant is still around, and laughter continues to spill from the Dining Room, one sitting blending into the next in the welcome shelter of this lovely clubhouse. He takes me up the stairs and into the original portion of the building, and there I am enchanted by the historic photos, by the old hickories hanging on the walls, and by the glimpse, through the window, of what remains of the old railway station, before it became another victim of Beeching’s Axe.

The final photo I take to keep my memories of this magical afternoon fresh is of a cigarette card - issued as one of 25 by John Player & Sons in 1936 under the theme “Championship Golf Courses”. The note accompanying this card explains that only four other Scottish courses were included in this collection - The Old Course, of course, Muirfield, Carnoustie and Prestwick, and though it will be another twenty-four hours until I can reflect on finally seeing the latter of these marvels, I can feel myself nod as I think of my affection for the first three, and of how Western Gailes has made a similarly strong initial impression on me, though I’ve played poorly.

It’s a tight piece of land - the traditional thin strip of dunesland on which many of the ancient courses were laid out, albeit with the clubhouse in the middle of the inner stretch rather than at one end - and so it will never hold an Open, for the infrastructure of the modern, corporate carnival could not be accommodated here.

But for the spectacular setting, for the stylish flow of the course and the outrageously fine turf, and for the startling simplicity of Western Gailes’ quiet majesty, it absolutely belongs in such company. I glance at the website to double-check a hole number, though I already remember almost every shot out there, and notice a sub-page title that seems to sum up, in five words, what I have spent eighteen hundred trying to describe.

Regarding Western Gailes, “if you know, you know”.

Sometimes these blog posts come tumbling out; sometimes they are hard to find. Occasionally, there is nothing more than a game of golf in a game of golf, and I let the page stay blank for the next time. And reading through these posts, as I so seldom do once they’ve flown the nest, is a peculiar experience. Some I like; others seem a little clunky.

Now and then, I can tell that I loved writing a particular essay as much as I loved playing the golf course or meeting the people, and when that is the case, the pieces seem to flow effortlessly in a way that my golf rarely does…as if I managed to get out of the way, rather than impose myself in the writing. So that connection between the way I feel about a place and how the blog pans out interests me; they are linked.

In the case of Western Gailes, I was stunned at how simple and at the same time sophisticated the course seemed. In failing light, it felt a distinct privilege to be strolling around like that in such a gorgeous spot, and it felt like I carried a healthy dose of that gratitude into this effort. “I would go back there in a flash” was my first impression on re-reading this, and I sort of hope that some of you feel the same way about some of these places, and go and explore for yourself, or take a trip down memory lane.

I am pretty picky about where I play golf…it has to be somewhere that is drawing me in, intriguing me. They are therefore often wonderful, these golf courses. Maybe it is time you drew up your own list for the year about to strike…I am working on mine…

Until tomorrow…