Stymied Advent Calendar 2022 - #7 "A regular four"
Or, a reminder to get out and play, next time you’re invited. Don’t worry about the drizzle…
Since December 2021, I have sent out 91 of these Stymies. The first one reached two people; the latest was sent to (somehow) over 650 of you. People are either very bored, or they share the same fascination with this daft game that I have sought to rekindle in this last year or so. Or perhaps a mix of those two factors.
In order to get some of the earlier ones in front of a few more eyes, I will be sharing a selection of re-issued Stymies daily until Christmas Eve; a Stymied Advent Calendar. If you have enjoyed reading them, please share them and encourage others to subscribe. Thank you very much indeed!
8th January 2022: “A regular four…”
The familiar, chalky pillars line the corridors of the Clubhouse, revealing the winners of various competitions, past and present. Their names and scores are like ghosts from the early days of this strange, tribal community that is a “Club”.
For golf is not like most other leisure pastimes. You don’t just bring your chequebook to this sort of Club, mystifying though that is to some of the locals, whose personal, financial wealth will buy them almost anything else on earth. No, in these sort of places, there is a code to be followed, a process, and as a result of it, the people who become part of that network have a protective attitude, and a collective pride, about this collection of more or less like-minded folk. It’s not for everyone.
It becomes something more than the sum of its parts; more than simply a golf facility with a building next to it. It becomes an association that can celebrate all that is special about this old game. The calibre of the golf courses helps - St George’s Hill featuring three fabulous loops of nine holes, with some of Harry Shapland Colt’s finest work to be seen here on a property that rides through rolling heathland contours. But there is also this sense of being part of something very special, where golfers have relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company for a very long time.
Our host, R, knows this place like the back of his hand. A Member for decades, he’s seen every inch of the land here, and you can feel his sense of deep connection to the Club. It is part of him, this feeling of loyalty to the place, of familiarity. It is a safe place to retreat from the rigours of business, to combine fresh air with friendship and camaraderie, and a little gentle exercise, too.
We four gather in the bar, smiling to be here and back in each other’s company, and the green leather armchairs seem to suck us in, ready for the warm-up ahead. We chat, choose a sandwich, and, as we sit under the flapping flag of St George, high above us on the roof, we are caricatures of the English mentality, discussing the prospect of light rain as we peer out of huge windows, overlooking the 1st and 10th tees.
A glass of white each, and we chew the fat for a while, catching up on people and places. We’re all well-travelled in this golfing world, and have plenty to talk about, but the conversation itself is somehow not the most important bit. It’s that we are not in a hurry here, for a change, and that, with this rare treat of a leisurely lunch, we have the time to be fully present with each other, to properly listen.
We laugh as a few drops of rain prompt another bottle of the white, a delicate Burgundy that goes down very well. Our sandwiches are cleared away, but they will not soak up all the alcohol, as our notional start time drifts by amidst further laughter, and talk of “drizzle”. Eventually, we struggle to our feet, and out on to the tee, and the cool air and demanding walk are helpful in clearing the tipsy feeling.
As ever, the golf is wonderful out here. The course is deserted, and we trade pars, bogeys, and gentle banter for a few holes before sobering up enough to start scoring. A few memories linger of that front nine - one of us misses the 5th fairway by fully eighty yards right (not me!); another throws his ball out from the shallow bunker beside the 7th green in disgust, his cigarette smoke a reminder of that old Hamlet ad.
We stand on the 8th tee, and I notice R’s smile as he surveys this fine view once again. As the others tee off, he is just staring down at the green, perched above a rugged heather hollow, and behind and above it, the rain clouds have cleared so the late afternoon sun peers at us. It is a gorgeous place to be, and his quiet observation of this spot, where he has been a thousand times before, seems almost transcendent.
After the 9th, we catch the starter for a quick chaser at the hut, and then head down the impossibly difficult 10th. R and I are out right, looking for my wayward push off the tee, and he talks of carrying a little stress of late, the topic coming from nowhere. I’m surprised, and say so, as to my mind R is always smiling, always happy.
Writing this I realise that’s not always the case, as he shows a tendency to use some choice Anglo-Saxon at himself when his golf slips, but it is always self-directed and never out of place, or offensive. He is encouraging and thoughtful company, and this mention of an inner anxiety in this charming friend seems more than I was expecting.
We play on, through the back nine, and as the Chablis wears off and the hills take their toll, we are all tired trudging up the 18th. I can’t remember who won, though I know it was close as the banter carried on until the bitter end, but that seems about right to me. We’re here, four friends, for each other’s company and to enjoy the delights of one of the world’s greatest golf courses, not to keep score. We’ve come to have fun and to make memories, and we do those things far better than we play golf.
A quick soft drink, and we look each other in the eye and shake hands. A rare afternoon off to do this is replenishing, and before we part we vow to do it again soon, to not leave it too long next time. We have come together, shared a few hours with each other, and left the car park richer as a result of this place, this community.
This is why we play this maddening game - not for status, or out of pride, or to win, for no-one wins at golf in the long run. We play to feel alive, with the flawed golfing partners we come to admire, love even. To share something that feels like a privilege, like all those who have gone before us, their lives captured on those Clubhouse pillars.
A couple of weeks later, a devastating text arrives, followed by a call. R had suffered a fatal heart attack, and is gone, far too young. A stunned distraction from the routines of life lasts a few days; the awful news truly shocking. There are no words for these moments, but I am glad that we faced the extra bottle or two of white that afternoon, and, when we could finally handle not another drop, faced also the moderate likelihood of “drizzle” (I can almost hear R say it, a smile forming as it comes out).
I am glad that we stole an afternoon to play what would be our final game together, this regular four, and that I looked into R’s mischievous eyes to shake his hand at the end, and thank him, most sincerely. I was thanking him for hosting us, for organising it, but here I am thanking him on a broader scale, for being a friend, one of the people who genuinely cared, one of the ones I will never forget. I like to think that he is somehow back on that 8th tee, forever surveying this place he really, really loved.
I miss R, ever the gentleman, the fun we four had when we met, and his very occasional foul language when he missed a short one, despite that funny habit of lining up with the ball behind the putter. But I know where to find him. He’s with the other ghosts, at his beloved St George’s Hill. And he left me something behind - a determination to take more afternoons off, and head for the tee, drizzle or not.