Getting to the end of January is a slog. Right now if I was asked to bring the Christmas decorations down from the loft I probably wouldn’t question it. February, though, and even March, is where the real pain lies in the UK winter grind – it’s not the despair, etc. St Patrick's Day, 17 March, always seems to bring a sudden uptick in warmer, brighter weather, and usually signals a welcome shift in seasons. For golfers, typically whose local is a parkland and therefore essentially unplayable until spring, that treadmill feels even steeper.

<blockquote class="bluesky-embed" data-bluesky-uri="at://did:plc:4nfe4a3yqovelzu2qzxyrgqz/app.bsky.feed.post/3lgdz4tnwks2j" data-bluesky-cid="bafyreigfuvtyv7gg54ym7457e4u7lufximwypqqghj2c4a4tlj6hcunzoq"><p lang="en">Backswing better but then over the top.<br><br><a href="https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:4nfe4a3yqovelzu2qzxyrgqz/post/3lgdz4tnwks2j?ref_src=embed">[image or embed]</a></p>&mdash; Tom (<a href="https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:4nfe4a3yqovelzu2qzxyrgqz?ref_src=embed">@tomajbritten.bsky.social</a>) <a href="https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:4nfe4a3yqovelzu2qzxyrgqz/post/3lgdz4tnwks2j?ref_src=embed">22 January 2025 at 18:36</a></blockquote><script async src="https://embed.bsky.app/static/embed.js" charset="utf-8"></script>

Going to a cold, covered, floodlit driving range feels like a punishment, but given I’d not picked up a club yet in 2025, and as an escape from the political horrors rabidly playing out in America dominating daily life, I decided it was time last week to do so. Amusingly, my mother-in-law, who is lovely, unusually popped round for a cup of tea and a chat while I was out, and her daughter diligently explained that it was, in fact, the first time I’d ‘played’ in weeks. Once I'd finished practicing swing changes and was back in the car, there were idle thoughts about this exact scenario and whether my wife would have my back in the conversation. Golf was ever-present in 2024 and largely only possible with her support.

Before returning the clubs to my locker at Rushcliffe, I stood in the car park at the back of the 18th green for a moment and imagined it being roughly May. The views out the front of the clubhouse overlooking large areas of the course and beyond towards Nottingham are far better and more interesting but, for some reason, the 18th, the weakest hole of the lot, really does it for me on arrival. Perhaps because it’s the first thing I walk past early on a Saturday morning which is not yet busy away from the first tee and practice areas. I always stop, full of excitement and a forced-down sufficient breakfast, and make a mental note of the pin position for later. I’d take a picture of the daybreak conditions for my – now nuked (see above) – Instagram stories complete with temperature sticker. Mostly, I stop to just relax and to anticipate the morning ahead. At that moment I always feel grateful. And I always forget the pin position.

Winter 2024 was relentless and remorselessly merged into spring; March was mild but constantly grey and wet. “A week of dry weather and we will be off and running,” noted Will Dobson, our young head greenkeeper, optimistically on 5 April 2024 in his excellent course updates to members. April was even worse. Will, who incidentally writes better than the club management, had a hell of a promotion taking the reins that year and has described extremes in the weather (40°C in July ‘22) as “broken” and “due to changes in our climate ... something we need to get used to.” Rushcliffe, on the side of a hill, was open earlier than most clubs in the area but the season’s starting competitions were chopped, changed, and delayed. The single benefit of that five-month period was some unifying small talk.

By May we were back, frequently checking the weather – usually a sign of something to look forward to – with confidence, and I spent the first half of the season fitting the weekly Thursday evenings and Saturday mornings in. These are the bread-and-butter back white tee competitions, both hugely enjoyable but quite different in mood. Thursdays are always a bit frantic with occasional early darts from the office and unwanted work calls taken on the practice areas, while Saturdays are more leisurely but conversely busier and more serious. I did manage to fit in some aways with mates: Hadley Wood and Horsley Lodge in May, Sherwood Forest in June.

At Horsley Lodge, I somehow managed to deface the crown of my new-ish mini driver, which I use as a 3-wood, a forgiving club I have plenty of confidence with. Too much confidence, in this case. Too eager to clear a dry stone wall in the distance on a lush Derbyshire countryside tee box in spring. I tried to hit that ball so hard off the tee the club plunged into soft ground below. Despite the absence of any stones, it surfaced with a wide metallic scrape on the otherwise dark, glossy top. The ball did not go very far. A sizeable imperfection on my favourite club now serves as a constant reminder of hubris each time I address the ball and look down at it. A mate has a video of this incident and it must be bad because I’ve not seen it. In the mini’s first outing at home with mates I excitedly topped one off the elevated 16th tee. Golf has a brutal knack of swiftly slapping you down if you step out of line, keeping you in check.

Hadley is a good friend’s London home club which I’ve had the great pleasure of before. Sherwood Forest, an hour up the road from my home in Nottinghamshire, was my first proper heathland. Hadley felt familiar as it’s designed by the same architect as my childhood club, Cavendish, though the fucking massive grander, large green complexes took some adjusting to and three-putting was easily done. Sherwood Forest equally beat me up and charmed the pants off me; I shot triple figures, which I thought I was over, and took nearly as many photos. Feedback from the sandy, firm fairways was a thrill, as was the prevalence of heather and gorse lining the course. It felt old and distinguished and unlike anything I’d experienced before. In June it was immaculate and, as such, I didn’t fully appreciate a heathland’s playability in less than perfect conditions until I returned there at the end of September with a few other courses under my belt.

The next visit mid-July was Coxmoor, another excellent heathland in north Nottinghamshire and, coincidentally, the last working day in my job after taking voluntary redundancy and cashing in my leave. Qualifying for the generous package required two years service and a lot of luck. I was comfortable but fairly miserable and there was no progression for me. I snapped their hand off and they obliged. I remember my boss remarking in our first meeting after I applied, “I think the stars have aligned for you, Tom.” Too right they had, and I played four times in five days the following week – Cavendish, which I drunk booked last minute on a whim and the weather forecast, and Woodhall Spa Hotchkin.

The National Golf Centre at Woodhall Spa, Lincolnshire, is the home and headquarters of England Golf, the governing body for amateur golf in England. The sprawling site boasts an academy and performance centre billed as “one of the most comprehensive golf training centres in Europe” with coaching programmes available to anyone. We were there to play one of its two championship courses, the superior Hotchkin – a glorious example of a UK heathland famed for its vast, rugged, prehistoric-looking bunkers.

We snagged a twilight round for £80 each which, given its quality and ranking, is a steal. All the planning, logistics, and effort to get there melted away as we plotted our way around the Hotchkin attempting to avoid its many perils from tee to green and the 143 bunkers. In good weather and a setting sun draping the already pretty course in burnished rays, there was definitely a shared moment among friends coming down the last as we chatted to an affluent and friendly senior member who’d appeared out of nowhere. No one was taking it for granted, even the elderly dude, and for us it had all been worth it.

Earlier that week in July, I went back to Cavendish, Buxton, near to where I grew up in the Peak District of Derbyshire. Having spent most weekends at the club in my early/mid-teens, while my father presumably played in the regular member competitions, but had not seen the place for almost 30 years, returning was a lot. I didn’t know how I’d feel coming back, whether it would stir up good or bad memories of my childhood, or how much of the course I’d remember. I did know that I had entered their annual 36-hole (two rounds back-to-back on the same day) singles stroke play open competition in September. 

Opens are often really good value, normally in a pairs format, and a great way of playing decent venues on the cheap – this one is especially so at £50. Many times I’ve finished a round at a top course, sat down for a beer afterwards and thought, “I’d love to do that all over again immediately.” Coming back to play Cavendish was something on my bucket list probably before even returning to golf, and I needed to do this first on my own. I could happily play that moorland track every week for the rest of my life if the weather allowed, a sentiment shared by others who know its layout well. Aside from the course itself, the rest of the property felt very small compared to when I was a kid. The village I grew up in felt the same. Taking the time alone before, during, and after my round was sensible to process a whole load of mixed emotions.

The only disappointment was how little I remembered about each section, in terms of insider info, but flashes of important moments and favourite holes (the 7th!) were still there, as were instincts about positioning on fairways and greens. I’m not a big hitter, now or then, however I was able to reach different landing spots off the tee which refreshed the experience.

“There are elevated tee-shots on both the 4th and 9th holes at Cavendish – par 3s playing over deep valleys, like 4, 6 and 12 at Augusta,” on these holes I only needed a clipped 50° wedge rather than sheepishly hiding a 9-iron from my peers in the ‘90s. The changeable weather held, just about. As usual, I took a ton of photos, another thing I needn’t distract myself with in September. It was really fun.

August involved a big schlep down to Aldeburgh in Suffolk, three and a half hours drive, and featured my first taste of a UK links during a family holiday to Aberdovey in Wales. I’ll cover Aberdovey in another edition (spoilers: it was good). Aldeburgh, England's second oldest maritime heathland course, has views of a North Sea estuary and the first time I was presented with imposing sleeper-faced bunkers. Its proximity to the coast meant the conditioning was top notch and, like the other heathlands this year, required thought and accuracy off the tee.

With support from a mate up from London, who I met halfway, and after our time at Woodhall Spa’s Hotchkin, I think the penny dropped that day at Aldeburgh on playing tough, unfamiliar courses. I played to my handicap, which I’d be delighted with at home, and had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. Capped off with a quick trip to the seaside (you’ve got to while there, haven’t you?) and a pint beside the beach.

As post-round debriefs go, it was up there.

[To be continued…]