Left to Right #3: 2024 [2/2]
Some year, all told
The catalyst for coming back to golf was passing my driving test on Bonfire Night in 2021. There’s no getting away from the fact that, in most cases, you really need to drive to be able to play golf regularly, certainly to get up and down the country as I did last year. And I live close to my home club; six minutes in the car, 20 minutes walk and three stops on a bus, or a 40-minute walk. The miles clocked up in 2024 was as much of an education as the golf.
I learned to drive in Buxton, Derbyshire – those hills teach you clutch control – but I never saw it through suffering the pain of failing a couple of early attempts, moved to Nottingham after school and didn’t need a car for any of my 20s. A backlog of practical tests due to the ongoing pandemic meant that if I failed, I wouldn’t get another chance again for five months at least. Following a handful of refresher lessons with a test already booked, I genuinely braced for bad news when the examiner said I’d passed and had to ask him to repeat himself. Flying colours, too, collecting only two minors.
At the time, I’d recently returned to carp fishing, another hobby which is dull difficult to exercise without your own transport. In the back of my mind, though, was that golf could be a viable thing again, but given it was winter, those thoughts got parked until the spring. I made full use of the practice areas when the weather improved and was happy that there was still some muscle memory. I played the first day of membership in July. I haven't gone fishing since.
Picking up where we left off, squeezed into the end of August was Luffenham Heath, with its crazy elevation on a Rutland common. Then into September, Frilford Heath Red in Oxfordshire, where I met up with three good friends from down south. A cherished rarity with everyone’s calendars.
My fourth round in five days that week at Frilford Heath took its toll in unexpectedly hot weather on a long, demanding, but immensely fun course. The greens are superb, the modern property is huge, and there are two other courses to play. I had a small enforced break of three days, before the Thursday/Saturday competitions at home, mindful that Sunday I’d be playing in the 36-hole Open at Cavendish – which we’ll get into next time (sounds ominous, right?).
Back from Cavendish, and much to my wife’s dismay, I met a mate in Wales the day after on Tuesday to play Celtic Manor, host of the Ryder Cup in 2010, and stayed overnight in one of the three hotels; a 332-room, 11-floor, five star resort. A preposterous venue and filled with golf tourists. Of the three championship courses, we played two; a drenched Roman Road where I couldn’t hit a ball walking in after nine, and the purpose-built Ryder Cup course, the Twenty Ten.
Set up for fun, yet still a formidable challenge, boasting original Ryder Cup boards and a waiting photographer on the 1st to get the juices going. Not a traditional Welsh or UK course by any means, more resort and American, and is a tad derided for that, which is fair. But with water in play on half the holes, terrific green complexes, and several hero risk/reward situations on offer, it’s hard not to relish the Twenty Ten and pretend you’re a professional while doing so. Culminating in a cracking finishing hole, a par 5 beginning with a blind tee shot over a hill and then dramatically down and left towards a carry over water guarding the imposing final green. Paired with a middle-aged Dutch couple, touring the UK and divulging their highlights to us, who embraced on the 18th with a sweet kiss, they certainly enjoyed themselves as did we.
I travelled to Northamptonshire County on my own mid-September on impulse, taking advantage of their reduced green fee to club-affiliated County Card holders and some late-summer sunny weather. Half the battle of a visit is not paying full price if you can wangle it. A parkland in nature with free-draining heathland soil, I revisited Northamptonshire County with a friend in October eking out our season.
Much closer to home where we often take the dog is Charnwood Forest, a nine-hole moorland track which has no bunkers, small greens, and twists spectacularly through jagged granite outcrops. It was devilishly tough, hence the lack of any sand traps, and I relied heavily on advice negotiating numerous blind tee shots.
On a Friday morning on my own I was delighted to be matched with three members of Charnwood Forest, including two tradesmen my age, sinking cans of Stella and smoking rollies on their day off, one of whom notably off scratch.
Having recently got back from a swanky week’s trip to Portugal in early October – more on that in future – I was in awe of this guy with beat up clubs and a handicap I’d never get close to. I wanted to know everything about him. We talked more about the mental benefits of playing golf than anything else. Loves the game, could see I do too, had his own on/off story with fitting golf in his life, and was agreeable throughout. He also, naturally, exudes that calm, purpose, and generosity all good players do.
In many respects, it was as fulfilling as any day in Portugal and confirmed what I already knew – if I was satisfied here, playing badly on a modest course, this daft, beautiful game and the experiences it brings had its hooks firmly in. When I complete 18 holes at Charnwood Forest by playing another nine, it’ll be on an even cheaper guest rate with him and his mate.
Club competition season in 2024 was now well and truly over and the worms were ascending. Preferred lies (pick, clean, and place your ball on fairways) are in. Winter is coming save for pockets of approachable weather and a bit of luck with timing. Our home group’s away day finale was the first weekend of November back at Woodhall Spa, completing my personal set, to play the Bracken.
In contrast to the Hotchkin, the Bracken is a woodland and, even though the weather was good, I assumed we’d be boggy underfoot on the course. Not so, and the fast, firm greens, its primary defence, were outstanding. Eight of us occupied two groups and it felt like the embers of summer rather than deep into autumn. The shared mood was good. This would see me through winter, I reckoned.
I shook hands with a Nottingham Forest supporting mate on who would finish highest out of them and Manchester United in the Premier League this season, much to the derision of others around the table in the clubhouse. I figured he was just a bit giddy post-round and at Forest flying high in the league. Winter was not kind to me on that wager.
A penultimate 2024 trip to Formby on the north-west coast in late November, which again needs its own account, and then an adventure to Royal West Norfolk on the north Norfolk east coast the week before Christmas. Royal West Norfolk is an old-school, highly-rated links next to the North Sea where the tide not only affects the layout of the course and its salt marshes, but also access to the property. I did check the tide times before arriving – a condition of our booking getting in and out – though in an ‘09 plate Ford Fiesta and tidal flood water still covering Beach Road, I decided to ditch the car in the next village and walk the rest. I wasn’t the only one, other groups of golfers were also reassuringly lugging bags trudging their final way on foot.
Played #golf at Royal West Norfolk (top 20 in England) yesterday. It was good. Cold wind right off the North Sea. Here's @simondoggett.bsky.social helping me get out of a bunker.
[image or embed]
— Tom (@tomajbritten.bsky.social) 20 December 2024 at 16:07
A moderate 20 mph cold wind right off the sea was my first encounter of a links baring its teeth, and boy was it brutal. A minimum 3-club (more/less when against/with) wind, hitting driver hoping to make it on a par 3, and generally trying to shape the ball against the elements tests your creativity. It was, at least, bright and sunny, and the course was magnificent. Enormous sleepered bunkers, of which I got a quick and welcome lesson out of one – a smaller greenside trap where I was short-sided and got out with more luck than judgement at the second attempt.
The sanctuary of a warm, sturdy, thick-walled clubhouse revitalised us before the long drive home. Its grand, old mahogany-panelled “Smoke Room”, where we sat beside a crackling fire, oozed the history of the club. On the honours boards were all manner of ranks of nobility in the British peerage; counts, viscounts, barons, dukes, earls. I was more interested in the gentle conversation between, presumably, a grandfather and his grandsons on the next table, and the homemade golf ball baubles on the Christmas tree. Today was surely the last one of 2024.
Some year, all told – we’ll get into the Cavendish Open, Aberdovey, Formby, and Portugal over the next few weeks. Until then.