A Fortnight: The Coda

When last we visited, we had concluded play in Ballyliffin and were making plans for a our journey East to the North.  I know it makes little sense, but Ballyliffin is more northerly than any golf course in Ulster, so in a sense it was all downhill from there.  We would once again share the company of Carol and Lowell (remember Lynchpin Tours for all your Irish travel needs).

Goodbyes were made, thank yous were proffered and gifts were left behind for those who went above and beyond on our behalf.  But first there was one last dinner at the club in order to enjoy the views of the golf courses and Pollen Bay in the evening light, as well as one last opportunity to dine on the signature Simpson toastie (cheese, bacon and sausage).  And, with a Carlsberg inn front of me, it involved breaking my rules about combining beer with salty breakfast meats, but it needed to be done.

One last view of the evening skies over the links, top.  We both got a kick out of these two gents, who came off the ninth of the Glashedy and made a beeline for the putting green, bottom.  We assumed there were numerous three-jacks during play, and walking to our car we commiserated with them  over our mutual putting woes.

Once the car was loaded it was off to Greencastle to catch the ferry across Lough Foyle, all of a ten minute crossing but it does save an hour of driving.  We felt like locals as we ran into people we knew on the crossing, an Austrain couple who let us play through on 16 the prior day and with whom we spoke over lunch.

Do we think they miss us?  Theresa left some leftover chicken on the front lawn for Declan, Marion and Vivien, top.  Who knew there were Simpsons in Donegal, bottom?  Feeling more at home all the time.

The drive to Portrush takes about 45 minutes, and meanders along the coast for the first half of it with dramatic rock cliffs inland.  The road then veers through Coleraine but by 11:00 we were in the Courtneys comfortable sunroom with a cup of java in our hands.  the house was reloant of all sorts of sweet aromas, a harbinger of pleasures to come.

Then it was off to Portstewart Golf Club, Lowell's home club and an entirely underrated golf club.  It exists in the rather long shadow of Royal Portrush, in classic good news/bad news fashion.  It undoubtedly benefits from visitor traffic drawn by the repute of the tow "Royals" (Portrush and County Down), but it deserves to be appreciated for its own charms, vistas and challenges.

Theresa puts in some work on the scenic practice green, top, which would pay dividends in a mere four hours.  The L-man and the author on the first tee, bottom.

Portstewart starts big, with a dramatic first tee box up in the clouds and a difficult first that sweeps from left-to-right iith the green tucked behind a massive dune.  To my mind this is the best opener in links golf, though the over-rated first at Machrihanish usually gets that plaudit (and I say that as otherwise a lover of Machrihanish).  The entire front nine winds imaginatively through these massive dunes, and one is constantly doing a 360 degree scan to take in all the vistas.  

Lowell stripes it down the middle (yawn) on the dramatic first hole, top.  A view up the 5th hole, bottom, gives a sense of the scale of the dunes in play.  Alas, the author can confirm that the dune on the left is very much in play.

Unfortunately, the play did not live up to the quality of the track, with only Lowell acquitting himself well.  My day started well, with a great 4 iron out of the spinach from 190 yards that reached the front of the green followed by a 30 foot bomb.  As for the next seventeen, no need to dwell on that smorgasbord of smother hooks, chunks, thins, slices, and three jacks, with the occasional solid strike thrown in just to torment me further.  

Told you that dune was in play, top.  I got a huge break when the ball plugged and an even better break when the drop landed on a little terrace with an actual stance, and hit a great wedge to the green.  To show the kind of day it was, I then proceeded throw all that fortune out the window by three-putting.  The table top sixth green, bottom.  It's a nine iron or wedge, but fits well into the pantheon of great links short Par 3's (think 9th at Lytham), where perfect weight on the tee shot is required or a large number can ensue.

Theresa jumped out to a lead which she maintained through most of the back nine.  I pulled off of my best shots of the day, an hybrid from God-knows-how far-out to the front fringe on 16 and the par squared the match.

My shin splints spared me trolling the dunes for stray shots, top.  Bottom, Lowell hits a gem on the Par 3 twelfth, a shot that covered the flag its entire arc and settled eight feet behind the pin.  How dare you ask...of course he drained the putt.

We halved the seventeenth pushing the outcome to the difficult eighteenth, a long Par 4 back into the teeth of the wind.  Theresa left her third just short of the green and her so-so chip left her fifteen feet for bogey.  My second was short right of the green and my chip rolled some eight feet by.

Looking back at the wild dunes of Portstewart, top.  I dare you to hold the table top seventeenth with anything more than a putter, bottom.

Theresa took onlyy seconds before drilling her putt into the dead center of the cup.  She gave me a smile before my attempt for the halve, which slid over the left edge of the cup.

By far the best part of the day was dinner with our dear friends at their home, with Carol doing that voodoo that she do so darn well.  Without revealing state secrets, let me just leave you with the concept of home baked wheaten bread.  Need I say more?

The star of the evening, Carol and Lowell's companion Missy.

Current Standings:

T. Simpson   3.5

S. Simpson  4.0

The Matches Resume

Dates with the Captain and deep tissue wounds may have delayed things, but as sure as taxes and the mail is the inevitable resumption of hostilities.  Though, alas, accommodations were required...  My shin splint (singular, left shin only) is still quite painful, and with the hope of playing three more rounds I needed to be careful.  Accordingly, I was obligated to do the unthinkable, to pay any price, bear any burden as it were, and rent a buggy.  Walking the course is a first principal for me, and I recount these events with a deep sense of personal shame.  We chose the Old in the hopes that it would necessitate a lesser amount of trampling through the Maram rough in search of stray ammo.  That proved true enough, but what wasn't adequately considered was the sense of driving the buggy over those splendidly hummocked fairways.

Which of these does not belong?  The Old Links marker stone, an experienced links player or a g********n buggy?

Theresa was off form as we started, and I quickly reeled off the first four holes.  But no sooner did my mind meander to thoughts of closing it out early and resting the aching gam, but she reels off the next four to square the match.

No day on the Old is complete without the obligatory photo of T on the third tee.

 It went back and forth from there in nip and tuck fashion.  Theresa made par and won the tenth, lost the eleventh to my par and won the Par 3 twelfth when we both made three.  She got even again when I made a mess of thirteen.

The cart parked on the hillocks gives some sense of the terrain.

The two dimensional photos still don't quite capture it, but the hillock to the side of the cart is every bit as high as the cart itself.  It's magical (at least to me) to watch one's shots bounce along thses fairways, disappearing into hollows and bounding back into view, as they can roll out forty or fifty yards on a low tee shot.  It also creates moments of dread for the player, for instance when there's a hollow short of a bunker you can't know if your ball is safe until you get to it.

I won fourteen with a  bar after my single best shot from the Maram and a great uip and down. won fifteen also with a par and sealed the deal with my best shot of the day, a  150 yard six iron (I usually hit it 170-175 yards) into the teeth of the wind to ten feet.

A view of our "new house" from the Old Course, it's the yellow house on the far right.

We had a bit of serendipity in this, our last round in Ballyliffin ((on this trip, I hasten to add).  It had started raining on No. 16 and after hitting my tee ball on No. 17 I had put on my rain jacket, and as we got to No. 18 it showed no signs of letting up.  With the match over and my leg still a concern, I suggested we forgo No. 18 and drive ourselves back to the clubhouse, an eerie coincidence with our maiden voyage  (if you didn't venture back for the critical expository post, it can be found here).  It seems the Gods looking out for our friends at Ballyliffin know how to leave then wanting more.

Current Standings:

T. Simpson   2.5

S. Simpson  4.0

Flotsam and Jetsam, Part II

The second in a continuing series of feverish musings of an itinerant golfer that's been over-served:

One note about my Wednesday game with Olle and the Captain that I forgot to mention.  As I was putting my golf shoes on and organizing my bag a car with a couple pulled into the space next to me and we exchanged the usual pleasantries.  I was on the putting green near the Glashedy 1st tee when I saw them going out as a three-ball with another woman.  They went past and then one of the women came back and inquired as to whether I was on my own and, if so, I'd be welcome to join them.  That's a gesture that seems typical of Ballyliffin but a kindness that doesn't happen many other places, as visitors are left to fend for themselves.  It confirms our choice for T and I.

I had mentioned Ashland in a prior post, the delightful young lady that mans the golf shop in the afternoons and is perpetually dissatisfied with the amount of content I post.

The always-smiling Ashland, who laughs at most of my jokes.  Fortunately I caught her out in the wild, where she didn't have a counter behind which to hide.

Theresa auditions for the French Lieutenant's Woman, patiently waiting for her hard toiling husband to arive home from his "office," the bar at BGC.

In a prior post I mentioned that we had a spectacular double rainbow.  We were sitting in our sunroom and as I turned towards T this is what I saw:

Our first view of the rainbow from the sunroom, top.  The full double rainbow from the front of the cottage, bottom.

I Wish They All Could Be Ballyfornia Girls:  Theresa enjoying a respite on the 15th tee of the Old.  'nuff said?

The world loved the kitty porn from my prior post, and I'm a man that believes in giving people what they want.

Declan holding court with Marion and Vivien at the house 3 doors down from our cottage.  Theresa saw the woman that lives there, and ever since has referred to it as the Grey Gardens House.

And, speaking of Marion and Vivien as we were, see if you notice the uncanny resemblance:

Vivien, top, and Marion, bottom.  It's uncanny, isn't it?  Separated at birth or something...

We came to the club last evening for dinner, and may well do the same tonight simply as an excuse to gaze out at the golf course and Pollen Bay in the evening light.  It really shows the course at its best, all sorts of vibrant shades of green mixed with lengthening shadows.  We also love to see the surprising number of people who come out and tee it up at 7:30 or later, often whole families.

Top, a group of evening golfers make their way down the first fairway of the old.  Bottom, the evening view of the two finishing holes, the Old in the foreground and the Glashedy behind it.

Glashedy Rock Island from the clubhouse terrace as the sun continues its inexorable decent.

 We were also blessed with a beautiful moon last evening, which necessitated a brief detour to the beach, where the surfers were still at it hoping to catch the big one.

Top, the moon from just outside the clubhouse.  Bottom, the dramatic lighting as the sun set at the Pollen Bay beach.

One last brief stop on the way home, this time at the house that Theresa has decided we should rent on our next visit.  As you'll see, its location is somewhat appealing.

The view towards Pollen Bay (top) and the clubhouse (bottom).

The house looks nice but there's one minor problem, it has five bedrooms and sleeps nineteen.  So it makes little sense unless every reader of this blog, including the guy in Peru, agree to come visit.

The Lonely Lives of Bloggers

Thought you might like a picture of your humble blogger in, as we've taken to calling it, his office.  When I leave T to come here for the WiFi it's that I'm going to the office.

The author in his chosen lair, chosen to optimize the monitor visibility and proximity to an electrical outlet.

I hope the picture is brighter on your screens at home, but it's the best I've got for now.

Ignorance and Brute Force

Spent a wonderful day on the golf course with Olle (apologies for previously misspelling his name) and the club's current Captain, Patrick Logue.  Olle and I had made the date the evening of the Members' Scramble and Patrick, with whom Olle is staying on this trip, was good enough to join us.

Ollle had asked me which course I preferred to play, and I attempted to deftly kick the ball back at him, telling him that we should play whichever course, tees and game they would play if they were off on their own.  After all, I'm here for the purpose of studying the genus and species Ballyliffinus Memberus.

It turns out that we played the Glashedy without the benefit or burden of a scorecard, a merciful format when you lose two balls off the second tee.  We played the age old game of hit it, find it (not always easy in the Maram grass) and hit it again.  It was a beautiful blustery day with, by my estimate a three-club wind.  Though, to be fair, Patrick considered it more of a wee breeze.  Unfortunately the weather didn't quite hold, as we got rained on playing the 17th and 18th, though it should be noted that that's the first rain I've experienced on the course since last Wednesday.

Patrick plays quickly and I did my best to keep up.  During our walks he was good enough to share with me his philosophy of life and golf.  "When alll else fails," he confided in me, "try ignorance and brute force."  I of course pressed for details of sequence and proportions, but further insights eluded me.  No photos of our day as the pace was too quick for that, but I was lucky to have the chance to discuss the specific holes and shot values as we made our way around.

The sevnth and fourteenth provided stiff tests in the strong wind, as the elevated tees buffeted the player unmercifully.  My hat blew off as I hit my shot at the seventh, and was lucky to have it end up playable from the hazard.  On fourteen, Patrick suggested we play from the black tees, some 180+ yards.  We played it with a strong, left-to-right wind, the hardest wind for a right handed player and the results weren't especially pretty.  But like giddy schoolchildren we dropped second balls to have another go at the near impossible shot.

One dark cloud on the horizon.  On Sunday I noticed some discomfort in my shin reminiscent of shin splints.  We took some precautionary measures and I gave myself the day off on Monday, but by the end of today's play it was most painful.  Not sure what to do about it, though if I'm to play tomorrow it may have to be in a, gasp, buggy.

Last night I looked up over Theresa's shoulder in our sunroom to see a spectacular double rainbow.  Pictures to follow, though I forgot to bring the necessary cable to transfer them to the laptop.

I'm drafting and posting this as we sit in clubhouse where we've come for dinner.  On our way in we picked out a couple of items in the golf shop, where Ashland was manning the counter.  I had given her the URL for the blog yesterday, and as we were paying she asked if there was any new content up.  Oh the pressure of a global audience clamoring for more....never satisfied.  How I suffer for you all!

Long Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply

During our travels, I've always taken many pictures of signs that catch my eye.  These cover all sorts of signs, including those that remind of notable places, those that explain and, of course, those that amuse.  Such amusement can be from mangled English, but more often in these parts comes from the typically British or Irish phraseology employed. An example of the latter are the ubiquitous "Traffic Calming Ahead" signs encountered on the way into most towns, warning the motorist to find the break pedal to avoid an incident involving the equally ubiquitous traffic cameras.  An example of the former, also without a photo, was from a trip many years ago to an extremely small Greek Island, where its one taverna lured English speaking vistors with a sign advertising "Homely Food."  Wish I still had that picture...

The astute reader will have by now grasped that I'm going to share some pictures of signs. So off we go...

This is from the Waterville Golf Links in Cty. Kerry, and tells the story of how the construction of the golf course accommodated a spot that had historical significance for local residents.  A simple hole name on the scorecard would not have done it justice.

I had never previously heard the term Social Tee, but it's a delightfully urbane way of telling the hacks which way to proceed.

This one is for Lowell, who takes perverse pleasure in the idea that the Garden of Eden is a cul de sac. 

Sometimes the signs invoke a somber note...  This one is from Ballycastle, the large town near where Theresa's Mom was born.

I must admit that it took me a moment to recognize the logic of the business strategy.

This sign offers an amazing level of precision to the motorist.

Do we think the other zebras make fun of their humped brethren?

This lack of sensitivity to the plight of the elderly on the part of Theresa is just shameful

Gia Forakis, call your office.  We passed through this Donegal village on our route to Ballyliffin.

Fortunately this was espied in Buncrana, Donegal, and not in the West Village.

Perhaps my favorite sign of all time, from the basement of the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle, Northern ireland.  The joke is an acknowledgement of the profound snootiness of the Royal County Down membership and officials dealing with visitors.  It's one of the few places that makes it clear that they only tolerate visitors, but then again it's thought by many to be the best and most spectacularly beautiful golf course in the world.  Still, we're amused by the order of destinations, aren't we?

 Exit Question:  Who can place the reference in the post title?  C'mon now, most of you are old enough to remember...

The Matches: The Imp Strikes Back

Our combat theater moved to the Old Links on Sunday morning, on an absolutely delightful day with as little wind as is likely in these parts.  The cool early temperatures, 13 degrees centigrade on the car thermometer, led me to some unfortunate wardrobe choices, notably long pants and a long-sleeved golf shirt.  

Looking back towards the village from the first tee, top.  Continued pursuit of my current great white whale, i.e., the perfect photo capturing the humps and hollows of the Old Links fairways, bottom.

 In a sense, my day turned out to mirror Theresa's Saturday round, as a bad start was overcome with some timely strong play.  In this case my opening drive, tugged slightly some ten yards left of the optimal line, dove into the maram grass siding the fairway, never to be found.  Fortunately I settled down and played my best golf of the trip.  

A girl and her trolley, top.  Bottom, the obligatory shot of Theresa on the third tee.  I realize that each time we've played the Old I've capture this view with Glashedy Rock Island as background.

I dropped an 8 footer for birdie on the Par 5 fourth, needed to salvage a halve, and immediately proved my thesis that my first birdie would open the floodgates by hitting a six iron to two feet on the one-shot fifth.  I later birdied the Par 5 14th, and gave myself several other opportunities.

These guys are good, at least sometimes:  My swing with the 6 iron on No3, top.  The green is significantly raised so you've no idea where, or in fact whether, the ball has come to rest.  It's a nice feeling indeed to ascend to the green surface and find your tee ball safely within your gag range, bottom.

I shot an other-worldly 37 on the inbound nine and finished with a 78.  I belive that to be only the second time I've broken 80 in Scotland, Ireland or England, though of course the light winds made it a day for scoring.

It's of some measurable comfort to see the members walking the dunes in search of stray shots, as there's a tendency to think that it's only the visitors who suffer the slings and arrows of crooked tee balls.  One big surprise is how few balls we've found out in the hay, whether because they hit them straighter or instinctively know where to look.

Of continued importance, the opening tee shot was my only lost ball of the day.  I still believe I'll be purchasing ammo before we're through, it's a relief to see an ebbing of the rate of attrition.  This is likely a result of knowing the lines off the tee a little better and where one can survive a miss.

A sweep panorama image of the 5th green, perched dramatically between two dunes, top, including the inadvertent shadow of the photographer and his putter.. This is the spot where we memorably hunker down in the 2008 hailstorm.  Tessie shares the seventh tee with her beloved sheep, bottom.  It's no Brora, where the sheep roam the course and the greens are protected by low voltage electric fences, but we love seeing the livestock from the course.

And who needs Michael Breed, here is our instructional video of the day:

First, please forgive the rather inept last few seconds of the video, as auteur Tessie did not know how to stop the filming and we've not burdened ourselves with the knowledge of how to edit the video.  Second, the camera inevitably flattens the image, as the hump that I putt over is actually quite a bit more severe than it looks here.

Current Standings:

T. Simpson   2.5

S. Simpson   3.0