A Fortnight in Ballyliffin: 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?