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“When long ago I saw her ride
Under Ben Bulben to the meet,
The beauty of her country-side
With all youth’s lonely wildness stirred,
She seemed to have grown clean and sweet
Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird:
Sea-borne, or balanced on the air
When first it sprang out of the nest
Upon some lofty rock to stare
Upon the cloudy canopy,
While under its storm-beaten breast
Cried out the hollows of the sea.”
W.B. Yeats
“You know why they call it “love grass”, asked John Whelan, our Irish tour guide? None of the 24 American golfers (6 Middle Atlantic club professionals, including myself, and 3 amateurs we each invited to come along as a team) knew the answer. “Because”, said John, “if you hit it in there, you’re f—ed”. Now, you might consider this to be profane, but when the “f” word rhymes with “spooked”, you get an idea of the additional flavor provided by the distinct Irish accent uttered by all the natives. It was an accent I would grow to love in a short 7 days, and its lilt colored the day from breakfast to dinner, then pints out at the local pub. Indeed, it was difficult to keep from assimilating the accent into my own speech, although I kept myself successfully from affecting the voice after noticing how ridiculous a few of our fellow golfers sounded when they “spoke Irish”.
While my trip certainly didn’t start off well, by the time I left I had found a place I truly loved, from the awesome beauty of the land and the surroundings, the stunning golf courses, the gorgeous towns and cities, to the buoyant nature of the people. The fact that the golf was not seriously competitive made the visit completely different for me, and as it turned out, the difference was completely positive.
Usually, when I travel I am going somewhere to play in a major event, which I define as something that, if I were to win, I would immediately add the results to my resume’. Playing in the National Club Pro or the PGA means a week away from home, but there is serious golf to be played, and a lot of grinding to be done. I play and practice basically until dark, then it is dinner and either a movie or back to the room. There is no sightseeing, no taking time away from the quest to win the event. Perhaps I have missed out by foregoing the opportunity to explore some interesting places, but for me the fun has always been in the golf. The prospect of winning is about the only thing that can pry me away from home.
I have always wanted to take a trip to Europe to play golf, and, having taken an Irish Literature course while majoring in English at Wake Forest, I was particularly keen on seeing Ireland. I recall being enamored of the work of John Millington Synge, who, in 1900, went to live on the isolated and almost uninhabitable Aran Islands (just off the west coast) and, at the behest of my other favorite Irish writer, William Butler Yeats, wrote a memoir of his experiences. The descriptions of the land and the people make for fine reading, and serve as an introduction into the basic Irish character. Synge’s hard edged account contrasts with Yeats’ graceful, flowing poetry, although Yeats’ subject matter was often times taken from Irish history and current events, which as I learned reads like a fictional adventure story, or at least like a farfetched assimilation of soap opera and shoot-em-up. I would rediscover my fascination with Irish history on our trip, with the credit going to our tour guide John Whelan. (I will speak more about John in a moment.)
Back in March I received a letter from the Middle Atlantic PGA which described a pro-am they were looking to have in Ireland. The courses looked great: I recognized all of them: Old Head, Doonbeg, Ballybunion, Lahinch, and Waterville. I would need to bring 3 amateurs, who would pay $3000 each, which would cover all travel, lodging, and golf, as well as breakfast every day and a couple of dinners. From asking around I found that to be a good price for the week. My price was to be extremely good, the same as the amateurs except that I would go for free. I read the letter again trying to figure out the catch, but there was none and I decided that after putting it off forever, this would be a great opportunity to get a team together and go. I had been all over Asia playing on the Asian Tour in 1985, but I had never been to Europe. For someone who truly loves and is devoted to the game, it was a glaring omission. My wife, Jennifer, is not usually too fond of me leaving for a week to play golf, but in this case she was all for it, as her recent experiences had seen a few of her friends and relatives pass away. “Too many people put things off forever. Do it before you miss your chance”, she told me. It was great advice.
We left Baltimore at 8:00 P.M. on Friday night. It was to be a 5 hour flight, and with the 5 hours you lose with time changes, we arrived in Ireland at 7 in the morning. When I got off the plane I was white as a sheet, the result of trying to get some sleep on the flight (I can never sleep on airplanes) with the aid of sleep medication. The meds didn’t agree with my stomach, and while I lasted the 45 minute drive from to airport to the Woodstock Inn in Ennis, as soon as we arrived I made a bee-line for the bathroom where I communed with the great porcelain bowl. I was toast, and when we sat down for breakfast I simply found a bench seat to lie on and promptly fell asleep. The rest of the crew was going to take the bus an hour and a half up to Adare Manor, a parkland course with a castle for an inn and lodge. They left me sleeping in the restaurant, and finally at 10:30 or so I was woken up by the hotel staff, who informed me that a room had come available and that I was welcome to attempt to move myself to my new accommodations.
I made my way slowly to my room, where I passed out again until about 2 P.M. I woke up feeling much better, ordered room service, and took a walk around the grounds. It was gorgeous outside, although a bit cool and windy, but hey, I was in Ireland, and it was my first chance to take in some of the country. I took my copy of Yeats out behind the hotel to the golf course and sat down in the grass to read. While the point of his poems can be elusive, the language has always been musical to me, and I love to read just about anything he has authored. It seemed appropriate to read Ireland’s greatest poet my first day in Ireland, and as I gazed out at the surrounding countryside I had the feeling that I was in for a great week.
I made my way over to the hotel pub at around 5 and found the place fairly packed with golfers and others who gave the general impression that they were all playing hooky and enjoying themselves immensely. My stomach felt much stronger, so I gamely ordered a Guinness and sat at the bar amongst the smoke and the loud conversation. I was a bit disappointed that no one asked me what I was doing, but I didn’t try too hard myself and was content just to observe the goings on around me. Our group returned from their outing to Adare Manor at around 8, and we had a welcoming dinner in the hotel which lasted until fairly late.
The next morning it was off to Doonbeg, a Greg Norman course recently built on a prime parcel of dune- filled shoreline not too far from Ballybunion. I had looked forward to playing Doonbeg as I had gotten to know the head pro, Brian Shaw, who had played the last few years in the Caves Valley member-pro with my good friend Alan Appelbaum. As it turned out Brian had partied long into the night with the remnants of the Doonbeg member-guest and had taken the day off. And trust me; it was a wonderful day to take off. My first round in Ireland was Irish weather and then some, with driving rain and 35 mile per hour winds, not to mention temperatures in the low 50’s. It was easily the worst weather I had ever played golf in. The rain gloves I had thrown in the bag were the only reason I could finish the round, since everything was utterly soaked. The wind blew the rain so hard that it actually stung our faces, thus we all trudged up each hole like the Bataan Death March, bent low to the ground with our heads down.
Our caddy had the best line of the day when he said “You need two things to play this course on a day like today: a lot of game and good sense of humor”. He was right on the money, because even under the best conditions the course was brutally hard, with narrow landing areas and grass deep enough to swallow a small child on either side, not to mention 30 foot high dunes and enough humps, bumps, and swales in the grotesquely contoured greens to make every putt an adventure. It was almost like a cruel joke to finally reach the green after negotiating 40 MPH gusts into your face with pot bunkers and knee high grass to avoid, only finding that your putt had a 6-foot elevation change and broke 10 feet. I thought the course was way over the top and would have to eventually have numerous changes made to it to soften it up a bit to entice people to come back. With all that said, it was a beautiful course with a number of stunning holes that will one day be considered in the same breath as the great old courses.
My partners for the week, all from North Carolina, included Ron Rogers, a computer expert and former professional basketball player who had lived in Virginia for a while and taken some lessons from me, and two of his good friends, Scott Stankavage, former North Carolina U. quarterback and backup in the NFL to John Elway in Denver, and Dan Krueger, a successful young businessman from Durham. All had handicaps between 4 and 6, and all, including myself, were humbled by the difficulty of the courses and the conditions. While we struggled on the course, we had a wonderful time playing, laughing pretty much non-stop (in between outbursts of frustration) at the tribulations we each encountered. It was hard not to have a good time when the surroundings were as spectacular as they were: each time one of us hit some kind of horrendous shot and got upset the others would joke about it and change the subject to something more pleasant, such as how nice it was to be where we were, away from work and stress, with no real reason to be that upset in the first place. Besides, playing in 35 mile per hour winds is no picnic: if the ball was not struck exactly correctly the results were not going to be good, and, for the most part, the ball better stay somewhat close to the ground, and that includes short pitch shots as well. It’s easy to see why professionals from the U.S. have a difficult time adapting to the conditions over here, and vice versa. It’s a different game when the ball has to stay down and fly without appreciable side spin.
The second day of the trip took us to the Old Head Golf Club, a course I had remembered being described as having “spectacular views”, but with the caveat that the golf course was not that good. Well, I have to tell you, the views were certainly spectacular, and I found the course to be wonderfully playable. In fact, the place was so stunning that I found myself less able than usual to concentrate on my game, as I was looking around at the surroundings constantly. I have played Pebble Beach and Cypress Point, Whistling Straits and Pine Valley, but if I had one more round of golf to play in my life I would go right back to Old Head. I have never seen such a place. The course is laid out on 200 acres of land that juts out into the Atlantic Ocean with 300 foot cliffs on 3 sides. Just about every hole has an ocean view, and the overall effect is breathtaking. The wind was howling, to the point that on the 12th hole, a par 5 along the ocean, the gale caught my driver at the top of my swing and rerouted it so that by the time I got to the ball the face was wide open and the ball caught the wind and went about 150 yards to the right. We actually found the ball, and I had to hit a 5 iron sideways against the wind just to get back to the fairway. From there the hole looked like one of those fantasy holes you see on calendars and tee-shirts, with the greens perched up on mountains or at the end of bowling alley-wide fairways. The 12th fairway ran down on the edge of the cliff to the green, which looked like a needle flanked by the cliff on the left and 30 foot high mounds on the right. It was the coolest looking hole I’ve ever seen, and considering the intensity of the wind I was content to punch the ball down the fairway and take my 6. We finished up on number 18, which had a back tee (we were playing from the middle tees) built into a cliff right under the lighthouse that overlooked the property. It’s a good thing none of us were afraid of heights, because the cliff was unnervingly close and there was no fence to protect one from and untimely slip. All in all the experience was unbelievable, and I will definitely be back.
One of the neatest things about the trip was the ride in the tour bus to each course. Our driver and guide for the week was John Whelan, a native Irishman who worked for Jerry Quinlan’s Celtic Tours, the group that arranged the whole trip, from the plane flights to starting times and all in-country travel. John was a wellspring of good humor and information, and his running commentary educated us on any number of subjects regarding things Irish, including their history, culture, architecture, and geography, and would answer any questions we threw at him. The result was a fascinating travelogue, full of insights into the Irish mindset and the divisions and turmoil that have marked Irish history for 1400 years, and all delivered with an authentic Irish brogue. As I mentioned before, I had taken an Irish Literature course at Wake Forest my sophomore year in college, and I knew a bit of the history in the years between 1890 and 1940. Listening to John, however, was like getting a history lesson from an inside participant, and, try as he might to be neutral in his telling of events, his personal passion would almost always come through. Indeed, at one point he informed us that his grandparents had been shot by the “Black and Tans”, a police force comprised of released prisoners from English jails sent to Ireland by the English to help quell disturbances caused by groups seeking Irish independence from English rule. He couldn’t help telling us that if he’d had his druthers he would love to see the English run right out of Ireland completely.
Each morning I looked forward to the bus ride to the course, knowing that I would learn more about a country for which I was quickly developing a great affection. Since I returned to the States I have gotten well into a book of Irish history, and at John’s recommendation rented the recent movie “Michael Collins” (starring Liam Neeson and Julia Roberts), the story of one of Ireland’s greatest revolutionaries who was instrumental in the achievement of the Irish republic. With so much history in such a small country (Ireland is about the size of the state of Maine) it seemed that everywhere we passed in the bus had a story to it, from as far back as the year 650 to present day. And while the people seemed simple enough, the Irish legacy is one of complication and conflict, with politics and religion playing a role in each and every Irish life.
The third day of the trip took us to the links of Lahinch, a marvelous course built through the dunes, with a number of holes flanking the Atlantic Ocean. There were tee shots hit directly over the previous green or fairways of other holes, and shots into greens that were completely blind, including the first blind par 3 I had ever seen. It was the most peculiar hole: 160 yards, dead into the teeth of the wind, and all that you could see was a huge mound with a white stone on the top. “Just knock it over the stone”, our caddy instructed us; “the pin is right behind it”. I hit my shot, a knock-down 5 iron, and waited until we walked around the mound to see that the green was about 15 yards deep and that on the other side of it was another huge mound. I had managed to hit it the right distance, and knocked in a 20 footer to win one of my two skins for the week. I thought the course was great, and would certainly play it again if I came back.
We would usually eat after the round, and we found that the golf courses all catered to the tourist play with mainly American food. The one night we ventured out for dinner to go with our pints of Guinness we found a most delightful dish called “Beef and Guinness Casserole”, which was absolutely delicious. The Irish are not known for their cuisine, and it may be that no one cares quite so much about what they eat after downing multiple pints of thick stout. The pubs were rocking at all hours, except Tuesday, which is their dead day, and there must have been a pub-like establishment just about every third building. It was truly amazing that such small towns could support so many places to eat and drink; but there they were, and they all had people in them enjoying themselves.
The fourth day found us at the Old Course at Ballybunion, which started out over a graveyard, and after the sixth hole turned into one of the greatest courses I have ever played. Again it was windy as all get out, and into the gale our best drives maxed out at just over 200 yards. We played an uphill par 3 from 180, and I had to hit a punch 3-wood to get to the middle of the green. This would be difficult enough if there were plenty of area to bail out into, but around these greens there was grass that varied from nasty to impossible. If you could find your ball you would have some sort of ridiculous shot out of the hay to a green that wouldn’t hold much of anything unless you landed it short and let it run up, which meant that you were really toast if you short-sided yourself. It was a hard course even from the middle tees, but on just about every hole I can recall taking an extra bit of time to gaze out and just soak up the magnificent scenery. The only comparison I can come up with would be Pebble Beach and Cypress Point, and if I had my choice I would prefer Ireland.
Our last course, Waterville, was more of the same, although I found the front nine to be a bit more pedestrian than the rest of the golf on the trip. The back nine, however, made up for the front and more, with holes running along the water that were truly spectacular. One ironic thing about Waterville was the presence of a native plant that had almost the exact appearance of a short, bushy palm tree, hardly what you would expect to find in Ireland. The drive out to Waterville from where we were staying in Killarney (at the magnificent Killarney Park Hotel) was truly memorable, as it followed a route quite popular with the tourist buses called the Ring of Kerry. I had my video camera out for most of the hour ride filming through the windows, and watching it again back home in my basement I feel a longing to return already.
I have to say that the 7 days I spent traveling to and from and staying in Ireland were some of the best I have ever experienced in my life as a golfer. Everything about the place touched me, from the hundred shades of green that comprised the countryside, to the quaint, colorful towns, full of craft shops and a pub on every corner and then some, to the friendly, gregarious people, to the absolutely awesome golf courses. The Quinlan Tour group put on a perfect trip, and the MAPGA (and their representative John Guhl) did a great job in organizing the golf for the week and running the pro-am, which my team did not win, but did manage to finish second, leaving with some nice Waterford wine glasses to drink our Guinness from in memory of our time there. I guess the sentiment that sums up how I felt upon leaving is that I immediately wanted to go back, perhaps next time to Northern Ireland and Royal Country Down and Portrush. If you love the game as much as I do and you haven’t been there yet, Ireland is calling you. You won’t be disappointed.