Worth The Wait

“I shall never forget the wind, On this benighted coast, It works itself into the mind, Like the high keen of a lost, Lear-spirit in agony, Condemned for eternity.”

This is Belfast poet Derek Mahon’s reflection on having his hair ruffled by a Portrush breeze. Ah the wind. There’s always a wind. Often it’s a gale. Occasionally it is insufferable. To put it simply, there are few ‘good hair days’ in jolly wee Portrush – population 7,000 hardy souls, many of whom punch way above their weight. Much like the town itself, which, as a child on holiday, I thought was the most wonderful place on earth.

Now here comes the biggest punch of all, the 148th Open Championship. The excitement is ratcheting up another notch each fleeting week at the prospect of this arrival, after 68 years, of the most significant championship in golf on Northern Ireland’s battered northernmost coast, the Atlantic Ocean forever making its presence felt. Hold on to your hats boys, hold on to your hats.

Tom Watson took time out from a reconnaissance trip to Royal Portrush recently to suggest that it will be “a raucous party out here, it’s going to have a bit of a Ryder Cup atmosphere about it.”

“Over the course of this week in July, 215,000 fans will descend on the place. The craic will be monumental”