Courses Called Crackers: One Golfer’S U.K. Quest

By R.N.A. Smith

A part-time golf writer gets the royal treatment from a host of fine U.K. clubs
in exchange for his implied promise to sing their courses glories in this memoir
that meshes a Finegan-like travelogue with the poignancy of Plimptons
Bogey Man and the vinegar of Doaks Confidential Guide. Traveling solo,
this fifty-something Yank has his vigor roundly tested by a quest to play 36
courses. And, along the way -- in a wholly honest account -- the reader gets
taken inside the golfers mind when encountering the alluring yet treacherous
terrain at one great links after another, along with engaging the natives who
call these courses Crackers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453536605

R.N.A. Smith

For four decades, R. N. A. Smith has sought to harness what he has seen, while clawing at his “inner eye” as well, to portray golf's myriad moments of significance. Along the way, morsels of praise have fueled him, with pride of place given to these threesomes: Hogan, Taylor, and Updike; Finegan, Donovan, and Coore. Still, he cannot deny that his writer's card displays bogies offsetting his birdies and eagles of text rarely made. R. N .A. intends to continue sweating toward new glories in the field of golf fiction and through golf-fiction.com to aid other literary linksters in bringing their gifts to light.

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Courses Called Crackers:

One Golfer’s U.K. Quest

R.N.A. Smith

Copyright © 2010 by R.N.A. Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

AN INTRODUCTION

#1 ABERDOVEY

#2 ARDGLASS

#3 ASHBURNHAM

#4 BELLEISLE

#5 COUNTY LOUTH

#6 CRAIL

#7 CRUDEN BAY

#8 DUNBAR

#9 FULFORD

#10 HESKETH

#11 HILLSIDE

#12 KINGSBARNS

#13 LADYBANK

#14 LUNDIN

#15 MONTROSE

#16 MURCAR

#17 NEW ZEALAND

#18 PENNARD

#19 PETERHEAD

#20 PRESTWICK ST NICHOLAS

#21 PYLE AND KENFIG

#22 THE ROYALS: DORNOCH

AND COUNTY DOWN

#23 SOUTHERNESS

#24 SOUTHPORT & AINSDALE

#25 ST ANDREWS:

THE NEW COURSE

#26 TAIN

#27 WEST SUSSEX

AN AFTERWORD

Dedication:

To my late brother Jay,

an amazing arthritic golfer

and

For my wee brother Scott,

power, direction, and touch were his

and

Wishing to include my sister Carey,

whose molasses swing could be a model for many

Location of courses matching chapter titles: 1. Aberdovey 2. Ardglass 3. Ashburnham 4. Belleisle 5.County Louth 6. Crail 7. Cruden Bay 8. Dunbar 9. Fulford 10. Hesketh 11. Hillside 12. Kingsbarns 13. Ladybank 14. Lundin 15. Montrose 16. Murcar 17. New Zealand 18. Pennard 19. Peterhead 20. Prestwick St Nicholas 21. Pyle & Kenfig 22. The Royals—Dornoch and County Down 23. Southerness 24. Southport & Ainsdale 25. St Andrews: The New Course 26. Tain 27. West Sussex.

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AN INTRODUCTION

March 9, 2010 . . . . Lutherville, MD

On the par-5 of life I had just escaped deep rough, yet still needed a deft pitch to have any real chance at par. This was the summer of 2006. The previous July my older brother Jay had suffered a shocking accident, then a lingering death. A few months later, my own well-being, both physical and mental, took a sharp turn south. It had required the return of golf in the spring—plus a regimen of powerful pills—to spark a revival. And thus, my fifty-third summer found me in recovery mode, thirsting to feel normal again. At this juncture, the golf gods came to call. It’s time to plan a vast trip. Don’t wait! Go it alone. Play links golf again—this time in a big way. Find a path to fine courses by train and bus and foot. Use your golf-writing credentials to get inside stuff at these clubs. Write a memoir of this journey. Call it 36 Into 9, thirty-six courses played in nine weeks in the British Isles.

Okay, I said. Twenty-seven years earlier I’d been struck by another such whim, waking with the beginning and ending of an ingenious baseball story on my lips. Obeying that muse had worked out, leading to several screenplays. Yeah, I was stronger, fitter, sharper then. Now, in 2006, it had been more than twenty years since I’d poked a toe outside our U.S. borders. Would the mere mass of the baggage involved daunt me? My vision called for independence, a self who could sling his golf bag, cocooned in the extra weight of a protective sack, over one shoulder; carry a small bag anchored by its strap about my neck; and pull rather than heft whenever possible my large roller bag; all this leaving one hand free for pulling doors open and the like. But, there would be times, I could imagine, if indeed I became this traveler, where my path would require the ascent of twenty, thirty, even forty steps, in order to pass over from one rail line to another, no elevator service available. What then? Pulled muscles? A bit of coronary difficulty? Death? Oh yes, and I’d need to do something about money, my job, and the wife’s life, to make this journey happen. I got started.

My better half for more than thirty years is a woman who does not mind solitude. Nor is she someone deaf to the lure of travel. She’d spent five weeks in Italy without me a few summers earlier. Still, that journey had been paid for through grant money; it hadn’t dented our finances in the least. I was proposing a separation nearly twice as long, and one that would diminish our income while demanding that we borrow a sum of cash to boot. She had only to say no and this dream golf trip would have expired in vitro. Instead, we figured a way to dull the separation pains by having her fly over for a mid-trip rendezvous; that was enough for my dear wife LouAnne to grant me the amazing gift of her hearty support. No wailing golf widow she.

And thus the way was clear for a confab with my employer. Contrary to common gossip, we college librarians do man twelve-month posts. The summer is not simply our plaything. I had to write a careful document to justify a sabbatical-like absence during the following summer (2007), and although it was an unpaid leave I was seeking, approval only became official upon the president’s backing. They told me, in fact, that my case was setting a precedent for the college’s staff. So, I am doubly indebted to several key administrators at my college (Nancy, Debbie, Tom, and Sandy in chief) for finding in my favor. As for ultimately obtaining the extra money that would see us through that next summer of travel, it was simple enough, thanks to the jack-rabbit rise in home equity we’d gained, like so many others, in the new millennium.

Having cleared these first hurdles by the start of my college’s 2006 fall term, I was ready to invest in the process of planning all details of the trip. To aid me in forming an all-important itinerary, I purchased two books very early on: a rail atlas for the British Isles, and a book that purported to describe the 1,000 best courses in said area. Both tomes proved of splendid value. However, there was an added degree of complexity involved in determining where I would play from mid-June to late-August of 2007, in that I was determined to reduce my trip expenses by obtaining a good deal of courtesy golf. Courtesy golf?! you gasp. Surely, even the British Isles equivalent of our munis would laugh at the thought of giving some American tourist free golf? Well, yes and no.

When I began to email club secretaries over there in early September 06, my pitch began as follows: Dear Secretary [Jones]: This is R.N.A. Smith, author of Classy Divots and Growing Up With Golf. It is my plan to visit the British Isles next summer for nine weeks to gather material for a fourth book. (My third, Holes Still To Play, is currently in process.)

In other words, I had a track record of golf authorship that said it indeed might be worthwhile for a secretary to give me golf and conversation, in exchange for future publicity. (For the record, these published works noted above are short-story collections that date from my days producing DIVOT: the online literary golf magazine, for Alex Miceli at golf.com.) Nearly two hundred emails and several months later, I had negotiated deals with twenty-two clubs covering England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. In all that communication, I’d received but a single snooty reply, from one Open rota course. However, that was no matter, as I soon realized that Open courses shouldn’t be my target of choice anyway. A subsidiary virtue of this book would be to acquaint my fellow countrymen about U.K. courses that would supply links thrills yet provide more pleasurable playability at a less dear price than those Open layouts familiar through the boob tube. (My geographic range shrank to the U.K., once it became apparent that even nine weeks did not offer sufficient time to include Ireland proper in my travels, due to the timing of the booked dates that emerged.) And hence I decided that each chapter of this book would be named for one of the courses played, reflecting my determination to honor my bargain with those host clubs—while not shortchanging honesty!—as well as producing a narrative that would reveal far more than one puny golfer’s litany of shots.

To return to my planning, there remained the key questions of where to stay and how to get from here to there as needed. Regarding the latter, there were both U.K. web sites plus automated telephone assistance to unearth plane, train, and bus timetables. (Do invest in a cell phone there!) The purchase of a three-country rail pass saved me plenty. And, I relied on the kindness of many a B&B or barman to call me a taxi. Did you know that around Wimbledon, the cabs come in an array of outlandish colors, and that there are more golf clubs than tennis complexes thereabouts.

As to my lodgings, I elected to go the Bed-and-Breakfast route almost exclusively. This was good. Several of my B&B hosts possessed genuine warmth far beyond the pale of motel/hotel staff. There was the night my hostess Charlotte at the Howard Lodge in Carlisle waited up late to catch me so as to deliver a vital message regarding my wife’s air flight. Then there was urbane Sue at the Golf View Guest House in Tain, who did all my laundry with no down payment—just my promise to send her this book—at the point when my will to wash and wring out yet another day’s shirt, socks, and undies had worn as thin as a balata cover. Moreover, many B&B folks I met were open about their lives with me, manna for this writer’s brain! With hearty thanks I wish to hereby commend the following individuals and their establishments: Frank, a former nine, at the Balmoral Lodge in Southport; the debonair Mr. and Mrs. Trail at the Bonnington in Edinburgh; meticulous Caroline at No. 26 The Crescent in Ayr; lively Sue and Ray at the Charlesworth House in St Andrews; cross-cultured Valerie and Trevor at the Christmas Pie in Swansea; Ann, Laura, and Sophie, lovely workers at Worcester House in Wimbledon. As for some memorable characters who were B&B lodgers alongside me, my sketches of them must await another venue.  ………

There are several external matters I should like you to know concerning the crafting of this golf trip memoir. First, my order of composition of the chapters has paralleled their alphabetical arrangement in the book. That is, I wrote Aberdovey at the start; West Sussex last; and so forth. (Now finally the Introduction is being penned, and then will come the Afterword.) My rationale for adopting this working arrangement was to avoid the scenario wherein R.N.A. Smith might churn out initially those course chapters featuring the juiciest material—easy as pie—then struggle against dulling Time to do justice to those clubs most in need of fresh appreciation. Was this wise? You must be the judge as to the consistent quality obtained.

Speaking of which, the reader will note within this book that I have drawn from a variety of electronic and paper sources to complement my golfing experiences at the highlighted courses. This blend should not be surprising, considering that I am a researcher by trade. More disconcerting to some may be the fact that a librarian such as myself would play fast and loose with citation information for his sources. This seeming carelessness, I assure you, was intentional. In fact it represents a form of restraint. I restrained my researcher side throughout this endeavor in order to be more like an American Golfing Everyman both during my journey and in its telling—to be a guy who doesn’t already know every damn thing that’s supposed to be of interest at each club he comes upon. In sum, only when consistency of entertainment from one chapter to another seemed to require a sprinkling of the learned stuff did I so indulge. Overall, the wonder, humor, and humanity recorded in this memoir awaits any golfing Joe inclined to a U.K. journey.

Is this effort of yours then, Mr. Smith, a reliable guidebook or not, for the person considering a golf trip across the pond? Good question. No, my intention was never to be a golfing Fodor of sorts. Still, I’ve tried to interweave useful nuggets for future travelers of my ilk. I have gotten some little stuff wrong no doubt, from course to course, for which my humble apologies must do. You may trust me, however, on the far larger question: Would most any golfing trip taken to the British Isles be worth the time, expense, and effort? I think for that query the answers you need have been portrayed with accuracy in this book.

Another writing parameter that I pledged from the beginning to pursue was a standard of nine paragraphs per each section within each chapter. Thus, if you are inclined to count—at least in this seminal edition of my work—you will find that some chapters total 18 paragraphs, others twenty-seven, and a few, thirty-six or more. Perhaps this seems like a golfer’s monomania gone too far. Well, please know that this out of bounds fence comforted me as a writer by providing a concrete limit for when to cease my telling about each course, and built up for me a steady rhythm to follow in the creation of my accounts. Both helpful.

Seeing that this is paragraph number five of the second (and what I intend to be final) section of this introduction, one might say we have reached its core. Whence, it seems the proper time to explain, for those at a loss, the meaning of the title of this golfing memoir, no doubt a strange-sounding thing to some Yank ears. Now, our folks in the South are used to hearing the term cracker applied, not always with love, to certain fellow residents. Throughout our land, Americans like to crunch on thin crispy bread products of the same name. And, at old-fashioned parties, we still get a kick out of hearing the crack-of-a-whip-like sound that pops forth when we pull on the ends of paper contraptions designed for this purpose—and also called crackers. But, throughout the British Isles, cracker and the adjective cracking have become terms of endearment. A cracker there is someone or something endowed with fine qualities or abilities. Whence, whereas I might have named my book Courses Called Fine (Too flat!), or Courses Called Great (Egads! Too close to Finegan’s Where Golf Is Great), the title Courses Called Crackers struck me as offering the perfect weight, and a suitable introduction to the exoticism to be found in venturing abroad to golf.

In the four paragraphs left to me on this second nine, I should like to squeeze in some anecdotes that occurred at three U.K. courses not otherwise mentioned in this volume. (At least I hope this material is new, not having re-read the entire one hundred thousand word manuscript as yet.) But wait! I hear you say. You’re not going to tell us up front whether the trip helped your golf game back home or not? Have you been better here after playing in the U.K.? Ah yes, dear reader, I can see how that might be of interest. Well, my answer is that it’s been my plan from point zero to place that declaration in the afterword of this book. Do you have the discipline not to peek ahead? Humor me please. Here, perhaps I can distract you with some tales from these unsung courses which contributed to the completion of my U.K. quest.

The first of this trio would be the Stonehaven Golf Club, whose namesake town served as my base during the week of the Open at Carnoustie. On the closing Sunday, when Sergio failed to trust the best club in his bag—the driver!—and instead ironed his way to a seventy-second hole bogey, thus resurrecting Harrington’s hopes, I was there to see it—at the Stonehaven layout, that is, more precisely in the club’s lounge where my perch was close to a telly while I dined and watched in a pleasant stupor with the locals. (Paddy was a popular victor.) It was showering then, as it had been periodically during my round on this July 22. That had seemed a pity, for Stonehaven was sited such that I longed for sunny rays to complete its majestic water views, (such as Ardglass was to afford me). This cunning dwarf of a course (4,804 yards!) was routed for the most part across, up, and down a long open sideslope that dropped toward cliffs high above the North Sea. Holes crossed; a railway line needed to be crossed; and balls had to cross several canyons of a jungle nature. There was thus a second reason to wish for temperate conditions. This little course was damn draining for an un-chaperoned newcomer. I felt quite tense multiple times when making club and aiming choices here, due to the plethora of all or nothing shots required, along with the need to bring steep slopes frequently into the calculations. Golf being golf, my card shows one real disaster on the day: I tripled the 257-yard eleventh hole, rated the second easiest on the course, by skulling my drive into rough, proceeding from there into a bunker, and butchering that recovery. They call this little par-4 dogleg Denhead. That’s a Scottish contraction for Dense-head I imagine.

During the ninth and final week of the journey, I had to bookend my scheduled round at West Sussex with last minute choices for a thirty-third and thirty-fifth course. These make-ups became necessary due to the late loss of two Royals—Porthcawl, and North Devon (Westward Ho!)—from my golfing itinerary. The clubs I chose as replacements reflected my weary state at that point. Both were convenient in the southwest suburbs of London to my lodgings at Wimbledon. This twosome was also easy on the pocketbook. And, I was hopeful that each might grant a sense of ease, akin to my public golf assays in the U.S., as a salve to the cumulative psychic drain that had resulted from my itinerant jousts with so many high-class layouts in the U.K. Rather, what these two humbler courses offered of most value, at what some gents would peg as workingmen’s clubs, was to remind me of the universal challenges of our game, plus the omnipresent bonhomie of its practitioners.

To wit, at Hersham Village I scored no better on the wide-open fairly new tract of holes than I had on the older, quite lush and leafy stretch that had been carved like Augusta from a tree nursery. It occurred to me while tackling the open ground, where only baby trees were in evidence, that this was like being around for the birth of a new star: Nearly all golf courses evolve mightily if in existence for multiple decades . . . let alone centuries, as had been most of the layouts I’d met on this trip. Meanwhile, at Thames Ditton & Esther, the members had to make do with Caesar’s Gaul, a piece of land divided by concrete into three parts—and those parcels only good for 18 holes by playing from two sets of tees to nine greens. A challenge? This course of executive-length yardage, lacking a single water hazard or sand bunker of any serious depth? Hell, yes! They simply allow grass to grow very tall, right in front of the tiny putting surfaces or in other strategic places. Brilliant. As was the grin on my face when a regular there promptly presented a TD&E ball marker to me, after I’d explained how the shop was temporarily sold out of this collector’s item. That disk to me is just as royal as the 35 others I plan to preserve in a pouch ad infinitum.

………

ABERDOVEY

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Five-bloody-down. That’s where we stood on the twelfth tee in our 4-ball match at the Aberdovey Golf Club on my first day there. And, the blame for this mammoth deficit was largely mine. I, a 10 at this time, had been paired with Frank, a 13. His son Adrian, also a 13, had drawn for his partner Tony who sported an 8. The two teams had not been chosen by logic. It had been left to fate. Tony had tossed each of our balls into the air together on the first tee. Mine had happened to settle closest to Frank’s. Fair enough. We had agreed to play even—no strokes would be given.

Frank, like so many of the British Isles natives with whom I played, had a healthy look that belied his years. The man had gone past seventy. More dire, he was due to be operated on for heart trouble five days hence. His character was that of a good and dignified man. A partner like this, you did not wish to let down.

There was time to kill while we waited for those before us to finish their assault up the steep-sided plateau that held the twelfth green. Though the early evening sun had begun to paint each dune gold, the conversation turned to a bitter shade of green. For, this short hole which had evolved into the most heralded of the four good ones on the course was now, like Frank’s life, threatened.

Damned environmentalists, my golfing friends grumbled. They were angry that the Club had been ruled against in the matter of whether the dune-born green before us could be shored up in the future. They were furious that they’d been made to abandon some of the course’s most exciting tees up in the dunes. And, they were livid that the Club had been made to pay for a bridge across the dunes for the benefit of beachgoers only.

It was precisely the holiday folks who went careening over the dunes disturbing nature, I was told. Local government had no business siding with them. Aye, but there was the rub: When one’s course is built on common land, one’s club must bow to the local authority. And thus, if you travel to Aberdovey, you will see sheep, or as I did—cows loafing upon some tees—living evidence that farmers have their rights as well as golfers in these parts. Whence, the wellspring of the Club’s strange motto becomes clear, If you are not strong be cunning.

Yet, part of the singular charm of this golfing ground for me did stem from the presence of its bucolic animals, and not only due to their antics.

That is, each green at Aberdovey is defended by a single-strand fence of electrified wire. The hip-height fences exist, of course, to forestall a barrage of hoofprints and deposits of a less delicate nature on these sacred areas. What these gossamer barriers encourage, however, is human as well as animal courtesy. For, when the golfer is ready to walk onto the green, he must slide over to one of the rubber-hose handles that are spaced along each shocking fence, lift up the line, and duck under. It becomes quite natural for players to hold up the fence for others or to thank them for doing same.

The way was now clear to play. When Tony’s shot headed straight toward twelve’s flag which appeared back left, I cannot say that courtesy was foremost in my mind. Their response that he’d hit it perhaps too far cheered me a tiny bit. Nor did I anguish for Adrian when he pushed his short iron far right toward the sea and into the dune grass presumably. We needed some help to get back in this match.

Frank’s shot was so-so. Following the advice of these long-time members, I aimed not for the flag but at the center of the green, then struck solid but with a slight pull—taking the ball a bit right of my line for me a lefty. My level of satisfaction leaped when Tony intoned, That should be perfect.  ………

Nine months before my planned arrival at the Aberdovey Golf Club on Wales’ western coast I had contacted their secretary by email. His response was hardly warm, with good reason. I’d happened to have picked one of the Club’s competition weeks for my visit, a most inconvenient time.

Nevertheless, he offered me free play for two days, and a half-off rate on accommodations right at the course—with the understanding that the pro would have to fit me in; there’d be no pre-arranged tee time reservations on my behalf. I accepted, with a full heart.

For, this strip of golfing ground had been the emotional favorite of golf’s greatest writer, Bernard Darwin. He returned to this remote outpost of the golfing empire throughout his life, though any famous course could be his. Why such loyalty? Was it the bond of sentimentality alone which ruled him? Does every player love his first course best?

No, I didn’t think so. So, I was off to discover if I could what was remarkable about Aberdovey.

The train from Birmingham, England, let me off at the Aberdovey rail station early in the afternoon on Tuesday, August 7. It was bright with a good breeze in evidence. Lovely for bathing or golfing. I hustled my big bag, small bag, and golf bag onto the simple platform and asked myself as I’d had to after each previous debarkation, Which way now?

At Aberdovey (pronounced as the bird dove), I first gave a glance toward the far end of the platform. I’d read that the course was down this end of town. Could there be a shortcut that way? Didn’t see any sign, or stairs visible. Guess not.

So, I reversed direction and followed the sign which said Way Out—the U.K. version of Exit. A mistake? Big mistake. If you do have the good fortune to find your way to Aberdovey by train and wish to play some golf there, you can avoid the half mile U I walked by stepping down at the far end of the platform. Within a few feet you will see an opening between two buildings; congratulations, you have found the Aberdovey Golf Club.

Per my written instructions from the Club, I reported to the bar. Not that one needs any liquid bolsterer before confronting this holiday course. My mission was to get the key for my dormie room. I got a lot more than that.

Gill at the bar took fine care of me from our first moment of meeting. From giving me a painstaking tour, (e.g. your clubs get stored in this little shed outside the dormies; the key for that shed is here), to allowing me to use the Club’s washer and drier, to cooking just for me a tasty breakfast both mornings, (I was the only dormie resident at the time, due to its being Club Competitions Week), to giving me a going-away gift—the Club’s centenary history book—she was kind beyond expectation. I have many such stories to tell.  ………

You know that feeling of ascending to a hilltop green, hoping for great things but preparing oneself for disappointing mediocrity in the realm of where your ball lies in relation to the hole? The heart pumps and the hands feel moist beyond the effort of the climb. A flash of longing comes for the shot to be dead—no knee-knocking three-footer to be faced. Perhaps you almost wish for a six-footer or so, still a great shot but a putt that can be reasonably missed; no stench of a choke attached to missing your bird.

I found my ball just about three feet from the pin, pin high. Frank, at this juncture uttered as ill-considered an apprehension as one’s partner can make. The way things are going, we’ll probably halve with threes. Egads. He expects me to miss this little putt.

Well, of course, Frank meant me no ill luck. And, to date I hadn’t earned his confidence. The remark had to be shaken off, especially after Adrian somehow gouged his ball from the wilds to eight feet, then neatly sank his putt.

My turn to finish came last. What a relief to see that ball of mine bi-sect the front of the cup for real, matching the pre-shot image I’d clawed to produce. Frank and I were 4-down now; six to play.

Our group had the wind behind us as we continued to play back toward home. What fun to ape the power of pros, our balls traveling obscene distances due to firm turf and the whipping of the winds. Long par-5, short par-5—it didn’t matter: The question was not about reaching them easily in regulation; the task was to avoid entanglement along the way. Frank and I did; Tony and Adrian, otherwise. Into the tall grass and ditches they went. We were now 2-down with three still to play.

Let us pause here at the sixteenth tee box, before finishing the match, for I’ve got a couple of cracker stories given me at this location, on the following day in fact. Here’s the cleaner one:

My cagey playing companion—we were locked in a tight Stableford contest—prompted me to note how the rail-line on our left curves just so toward the tee. Well, one day a friend of his had overdone the hook needed to get close on this short, left-bending par-4. Smack instead went his ball into an oncoming steam engine. The engineer took umbrage and halted the train at the junction of rail and tee.

Why didn’t you wait until we were past? he bellowed.

The friend replied with equal fervor, Well, if you’d been on time for once, I’d not have hit you!.  ………

The second story shared by my golfing companion Terry that afternoon was a most intimate one. It concerned his surname, that being Tuffnell. Note the two fs. Well, it happens that there was a famous cricketer whose handle was spelled exactly the same, except for one f.

This great man’s son on a visit to Terry’s town looked him up having heard that there was a Tufnell in those parts. He knocked on the door and asked whether they might be related. Frank had to reply, sadly no, for the spelling of their names was different—the one f versus two, you know.

Well, one of Frank’s wittier friends, upon being told this tale, replied, Good. One Fin(g) Tuffnell is enough!

Whereupon it was my turn to play, clinging to a two-stroke advantage in our Stableford competition. I should mention that I am quite certain that we were playing an authentic Stableford, for Frank Stableford had first created this competition at Terry’s home club in England, I was told. The point system was simpler than that employed here in America in my experience. Here we punish for double-bogies or worse. There you get 1 point for a net bogey, two points for a net par, three points for a net birdie, four points for a net eagle, five points for a double eagle, period.

I managed to par that sixteenth, retaining my lead, but Terry scored an extra point due to my three-putt bogey on seventeen. (My card records that I hit eleven greens that round, but took 39 putts, criminal considering that Aberdovey’s greens are splendidly true. Take a lesson from me when putting in the U.K.; I found the greens on most courses to break not nearly as much as my American-trained eye foresaw.)

So, on the eighteenth tee on my second and final day at Aberdovey, I held a single point lead. Hurrah! I played that last hole beautifully. Avoided the ditches on each side of the fairway, socked a 7-iron to the back of the green, (downwind there, the back is where good