The old and the new

Can this year’s seriously fun golf go on? The answer looks like yes.

G.K.Chesterton’s Ballad of the White House, written in 1911, was described by Dale Ahlquist as The Last Great Epic Poem in the English Language. Admittedly Ahlquist is President of the American Chesterton Society and so may not be a wholly independent observer. Nevertheless I share his admiration for the author’s powerful story of England’s King Arthur and his fight against the Danes more than a thousand years ago in 878.

As Ahlquist points out, the Ballad “is also the story of Christianity battling against the destructive forces of nihilism and heathenism, which is the battle we are still fighting.” In a particularly moving couplet Chesterton writes

I tell you naught for your comfort/Yea, naught for your desire/Save that the sky grows darker yet/And the sea rises higher

I doubt I’m alone in the last couple of weeks in regarding these words as worryingly apt in today’s uncertain world. Let’s therefore move on to Augusta National, a comforting bastion of tradition where changes are only made in an orderly and evolutionary manner.

This week has been the first time tv viewers have seen the course since it was damaged by Hurricane Helene last September. The loss of many trees means that it’s now possible to see more of the views that would have been familiar to competitors in the early years of the Masters.

Last evening Bernhard Langer bid an emotional farewell to his Augusta career, as a player at least. I vividly recall first seeing him playing at the age of 23 in the 1981 Open at Royal St George’s where he was runner up to Bill Rogers. Rogers received the Claret Jug and delivered a somewhat wooden speech. Before the gallery could disperse Bernhard jumped up and, speaking English in a now long disappeared strong German accent, charmed everyone with some impromptu words.

Of almost equal significance, though slightly less well known, is Bernhard’s subsequent victory in the 1999 Volvo PGA Champions Pro-Am at Wentworth. At this event his playing partners included Volvo’s then CFO and an obscure English politician. On the latter’s study wall there now hangs a silver salver. It is at least as highly prized as the crystal glasses dished out to competitors in the Masters who make eagles.

Only friends subscribers won’t be surprised to know that Bernhard was one of the most courteous professionals I’ve ever played with. He showed a genuine and constructive interest in my game, stayed for a snack after the round and even posed for a photo of me receiving my prize from Mel Pyatt, former CEO of Volvo Event Management. This beyond the call of duty treatment was a pleasant contrast with some other pro-ams I’ve experienced.

Writing this before the third round of the Masters starts later today it’s impossible to pick a winner from such a glittering lineup of top class contenders. Rory’s brave recovery yesterday, aided by the odd lucky break which nobody will begrudge him, speaks well of his mental strength. If he and Scottie play together in the final game tomorrow, which would be the dream pairing for Augusta National, he’ll need every ounce of that toughness to prevail.

Many older English fans may be quietly rooting for Justin Rose who certainly deserves one more major before it’s too late. But there are plenty of other very popular potential winners, not least Bryson DeChambeau whose remarkable public relations transformation is an object lesson. My guess is that even the strongest of the excellent crop of younger challengers chasing their first major have now have left themselves just a little too much to do.

In the end the man they all have to beat is the world number one. Saturday is said to be moving day and a good round from Scottie today may turn out to be just that.

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The long overdue arrival of spring weather didn’t reach North Berwick last weekend where the peak temperature remained obstinately below 7C until Sunday. By then I’d played 18 holes on Friday and 36 on Saturday. Happily the golf was at Muirfield and therefore foursomes which, in addition to its many other merits, allows a brisk enough pace of play to keep warm. With a good caddy as well, mittens can be worn until the very last minute just before each shot has to be hit.

To make matters even better the lovely home of my very generous hosts Hew and Janey, with whom I’d not previously stayed, was kept at a temperature of which even a cosseted southerner would be envious. The clearest proof of this was the presence of a discerning cat curled up on my bed when I came back from golf on the second day, eager for total immersion in hot water as well as a restorative Scotch thoughtfully provided by Hew.

On the first evening I also discovered that Janey is a terrific cook. My only regret, a serious one, was that the demands of the golf did not leave time for a more thorough exploration of the garden on which she has done so much work over three decades.

The Salvesen Trophy was at stake on this weekend with five pairs representing HCEG and Royal St George’s doing battle. Au fond this should be classified more as social golf for middle aged players than out and out cut throat competition among people in the very first flush of youth. Be that as it may, there’s no doubt that everyone is doing their damnedest to win.

On Saturday morning I made an absolutely horrendous start. Although my stoical partner Christopher showed no outward alarm I knew what he was thinking. Two down after three holes wasn’t what we’d planned. However, an important putt was sunk and a couple of long ones laid stone dead and suddenly we sneaked ahead. We stood one up on the last tee hoping for glory until a careless three putt from fifteen feet meant we only halved the match.

Back in the clubhouse we discovered that our half point was our side’s only score of the morning. Inspired by this my new partner for the afternoon, Stephen, and I were determined to do better after lunch. By the time we reached the eighth tee we were three up and expectations were running high. But as I reported only two weeks ago, in golf never ever anticipate.

A moment later a straightforward pitch finished up against the face of a bunker and the momentum of the game completely changed. On the eighteenth tee we stood one down. The door opened a fraction when the opposition found a greenside bunker but a five foot putt to secure a second halved match slipped by. What could, indeed should, have been a tally of 1 1/2 points on the day turned out to be only 1/2.

But in matches of this sort the off-course activity is as important as the golf. Old friendships are renewed and the seeds of new ones sown. The arrangements for the match were made by David Shaw-Stewart, whose attention to detail down to the provision of individual place tags at dinner illustrated by himself, ensured that any disappointment with the result was swiftly softened by a sybaritic evening of good food and wine.

Instead of a sleepless night reliving mistakes on the course I slept an entirely unjustified sleep of the just. Warm thanks to everyone who made it possible. Following up a weekend at Morfontaine last month with this one makes me hopeful about the coming summer.

ENDS