The Isle of Man sits dead in the smack of the Irish Sea, almost equidistant from the coastlines of Ireland and the U.K. As I later learned, it is part of the British Isles, but technically not British, or Irish for that matter. It is not under the rule of the Queen, not a member of the EU, and has its own identity entirely – stamps, currency, government, etc. Its low income tax and “relaxed financial regulations” make it a tax-shelter haven. And no joke, the native Manx cats have no tails.

As is often found on the course, golf isn’t just about the drive; sometimes it’s the approach that counts. Castletown’s first impression was one of the most unique I’ve encountered. As our chartered plane approached the island from above, a Y-shaped peninsula came into view. The terrain looked a blend of dirty brown and sage green. It took me only a minute to realize those pastures weren’t fields at all but fairways, our fairways!

Our second approach to the course via the sweeping lane that separates a shallow beach from the golf course reflected the unpretentiousness that often accompanies good links golf. No big fancy signs, no guardhouse to keep out the rif-raf, and no elaborate landscaping either; just the sea on the left and the course on the right. Castletown Golf Links is no slouch of a course by any stretch of the imagination. In its remoteness one may think that no course designer worth his shirt would have ventured this far to layout a championship venue. Wrong. The course was originally designed by Old Tom Morris himself and revamped by Mackenzie Ross, Turnberry’s re-designer, after WWII.

THE DIMINUNITIVE THIRTEENTH

One trip around the links and it is evident why two legendary course designers have put their stamp here. The panoramic views of the Irish Sea are endlessly breathtaking. After all, the course is virtually surrounded by water on all four sides. The Langness Peninsula also lacks the large sand dunes that are commonly found on seaside courses. While it makes for some fantastic views, it also provides no shelter to break the unrelenting wind that will howl for all 18-holes. This is my promise to you.

The teeth that are built into Castletown Golf Links are given even more of an edge since my focus was often led astray. I admit that originally I had a tough time recalling a few of the holes on my singular trek around. One hole which did not suffer from my lapse in memory was the par-3, 13^th. It is a prime example of how a hole need not be long to be difficult. At 133-yards in length, from the back tee no less, looking at the scorecard one may think it is a birdie opportunity. Wrong. I can assure that it is downright impossible to hold a shot on putting surface with the prevailing helping gale.

THE SPECTACULAR SEVENTEENTH

THE FIRST ON THE BLUE

Inquisitive minds always ask me one thing, “of all the courses and countries you have visited, which one was your favorite?” I don’t think that I’ve ever given a definitive answer. The locations I’ve encountered are so vastly different, it would be akin to comparing apples to oranges. But the more I pondered the question, the more I was sure that I didn’t have just one favorite, I had many. Hence the “Postcards from Europe…Best of” series was created.

Best Heathland Course – The Berkshire Golf Club, Blue Course

Golf courses in the British Isles fall into one of three categories, parkland (inland with lots of mature trees), heathland (inland with long, wispy grasses and heather), and links (seaside). The heathland style course has always suited my eye as the contours provide visual interest and the wispy grasses that sway along in the breeze remind me of a Van Gogh painting. In general, the heathland courses feel calming and soothing like a nice cup of tea. But I can assure you these courses still have plenty of bite to their credit.

The Berkshire Golf Club’s Blue Course made a lasting impression on me from day one. As subsequent years abroad led to subsequent trips to the club (it was often the site of Pre-Qualifying for the Ricoh Women’s British Open), my fervor for the 1930’s Herbert Fowler design has only increased. Originally the property was used as hunting grounds for the Queen but converted to a golf club with the rise of the sport during that era.

It is unusual for the opening hole to be as the British would say, a “short hole.” The reference means it is a par-3; playing 217 yards in length I would describe it as anything but. It is a harrowing task to stand on the tee box at lunch time, steps away from the bricked, outdoor patio full of patrons and take the day’s first swing with one’s 5-wood. There is a bailout short and left, but any shot which misses the putting surface to the right caroms off the bank into a bunker or worse, the low-lying, purple flower heather bushes that are plentiful on the property.

THE TENTH

The next few holes offer some reprieve after the day’s first bogey. A short downhill par-4 greets the player on the 2nd and a reachable par-5 follows on the 3rd. The ebb-and-flow of punishment and scoring opportunities suits the game of golf. It is my opinion that a championship course need not be blisteringly difficult for the span of 18-holes. Giving the player the opportunity to make a few birdies over the course of her round is as necessary as the holes which place par at a premium.

THE TWELFTH GREEN

The trio of holes just past the turn rank as some of my favorites on the course. The drive on par-5 11th favors a slight fade that curves along the tree line. But the trees sit back far enough from the generous fairway that one feels the urges to really give a go and perhaps reach the green in two. Standing on the par-4 12th, the tee box set back in a small patch of pines, the sloping left-to-right fairway is framed by tall grasses and purple flowers. A slight breeze puts all into motion. It is so peaceful here that it is hard to imagine the sprawling metropolis of London is less than 20-minutes away. Anyone fancy a cup of tea?

THE SIXTEENTH

]]> http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/11/pcs-from-europe-best-of-heathland/feed/ 4 http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/10/postscards-from-europe-tenerife/ http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/10/postscards-from-europe-tenerife/#comments Mon, 19 Oct 2009 01:08:35 +0000 Laura Terebey http://punchbowlgolf.com/?p=1919 Tenerife Ladies Open, Golf Costa Adeje, Tenerife, Spain
September 21st – 28th, 2009

After hours in the air, the first sight of landfall brings a sigh of relief. The passage to the island of Tenerife is a bumpy one even on the best of days. Its perch off the west coast of Africa brings ocean winds to its rocky shores. And though I’m no meteorologist, my guess is that the breeze also brings Tenerife’s main attraction; a warm, temperate climate 365 days a year. It is claimed that the island remains a constant 24 deg. Celsius/75 deg. Fahrenheit year round. I’ve been to the island in April, June, and September and can verify that this is generally the case. The humidity seemed higher this time around but going for a dip in the pool was an easy remedy to the heat.

THE VIEW FROM OUR CONDO

Natural water is more difficult to come by. The island sees little rainfall and has no rainy season as one might expect. By the coastline the terrain is dry and arid; cacti are the predominant foliage. But as you look inward, up the deep black volcanic mountain sides, mist and fog shroud the desert. A clear view up to the top is rare. The occasional hang-gliders dip in and out of view and you can just make out the vivid colors of their shoots.

The island is busily trying to make a name for itself as a major tourist destination for European travelers. The coastlines are filled with hotel high-rises and resorts, shades of red stucco being the predominant color. It is hard to imagine there is enough traffic to fill the already enormous capacity but new construction sites were in progress none the less. In part, our tournament is a way to showcase the island for writers and golf travel organizers. One of the principle sponsors of the tournament is the Tenerife Tourism Board.

Organizers spared no expense in keeping players, fed, watered, and entertained. A trip to Siam Park, “the most exciting water park in Europe,” had most of us packing up the clubs for the afternoon and reaching for our swimsuits instead. A water park may seem like a childish excursion; these rides are anything but. The Dragon and the Volcano had me screaming like the frightened little girl that I was. It was no surprise that I wasn’t going to take on the near vertical Tower of Power. I’d rather leave that to daredevil Rick.

THE TOWER OF POWER

The water park and the golf course, Golf Costa Adeje, had more than a few similarities. My thighs burned with fatigue after assenting up to the next tee box, then green, just as they did climbing to the top of water slide platform. Gravity played a big part at both locales. At the water park, Newton’s phenomenon is obvious. At Costa Adeje, the growth of the bermuda greens were also attracted by the pull of gravity. All putts broke towards the water which was never far from one’s eye. And finally, whether rushing down the darken tubes at top-speed or ripping a 4wd into the wind to hit one of the many reachable par-5s, my childish enthusiasm got the better of me. It was simply good to be there.

As I may have alluded to in my previous entries, this season was to be my last. As much as I love the game and the opportunities it has given me, it is also fair to say that it is difficult to bear its many challenges. At some point the scale tips over. Even though its been a disappointing year on the whole, leaving Tenerife with my season’s best finish, T-20th, and birding my last hole on the LET, I felt proud to walk away. Thank you for your comments, praises, well–wishes, and endless support. Its been my pleasure to have you along for the ride. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.

Randstad Open de France, Golf d’Arras, France

September 14^th – 20^th, 2009

The return trips to sites already visited are difficult. My expectations are more defined, the sexiness of an unexplored landscape lost. My former impressions of France aren’t clear to me, the edges more befitting a blurred Renoir landscape than the fine edge of the guillotine. As far as stereotypes go, the French were guilty of the best and worst. The country is beautiful and charmingly rustic, the food snobbish. The more Lacoste logos branded across a chest the more that chest rises, full of patriotism and Frenchness; arrogance abounds. But even as I knew, or thought I knew all these things, it would be ignorant of me to believe that I had French culture all figured out.

THE TOWN OF ARRAS

I was determined that this time around I was going to crack the shell of the French pompousness and I thought language a good place to start. I had a few phrases under my belt, “Je m’appelle Laura,” and “Je ne sais pas francais,” that I was going to try in a gesture of goodwill. Please pardon the American stereotype but my first real test with the French came from the lady at the McDonald’s drive-thru. I am a slave to the black stuff, coffee that is, and could in no way be bothered to change from my slippers and pajamas to venture into the supermarket. Once in a while even I am entitled to take the easy way out. I told her that I don’t speak French and babbled my way through my order in her native tongue. Her wide grin elated my spirits higher than the ensuing caffeine buzz. I had made the French smile!

It felt like there was hardly any time between finishing Austria and starting up again with France. The tournament at Golf d’Arras was another four day event, as purses in excess of €250,000 often are. I hardly had time to catch a breath of air. Full Pro-Am’s on both Tuesday and Wednesday meant I had to fit in a quick nine late Monday afternoon after making the drive down from Brussels. It was helpful that I had to play in Wednesday’s Pro-Am or else getting enough time on the course would have been tough. Better yet, I had another chance to interact with the natives, make an effort with my two phrases of French, and (hopefully) win them over.

As luck would have it, my pro-am team was an absolute dream. Christophe was a scratch player from the French Golf Federation. Antonio was a major organizer of next year’s LET event, also from the French Federation. The last member of our foursome, Guy, played to a 13 and worked for two French magazines. Sadly I did not inquire further on this point. Their English was impeccable, their conversation warm and lively, and their standard of play uncharted in relation to some of the other pro-am teams I’ve joined.

THE CADDIE TOURNAMENT

The same cannot be said of the golfing prowess put on display by the LET Caddie Association at the annual Caddie Tournament which had been held the previous evening. Once a year, players and caddies swap roles for a fun 5-hole scramble on the Golf d’Arras par-3 course. It is a chance for the caddies to do the swinging and the players to do the bag carrying. All year I’m sure they are thinking of how golf is so simple of a game. I can assure you that they made it completely evident that this in fact is not the case. Our five-man team managed one birdie on the course and my “player” handled himself well. Not everyone can be a winner all the time.

It was a bittersweet Sunday; half of the house had missed the cut. It was disappointing that I wasn’t one of those on the draw sheet for the weekend’s play after a valiant 71 (-1) during my 2^nd round. One shot better and I would have survived the cut. “If only” may be the year’s mantra. But the electricity of excitement hung low in the air still. One of our close South African friends, Lee-Anne, was the overnight leader heading into the final round. We kept our lunch in Arras short and by-passed the confectionery’s shop to make it back before Lee-Anne finished her round. She had a chance coming into the back nine but a few bogies on the tough finishing stretch pushed her into a tie for 5^th. If only…

CONSOLATION

THE GREAT CLUBHOUSE AT TALI GOLF CLUB

Fimnair Masters

Tali Golf Club, Helsinki, Finland

August 24^th – 30^th, 2009

Our luck with airport personnel and baggage-handlers had run out. The BA agent who had none too emphatically closed the gate, the breeze of the swinging door brushing my nose, was unwaveringly stubborn. I attempted to explain rationally that it was far more efficient (and much easier for all involved) to get us onto the plane rather than rooting through the luggage hold to find our bags only to chuck them onto the vast Heathrow tarmac. We were right there. But then again he was British; efficiency is not his strength. As I waited for my rage to subside and our next flight to take off, my voice of reason (Rick) calmly explained that the world isn’t coming to an end and with time, it may even be a funny story. It is little surprise that our bags didn’t make it onto the next flight. Those slimy little bastards…

YAANA AND ILKA'S HOME

Warm hugs and a pot of Yaana’s Thai specialty, chicken tom kha gai, were waiting for us when we finally appeared four hours later than expected. Yaana and Ilka are old Finnish friends, our crew had stayed with them last year, but there were new additions to the family that I was eager to meet. The couple had adopted two young brothers from Russia, Dani (4) and Nikki (6) during the past year. While their Finnish has much improved, English has not yet been tackled. Being the American ambassadors that we are, we tried to teach them a little English. They countered with some Finnish and Russian. All terms included, my vocabulary has increased by about twelve words. Thankfully dancing, fishing, and swimming require little in the way of conversation.

A slow stream of smoke was rising from the chimney of the wood hut, painted deep red with white trim. “The sauna should be ready now if you’d like to go down,” Ilka mentioned. The pains and exhilaration were fresh in my mind. The Finnish sauna experience, if a trifle crazy, is devastatingly addicting. Inside the hut, my lungs were struggling to take in the hot air. A fresh pailful of water had just been thrown over the charcoal gray rocks intensifying the heat ten-fold. Glances passed from face to face, wondering who would be the first to cave. Kaz was nearly doubled-over in pain; each breath taken with extreme caution as if she inhaled too deeply the air may burn the insides of her lungs. The boys were squatted near the door where the temperature was a few degrees cooler. Both were looking antsy and eager to leave. Ilka, well he just looked comfortable casually slouched back again the blond-wood panels. The sweat came pouring off Rick’s body in a steady stream but I could see the determination on his face that he would stay in till the end. And as for myself, my body felt like it was slowly being baked like a roast in the oven. “Anyone ready to go swimming?”

COOLING OFF

Off down the dock we filed out. The boys took off first, undaunted by the frigid sea. My steps were more of a gingerish nature. Kaz, Rick, and Ilka were not far behind. It is a badge of courage to see who can last the longest in the sauna but it was not a battle I had any interest in winning. I leaped off the end, plunging my sweltering body into the sea. My breath left as soon as I hit the water but I stayed in for another couple minutes. I felt the blood pumping through my body and one is painfully aware of where your limbs and extremities are. Crazy? It is simply one of those things that one has to do in Finland. You would be a fool to miss it.

THE MARKET IN HELSINKI

Finland’s beauty and elegance is admittedly difficult to depict. Its nature is quiet and reserved much like its people. The woodlands surrounding Yaana and Ilka’s home were straight and tall, a mixture of towering pines and the flaked bark of white birch. Contrasted with the stillness of the water it was easy to feel at peace. The landscape from our view was not unlike many of our new neighbors, ruggedness and water abound. Moss-infused rocks mingle with the reeds along the vast shorelines of seas and lakes. Helsinki, like many major European cities is at heart a port town. When we ventured into the city center, the market in the main harbor was bustling with activity from visitors and city dwellers alike. The stands were set up outside but when winter comes and the temperatures drop precipitously then I imagine most will either close up shop for good or take shelter in the ornately tiled and enclosed Market Hall. After all it can’t be more than 300 yards due west.

THE OPENING TEE SHOT

The city of Helsinki has many attractions, one of them being Tali Golf Club. Tali, located in the city’s outskirts but easily accessible by tram, is an ideal location for a professional golf tournament. The crowds numbered in the thousands which for the Ladies European Tour are sizable. It is a traditionally styled course, one of the oldest in Finland and also one of the most prestigious. It can take years for your name to come up on the waiting list for membership. As for me, I wouldn’t dream of joining the course unless a mysterious hoodlum ransacked the property with a chainsaw. The trees guarding the par-5 14^th, a slightly ridiculous dog-leg right would be the first to go. Then maybe that one on the par-4 5^th, a short 90 degree dog-leg left – also ridiculous. Or perhaps the towering pine encroaching the tee shot on the 6^th may get the chop next…

You know I’m just kidding right?

THE 14TH GREEN

]]> http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/09/postcards-from-europe-finland/feed/ 3 http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/09/postcars-from-europe-wales/ http://punchbowlgolf.com/2009/09/postcars-from-europe-wales/#comments Wed, 02 Sep 2009 17:26:13 +0000 Laura Terebey http://punchbowlgolf.com/?p=1706

August 3^rd – 9^th, 2009

If I were the betting type, I may wager that Wales is in fact the most serene location on my itinerary all season. The majority of the countryside is largely left to pasture, the grasses being kept in check by the millions and millions of sheep which wander freely in the fields all year round. The animals are rather resourceful and daring, finding sustenance on rocky ledges and cliffside perches that I would not dare set foot upon. One may hear a joke or two noting that the sheep outnumber the inhabitants, but honestly it’s not just funny, it’s true. Don’t you wonder how often there is more than an ounce of truth behind a stereotype? The sheep were many as we weaved up the roadways from London to the northwest corner of Wales, our economy-sized car darting from valley to valley. The vibrant green mountains sprung up all around, threatening to divert my attention from the road to the scenery.

Cricceith Beach

Our travels were taking us to the town of Cricceith, where the very affable Steve and Marie (Steve is a Royal St. David’s member), were willing to house us for the week. Their home was a modest, comfortably structured two-story building with wondrous views of the sea. The beachfront of Cricceith lay meters away with Cricceith Castle serving as guardian over the town from the towering rock on the coast. If you stood on the short boundary wall in the backyard, it was easy to see Harlech Castle, and Royal St. David’s below, from across the bay. Given the right mood and a clear outlook on the weather, it was hard not to bound out of the doorway for a little walk on the beach.

It was high season for tourists in the region. The camping grounds and caravan parks were especially popular which seemed strange given Wales’ notorious predisposition to rain. The swarms of people wandering through towns and jamming up the roads on any given day lead me to wish it were otherwise. The route between Cricceith and Harlech could take as little as 20 minutes or as much as 45, largely depending on how much traffic was on the one-lane toll road. The bridge that crossed the low waterway was narrow enough for only one line of cars to travel at a time and even at that, it is suggested you take it a low speed to avoid one’s passengers from bracing for a crash.

THE VIEW FROM THE 12TH TEE

THE MEN'S LOCKER ROOM

With both side-view mirrors and nerves still in tact after only two close calls this morning, we arrived at the course. Royal St. David’s sits in the shadows of Harlech Castle, erected on the rocky outcropping above the town of the same name. The view from the course is often dominated by the fortress with the best panoramas coming from the tee boxes of the 2^nd, 12^th, and 13^th holes. The note in my yardage book reminded me that a 4-wood at the “bottom of the castle wall” was about perfect but more often than not, lines and targets were ridges and sand dunes. Royal St. David’s is a traditional links course and perennially ranked amongst the best in the UK for good reason. The course was established in 1894 and the clubhouse if not original, must date back at least a few years. The men’s locker room had the feel of an old high school gym locker room and not one belonging to a club of its stature. However this like so many other parts of the St. David’s experience has its own unique and British charm.

The routing of the course zig-zags across the property, not the usual nine out, nine back of a seaside links course. As such, the player will face just about every imaginable wind direction possible which strangely enough did not switch at any point during my six-round stretch. The finish at Royal St. David’s, or Clwb Golff Brenhinol Dewi Sant in Welch, is certainly a force to be reckoned with. The shortened par-3 14^th, which played a 7-iron for most players during the tournament, is normally a respectable 222-yard short hole from the standard members’ tees. The par-5 15^th doesn’t house a single-bunker. With the wind down, it was reachable with 4-wood and an eagle graced my card in the 1^st round. When the wind picked up, I just as easily made the dreaded double bogey. But by far my favorite and most productive hole was the 11^th, a 6 ironish par-3 to a green hidden completely from view by a sand dune in front. A steady stream of beach goers crossed behind the green on a crushed shell path that ran through the course to the sea-front. Shouts of school children sometimes interrupting the hushed atmosphere of the group which always gathered on the natural stadium perch above the green. I carded two birdies and two easy pars during the week. What can I say, I love a crowd.

THE NINTH AT PANORAMICA

July 13^th – 19^th, 2009

Open de Espana Femenino, Panorámica Golf Club, Castellon, Spain,

It is market day in Barcelona. The steel roll-away cages have been pulled up and white aprons are being drawn around the waists of the young and old, skinny and pudgy. The fruits are piled high in a multitude of colors, textures, and flavors- some familiar, others excitingly exotic. The marketplace, like all things, has its own order and the produce stands are always cloistered near the entrances. As I reach into my pocket for 50 eu-cents to buy an orange, the smell of its sweetness hits my nose before my fingers can tear open its skin.

Center stage of the market belongs to the fish mongers. Fresh fishes, langoustines (shrimp), mussels, and squids in all shapes and sizes are stacked on crushed ice. The strong scent can make even my hardy stomach turn and a few of the eyes look downright creepy when they are staring back at you. A stop at the meat counter can be similarly off-putting with the smell of smoked sausages and legs of dried prosciutto ham hanging from the hooks above. Cheese shops and bakeries dot the market’s perimeter. The bustle of commerce lends itself nicely to people watching while you stop for a short coffee, strong and bitter, or my favorite, café con leche, at one of the coffee bars tucked away inside. It’s a little slice of Terebey heaven.

Yet many will argue that architecture is the crown jewel of the Barcelona and though my allegiances lie elsewhere, I find no fault with their arguments. The Modernist movement has gripped the landscape in a tight embrace. I see Gaudi’s imprints everywhere. La Perdera, La Sagrada Familia, and slowly the recollection of a college art history course comes back to my memory. Under the cloak of night, the green spotlights below the Familia cathedral throw an eerie light onto the pillars and arches. Once completed it may very well be a powerful religious icon for Christians but as it stands at present, having been in construction for over 100 years with no completion date in sight, it is monumental in the sense that the cranes outnumber the church’s spires. And why is there a big basket of oranges at the top?

Beachgoers, by the way, prefer just the bottoms, unless of course you head to the south end of beach where wrinkly old men gladly shed those as well. Our group literally “scooted” on our bikes along the seafront a few times during the week and saw more than our share of full and partial nudists. The beach is but a moments walk out of the city. On foot you can traverse the pavement from the Picasso museum to white sands and back via City Hall quickly and easily. But as I said, we preferred to scoot.

After a short week of relaxation it was time to get back to work. As we drove 2 ½ hours south to Castellon my mind wandered back to last year’s impressions of Panoramica Golf Club. They are lukewarm at best. The development (golf urbanizacion in Spanish) sits in the middle of a vast orange grove which surrounds the property on all four sides. In the center lies the Bernhard Langer designed Panoramica Golf Club, an interesting test of golf especially when the wind blows which it often did over the course of the tournament. The par three 5^th was a harrowing experience, a firm semi-island green with water front, right, and left. If you knocked it over the green and your chances for an up-and-down were slim as the green sloped away from you back to the drink. The swirling wind was enough for an indecisive club selection. Was it into, into out of the left, strong enough for one more club or two? But for the most part the fairway bunkers, perfectly positioned to squeeze the landing areas, were the biggest hazard on the course.

Flies flourished in this climate. Unbearably hot and humid without the breeze that drove the smell of orange blossoms and freshly laid fertilizer across the course, and burning hot even if it was. Why in the tour’s infinite wisdom had they decided to visit Spain in July? Genius I say (sarcasm added). And to say the flies were only pesky would be the understatement of the summer. It is true that while I found them to be a nuisance, my dislike for them was unparalleled in comparison to Rick’s feelings. Our apartment was a true battlefield of the human versus “the flying creatures from disgusting hell,” as he poetically put it. The surprisingly chilly pool proved to be great refuge from the bugs and from the pitfalls sometimes made on the course. If only I could erase that terrible third round…if the easiest way to make a bogey is to try for a birdie they imagine what you can do if you want to shoot a 67? Whoops.

As alive as the course seemed with a tournament underway, the grass the green and lush from an overworked sprinkler system, it was a ghost town elsewhere. The townhouses that line the perimeter of the course were vacant with for sale signs displayed on balconies and security shutters pulled down over the windows to deter intruders. By the sounds of it the challenges of the course aren’t enjoyed by many others, only a few passing vacationers and fewer expatriate permanent residents. How can a place like this survive?

The multitude of textures found in Norway’s natural landscape is majestic. The sea, a murky shade of brown, is never far from view. On a particularly hot afternoon I was persuaded to go swimming in the fjord, Norwegian for a small sea but akin to a lake. The water was refreshingly frigid and surprisingly clear. Paddling around in four feet of water my eyes could make out patches of seaweed on the sandy bottom which assuaged some of my fears of what was lurking below. After my dip, I layed down on a large rock to heat myself back up to 98.6 degrees. The warm, pebbled granite left small pot-marked impressions on my back. Soon the discomfort of my post drove me off and I decided that the shoreline was better suited to walking than relaxing.

A 15-minute trek up the coastline from the camping site and one reaches the town of Stavern. It is a quaint “beach-town” where as described above the “beach” is hard and gray but the quirky shops and fish restaurants provide the required charm. The harbor was full of masts from the many sailboats that were moored to the docks alongside a few traditional wooden skiffs. The town’s main attraction was a refurbished shipping vessel which would have been typical of a commercial boat in the 1700s. The masts and rigging were an intricate spider-web of rope and pulleys. It was difficult for me to picture how many strong seafaring men would be needed to raise the sail for full flight.

It was by strange coincidence that just this very vessel would be put into use on Saturday, July the 4^th for the reenactment of a sea battle from 1716. Our crew (Dana, Gregg, Rick, and I) scampered up to a rocky ledge for a better view of the action. There were three frigates entering the harbor and we could see the defending army, conveniently dressed in red uniforms, ready with their guns on the shore. The drums rattled in a slow and steady beat across the water. Once the fighting started, the thuds were silcenced by cannon fire. The noise echoing through the air was remarkable and the smoke surrounding the action was dense and thick. The ground artillery and approaching vessels jockeyed for just the right position to fire on the opposing side. A fiery explosion on land sent flames shooting out of a wooden shanty; a direct hit had been made by the sailors. Independence Day will never be the same at home.

Larvik Golf Club, which like Stavern is about a 2 hours drive south of Oslo, was proud to host the SAS Masters. As one of three players able to attend the ultra-exclusive garden party hosted by the owners (written with a hint of sarcism but not without extreme gratitude) they had especially wanted to hold a Ladies European Tour event there. Larvik GC, they told us had a strong female presence at the club, from the membership right up to its goverance. Upon reflection it became clear that the golf course itself was also female friendly. The collection of holes was unusual, (7) par-5s, (6) par-3s, and (5) par-4s, but there were very few forced carries and it seemed players of all ability, short-hitters and long, could have an enjoyable experience there. The thrashing the week’s leaders gave on those par-5s was impressive and scores were remarkably low. The 50-plus cut came at (-1) which was unusually low. Normally my T-58^th would have been good enough to survive the cut. The specifics regarding this catastrophe are unimportant however. Se la vie!

TEEING OFF OF ON THE NINTH

AIB Ladies Irish Open, Portmarnock Hotel & Golf Links, Dublin, Ireland
June 22nd – 28th, 2009

When I think of Ireland immediately my mind conjures up all sorts of images, many of them green (and not in the environmental sense). The Emerald Isle, wily leprechauns, four-leaf clovers, St. Patrick’s Day, boiled potatoes and cabbage, Joyce’s Dubliners, Guinness, rain, and grey skies. I dare say that I am not alone. I would wager most Americans feel a relationship with the Irish. Many of us probably have a little Irish blood in the family history via a great Aunt or Uncle, I know I do. We applaud their good nature and once a year, pay homage to their patron saint with spirited enthusiasm. A trip to Ireland must be soothing to the soul; they are already family.

The issue is the arrival process is not always smooth sailing. I have yet to make the crossing over the Irish Sea feeling completely comfortable and at ease. This trip proved to be no different. My newly arrived boyfriend, Rick, looked exhausted after his flight from America and I had expected him to sleep on the short ride over. No rest came for the weary, for him or for me. It had been just about seven weeks since we saw each other and admittedly my nerves were a little tender. The stress of travel, early morning London traffic, and little sleep the previous night compounded my unrest. Nor did it help that Rick had ripped a muscle in his heel two weeks prior to coming and here I was asking him to schlep my bag around a golf course five days a week. Anxiety doesn’t begin to describe my feelings at the time.

But we were going to Ireland and Ireland is comforting. At least to me it is. Rick’s passport was still clean, blank, and without creases  as it was his maiden voyage to Europe. Ah, the first time. The curiosity of a new traveler is akin to an artist’s blank canvas. The possibilities of creation are limitless. One’s mobility and energy however are not, especially with a bum foot. We spent an afternoon touring the Guinness factory in central Dublin, famous not just for its beer but for the lease which permits the operation. When Arthur Guinness signed the lease in 1759, he signed it for 9,000 years for the monumental sum of £45 per year. Based on current exchange rates, our admission fees to the warehouse took care of its annual liabilities.

The vast majority of our time however was spent in the village of Portmarnock, between the golf course, our B&B, and the little strip of coastline that separated the two. The village green just outside our window, akin to a small park, provided some entertainment as we watched two exclusively Irish sports, hurling and Gaelic football, being played. It is fair to say that the participants of the aforementioned games were an enthusiastic middle-aged father and a young lad about the age of 8 and not the professionals that we had been watching on TV. For those of you who aren’t familiar with hurling, it is a hybrid of lacrosse and field hockey. The paddles look like they belong to field hockey but are handled like lacrosse sticks. The hard, tennis-sized ball can be balanced, bounced, thrown, and whacked around the field without much rhyme or reason. As far as I can tell, just about anything goes. The players wear no padding to protect themselves from the other team who stalk after them like savage beasts. Isn’t golf much more civilized?

THE RUMPLE AND POT BUNKERS OF PORTMARNOCK LINKS

Ha, golf civilized? How is wanting to beat your skull against a hard object after your ball gets redirected into the brush by a rotten wind-gust civilized? Still I feel a proper links course, on any shore, in any weather condition, is something to be worshipped. On a clear day with a slight breeze blowing over your left shoulder and the fairways brown and bare, I day say that there have been few finer experiences in my golfing life. Links golf is of a class all its own, the humps and bumps, the balls bouncing like they just hit concrete, the tiniest of pot bunkers that can protect a 30-yard green. The Bernhard Langer/IMG designed Portmarnock Links, not to be confused with the men’s only Portmarnock Golf Club, is one of the finer links courses I’ve played. It can beat you up faster than you can say fore, but its challenge is part of its charm. True to a links routing, the 1st sends you away from the clubhouse, never to return until walking back up the 18th. The dunes that separate the beach from the course provide some interesting changes in elevation and the views from the 9th, 10th, 11th, 16th, and 18th tee boxes are absolutely stunning. It would be well worth it to skip your practice swing and admire the scenery for a few seconds more.

THE THIRD

Our challenge back at AIB Ladies Irish Open was thickened on Sunday, when the God of Weather decided he would throw fog our way as opposed to the traditional rain. The sea mist came rolling in waves as soon as the first group put a ball in the air at 8:30 am. Once we hit the 7th, the horns blared stopping play and delaying us for 30 minutes. The fog gave an strange and eerie presence to the course. Later as we were walking up the 17th green, we heard the now familiar horns stopping play for a second time. We finished the hole and moved to the 18th tee-box where we waited desperately for the all-clear horns to sound. They never came. While we could see the finishing hole stretch out before us, the rest of the holes just over the sand dunes were hopelessly clouded from view. It wasn’t until 4:15 pm when the Tournament Officials sent us back out to the course (my round was to take 8 ½ hours to complete). As we were walking back to the 18th tee, I was startled to see the sharpness and definition in the hills, grass, and the scenery in general. It was like my game and the course had finally come into focus.

THE FINISHING HOLE AT PORTMARNOCK LINKS UNDER BETTER CONDITIONS

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