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?

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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