Golfing in Ireland
April 28 – May 5, 2018
Here’s
the executive summary from my recent golf trip to Ireland. It was great fun, I’d recommend it to any
golfer. My traveling companions were
delightful, the Irish people we encountered were friendly, the country is
beautiful, and I lack sufficient superlatives to describe the varied golfing
experiences.
If
you’ve an interest in more detail, read on.
A
member at our golf club, Indian Hills, organized a trip he dubbed, “Ricket’s
Revenge’ in honor of our club pro, Mike.
I was one of twelve to sign up. I
knew Mike and two others by name. I
would later learn that our number included lawyers, an optometrist,
entrepreneurs, finance and corporate guys.
More relevant; two played college basketball, one was a former
professional kick boxer, one played baseball in the Olympics, one was a golf
pro, and I’m sure there were additional, undiscovered athletic
credentials. Out of modesty, I never let
on that 53 years ago I won the intramural badminton tournament at Drury
College.
We
had a five-hour layover in Newark en route to Shannon, Ireland. I took advantage of the time to take a cab to join
son, Ben, and daughter in law, Deb, in midtown Manhattan. We had a delightful dinner and visit. I wanted
to take the train out of Penn Station to get back to EWR. They helped me navigate the transaction and
guided me to the right track, instructing me to, “Get on that train.” I complied, got a seat, and later saw Ben
frantically waving at me saying to disembark as I was currently heading to
Boston. I later got on the correct
train, and all was well. This was a
reversal of roles of the time when Ben, age nine, hopped on a Boston subway prematurely
with me shouting instructions to him as they train rolled down the tracks. Must be something about Boston.
The
next day I received a text from Ben, “I hope Ireland is better than Boston
would have been.”
Day 1
We
arrived in Shannon (County Claire) around 10 am on Sunday and were greeted by
our bus driver, Sennan, aka Badger. He
would prove to be a delightful companion as he guided our luxury coach over 500+
miles of Irish roads adding interesting and informative commentary along the
way. Our coach was a 24-seat, well equipped
bar, with ample room to spread out. He
explained his nickname, “When I was 30, my hair turned white. Later patches of black reappeared, and the
pattern resembled a badger, and that is my lot.”
Someone
asked about a group of small trailers we passed. Badger explained, “Those are the
gypsies. They’re not much of a
problem. They mostly just engage in
small time thuggery and theft and a bit of extortion.”
We
drove about 40 miles to Lahinch, a smallish city on the west coast of Ireland,
dropped our bags at the Atlantic Hotel, had a filling lunch, and headed for the
Lahinch Castle course for a 1 pm tee time. Spring had not yet sprung, and it was quite
chilly, high 40’s, and cloudy. We
bundled up and played the easiest of the courses we would play, Lahinch Castle. We experienced periods of sunshine, light
rain, heavy rain, and even hail. I sank
a birdie putt, from about 30 feet on the 18th, and that warmed me
up. We did some more warming up in the
clubhouse, and I enjoyed the first of many Half and Half’s, a mixture of
Guinness and Smithwick’s (silent W) stout.
We
checked into the Atlantic Hotel on the main street of Lahinch, only a few
blocks from the two eponymous golf courses.
We agreed to meet for dinner and drinks at the nearby Cornerstone Pub
for drinks and dinner at 8. The place
was ancient, constructed of stone walls, charming, low ceilinged, filled to
capacity, and featuring great pub food and drink. A group of musicians gathered and starting
performing around 10. One of the singers
was extraordinary. She had the voice of
an angel.
We
later migrated to Kenny’s, a bar down the road.
I can’t be certain of all that follows in this narrative, but here’s the
best I can recount. I walked by a table
occupied by two ladies. One queried,
“Hey old timer, what’s your story?” I sidled alongside them in their booth and embarked
on the tale of the two nude ex-nun lesbian lovers in the hot tub. And we
bonded.
I
would subsequently learn that Carly was from Essex in England, the Joan was
from Lahinch. One was married to the
cousin of the other. Both had just
turned 50, and were significantly more attractive than I, although the Irish
lady had English teeth. We conversed a
bit, when a scuffle broke out near the front door of the pub. It was an all-out fist fight, with broken
glass; a regular donnybrook. The
Englishwoman ran to the site of the brawl, got in the face of the scofflaws,
and screamed, “Stop that. Stop that
right now. We just won’t have
this.” And they did. They left, and Carly returned to our table
for another round. I inquired, “Are you in
special forces or what? That was
amazing! The only other person I know
who would have done that is Judy, my wife.”
She added, “Women can get away with stuff sometimes.”
Earlier
in the day, the youngest in our group, a 31-year-old, advised me, “You must
stay up until midnight, to best adapt to the 6-hour time change.” It was past midnight when I noticed that my golfing
mates were long gone. My new friends
asked where I was staying, and whether I knew how to get there. Out of kindness, they accompanied me back to
the Atlantic Hotel. The rule for Irish
drinking establishments is, ‘don’t close until the last customer leaves’. Accordingly, the bar was open with 10 of 11 of
my fellow travelers hard at it. I walked
into the bar with my arms around Carly and Joan and borrowed a line from my
friend Benny shouting, “Let’s tear this place apart.”
I
went on this trip with a modicum of apprehension. I had a recent foot problem, and I was
concerned about walking five courses. Buggies aka golf carts are not allowed. I
was also the oldest participant, by quite a few decades, the worst golfer, and
nine of the others were essentially strangers.
The younger guys were undoubtedly equally apprehensive about having a septuagenarian
geezer in their midst. I can only
presume that their concerns were modestly allayed upon my arrival with the two
chicks.
I
asked Joan about the impact of Brexit on Ireland, and I paraphrase her
response, “Things are fine as they are.
We (the Irish) definitely don’t want Northern Ireland to become part of
Ireland. Half of them are on the dole,
and the other half work for shipyards and industry controlled by the
English. If they ever become part of
Ireland, the English industry will leave, and then all of them will be on the
dole. We can’t afford that.” Later in the week I would encounter a young
man from Northern Ireland with a different view.
We
had a few more beverages and were a wee bit loud. Our trip leader asked the bartender how many
rooms there were in the hotel. “13.” And
we were occupying 12 of the 13. “Is
anyone in the 13th room?”
“No, it’s just you lads.” And so,
we partied on. I left around 2 am, ending
day 1 for me.
Day 2
We
enjoyed our first full Irish breakfast, identical to the English version, and
equally tasty and filling. There was
fruit, cereal, juices, and pastries to start followed by eggs, bacon (more like
Canadian bacon), baked beans, sausage links, blood pudding, mushrooms, toast,
and potato cakes.
Badger
arrived, we loaded up our luxury coach and headed south along the coast for a
one-hour drive to Trump International Doonbeg Resort. The countryside was very
much like rural England, with stone fences bordering small fields, many with
cattle and sheep, and bustling villages.
The grass was green, but the trees had not yet leafed out. Views of bluffs and beaches bordering the North
Atlantic were plentiful and pleasing.
The
facilities at Doonbeg were extraordinarily luxurious with a castle-like
clubhouse, a hotel, and several guesthouses.
The golf course is laid out amidst the dunes (Doonbeg means small dunes
in Irish). It would be the only course
of the five we would play that wasn’t built in the 19th century. The first nine runs about 3 miles out from
the clubhouse along the coast line. The
back nine brings you home. It was sunny,
but chilly, and the winds were blowing about 20 mph. Amazingly, it appeared we were playing
against the wind on every hole. I mentioned
that phenomena to my caddy, and he said, “You’re not the first person to
notice.”
Our
three foursomes were waiting to tee off #1 having been introduced to our
caddies. They were attired in white
overalls like those one might see at the Masters. One of the more outrageous personalities in
our group would continually amaze me. He would say things to people apparently
for shock value, yet just short of starting a fistfight. He asked his caddy, “What do you wear under
those things?” The tall, youngish man replied huffily in his heavy Irish
accent, “Why would anyone ask such a question?
You concern yourself with what’s in your trousers, and I’ll take care of
me own.” I wasn’t in their foursome so
I’m not sure whether their relationship got better or worse over the next five
hours.
My
caddy, Peter, was a real pro. He had
been carrying at Doonbeg for seventeen years, and he didn’t just transport a
bag and find lost balls. He was a guide,
coach, and read putts well. He offered
encouragement when needed, which was often.
Peter volunteered that he once caddied for Trump. I asked how it went. “It was before he became president. He is a very good golfer, but he’s very
loud. Big time. He was nice, easy to work with, and a huge
tipper.” I asked what tees Trump
played. Peter gave me that
what-a-stupid-question-look and said, “Gold, of course.”
I
was in the last of the three foursomes to tee off. As we were walking down the
first fairway Peter inquired how long I had known these guys. I replied, “A
week ago most of these guys were complete strangers to me. They’re no longer strangers, but they are
still strange.” That puzzled him since
we were all members of the same club.
One
of the guys organized a Ryder Cup type event.
We were split up into two groups.
I was on team US, captained by Mike.
The other team would be known as team Europa, captained by the strongest
and youngest player in the event, Ricardo.
Each of us would have a match play contest (where the player earns a
point for each hole in which they best their opponent, as opposed to stroke
play) against a different opponent for each of the next four courses. I was allowed to play the senior tees in
exchange for reducing my handicap (17.7 in my case) by two strokes. At Doonbeg, I had a significant advantage
playing 5,279 yards vs. the rest of the field playing the gold tees at 6,425.
I
started well, with three pars for the first six holes. Then I chunked my tee shot into impenetrable
grass on a par three taking a six. On
seven I got in a pot bunker, took four shots to get out and recorded a 9 on a
par five. I played better on the back
nine, finished with a par on the picturesque 18th running parallel
to the ocean and ended up with a 103 for the day. Amazingly, I won my individual match by one
point.
We
met for drinks and hors d’oevres on a sheltered patio offering commanding views
of the sea and the golf course. Badger
arrived, loaded us up, and we returned to Lahinch. En route we stopped by the Cliffs of
Moher. They are granite cliffs that rise
up to 700 feet up from the Atlantic.
They run for nine miles between Lahinch and Galway. A dozen castle-like watch towers are
scattered over the cliffs. They were
built in the late 1400’s by the English and served as an early warning system
against the Spanish navy.
We
got back to the Atlantic, and arranged to dine in the hotel’s dining room. We started at nine. There was a young Australian couple in the
restaurant, and we learned they now occupied the 13th room. They quickly joined in the festivities, but I
was tired and retired around 1 am.
Day 3
We
had an early tee time 10 am for Lahinch, Old Course, as we would be driving to
Dublin afterwards. Lahinch Old was
originally built in 1892 by Old Tom Morris for the British Army then stationed
there. It was redesigned by Alister
MacKenzie in 1926. It has been dubbed,
‘The St. Andrews of Ireland.’
The
weather forecast was perfectly awful, with a high of 48 degrees, rain, 25 mph
winds gusting to 40. Worst of all, it
was accurate. I wore the identical
clothing I have used for climbing 14ers in Colorado; five layers on the torso,
ski cap, gaiters, and waterproof hiking boots.
It rained intermittently, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, but it
always rained. Caddies don’t use
umbrellas, because they would just blow away.
Lahinch Old is rated the 30th best course in the world, and
justifiably so. Like Doonbeg, it is
built on dunes running along a crescent shaped beach. My caddy, Jerry, nearly my age, was
excellent. He was a delightful companion
for the five-hour round, and extremely helpful.
Near the end of the round he asked, “Have you had a good life?” “Aye, I have. And you?” “Aye.”
I
shot a 91, my best round of the week, in spite of four putting for a five on a
par three and taking an 8 on a par five.
I even had a sandy (getting a par out of the sand) on a par three. I played the ladies tees at 5,502 yards, and
the big boys played 6,339 yards. I was
appropriately attired, and stayed warm and dry.
One
of the caddies in our foursome, Dewey, had been caddying for 55 years. He had a leathered face that looked like he’d
been on the losing end of many a bar fight. He was also a guitar player and singer. I told him of the fantastic singer we heard
at the Cornerstone, and he said, “That’s Ireland for you. It’s a musical land.”
We
showered in the clubhouse to warm up, hopped on the bus, and were off for the
three-hour drive to the center city of Dublin 170 miles distant. The Irish countryside is uniformly beautiful. The smaller farms bordered by stone fences
gave way to larger scale operations.
Yellow barley fields accented green pastures. Badger told us that Ireland grows seven times
as much food as it uses, the remainder being exported to other EU countries. I
observed no ugliness; no billboards, no unkempt barns or houses, nothing was untidy. The bus occupants were uncommonly subdued
during the ride. We stopped at a truckstop that was nicer and cleaner than any
I’ve seen in the U.S.
Dublin,
the capital city of Ireland, was founded in 1191 and is home to 1.2 million inhabitants. It is located on the east coast of Ireland at
the mouth of the River Liffey, and lying in the shadow of with Wicklow
Mountains. It is also uncommonly tidy. We passed a beautiful canal that bisects the
city in one direction perpendicular to the River Liffey segmenting the city
into quadrants. It is a high-density
city, but few buildings exceed five stories.
Badger told us, “No building can exceed the height of the Guinness
Brewery.” Above ground trains were
ubiquitous and modern.
We
arrived at The Dean Hotel, in the center city and arranged to meet in the
rooftop bar and restaurant at 9. Our new
lodgings featured hipster touches everywhere.
My room had a functioning turntable and ABBA albums. The phone was an old time Crosley Kettle
Rotary. The only drawback was the
presence of a package of earplugs on the bedside table. A loud disco located somewhere nearby blared
a pounding beat until 3 am clarifying the matter.
Our
organizer had a party room available for us featuring a well-stocked bar,
foosball table, and other amusements. We
had a few drinks and ambled to the roof top bar for an exquisite dinner and
great views of the city. We returned to
the party room for after dinner refreshments.
Someone suggested we go to a disco.
Sadly, I didn’t go. I would learn
I missed the Silent Disco experience. In
such a place, everyone is issued headphones through which one selects their own
choice of music. One of the lads took a
video of the proceedings. With little
fear of offending, it looks a bit goofy to see people dancing solo to their own
tunes. It’s not as though the world
needs even less socialization.
Day 4
We
took a respite from golf, much needed in my case. We met for drinks and lunch at the
Shelbourne, an elegant hotel built in 1824.
From there we took a tour of the Guinness Brewery. It was a bit touristy, but it featured free
beer in a viewing room that gave 360 degree views of Dublin. Afterwards, some took a tour of a distillery,
but I went back to the hotel.
Badger
picked us up at 6 for the 30-minute drive north to Malahide, described by our
leader as the ‘Mission Hills’ of Dublin.
Two newcomers joined us on the bus.
Apparently one of our group engaged two Australian ladies, Kate and
Ashley, in conversation at the brewery and invited them to join us for dinner
in Malahide. Kate, sat beside me on the bus ride, presumably because I look
harmless and grandfatherly, and we chatted.
She is a 26-year-old optician, married, statuesque, and the part owner
of six stores in Brisbane. Ashley, is
her employee and traveling companion as her husband doesn’t like to
travel. They were mugged while in Rome,
and she spent the night in the hospital from a blow to the cheekbone. Her left arm was covered in multi-colored tattoos,
and I inquired, “What if fashions change?”
They were keen to watch the evening’s soccer match between Liverpool and
Rome, which was the semi-final of the Premier league. Kate was originally from Liverpool so she was
avidly rooting for the Reds.
The
Grand Hotel, where we would stay for the next three nights, is an elegant
establishment. We all had ocean views
and extremely nice rooms. It was clearly
the grandest of the lodgings we enjoyed.
After drinks in the hotel’s bar, we walked to Gibney’s, a nearby pub. It is large, and it was packed well beyond
capacity owing to the start of the soccer match. We dined on bar food standing up, sort of
watching the game and chatting with anyone we encountered. Liverpool scored the first goal just as I was
commenting on the lack of scoring to my new pal, Kate. Liverpool won, and everyone was happy, and we
drank until it was time to go back to the hotel. Kate and Ashley invited us to go discoing
back with them in Dublin, but all declined.
Lamentably,
one of our number had to return to the states owing to a family emergency. This left us with eleven golfers in a
twelve-man match. The problem was solved
by inviting Chris, a young bartender at Gibney’s to join us. He proved to be a delightful and informative
companion for the rounds at Portmarnock and Royal County Down.
Day 5
The
Portmarnock Links Course was only a 15-minute drive from our hotel. It was built in 1894 and has hosted nineteen
Irish Opens, the Walker Cup, and many other notable golf events. It is ranked #47 in the world and is located
on the Dublin Peninsula reaching into the Irish Sea. It is also home to at least
a dozen pot bunkers per hole. It was more like golfing on a pinball machine. I
played the senior tees, 5,851 yards, and the others played 6,705. I had my typical round with 5 pars, a few
blow up holes, and a 94. I won my match
only because my opponent missed a three-footer on #18 that would have tied the
contest.
By
now our routines were pretty standard.
Badger would get us safely back to the hotel, we’d clean up, meet at the
hotel bar, and then head for dinner. Our
trip organizer had every reservation made in advance, so we never had trouble
seating 12. We dined at Duffy’s, a pub
in downtown Malahide, a 10-minute walk from the hotel. Like every establishment we patronized, it
was extremely crowded. A band called the
Moogs, started at 9 and played for an hour.
I was hoping for Irish music but they played a high energy set of pop
standards, ala Eagles, Journey, etc.
They were world class good.
Then
we returned to Gibney’s to meet up with Chris, the newest member of our golfing
group, who was back to bartending for the evening. A tribute band calling themselves Mack
Fleetwood was playing in the back room for a mere 10 euros extra. A large and appreciative crowd listened. I was impressed by the mixing of generations
in the pubs. The girl singing the
Christine McVie parts was as good or better than the real thing. We stayed until they closed down and returned
to the hotel bar.
One
of our number was chatting with a rather provocatively clad 24-year-old and her
Mum, Michelle and Colette. I
complimented her on her attire, and we were drawn to her like moths to a flame. We subsequently congregated in the hotel lobby
to enjoy the final concert of the evening.
Michelle had an enchanting voice and sang ‘Danny Boy’ and other Irish
standards until the wee hours.
Day 6
Royal
County Down Championship Course is located in Newcastle, Northern Ireland,
about a two-hour drive north of Malahide.
There was nothing to let you know when you left Ireland and entered
Northern Ireland. Brexit could change
that, but it is still up in the air. The
only thing I noticed was that gasoline station signs went from €1.40 / liter to
£1.23 / liter.
Newcastle
is a charming seaside town nestled at the foot of Mount Mourn. RCD is rated either number 1, 3, or 5 in the
world, depending upon your source. It is
undeniably wonderful. It was designed by
Old Tom Morris in 1889. Every hole is distinct. The multitude of bunkers that guard the
greens and defend the approaches are all natural. The bunkers in the other courses we played
were made by walls constructed of sod layers.
The principal hazards were gorse, heather, and dense sea grasses. We were fortunate to be there during the six
weeks the gorse was in bloom, with vibrant yellow colors and 2” long
thorns. If your ball went into the
gorse, it was gone. It would be the
warmest day of our trip, probably in the high 50’s. It was somewhat windy, and got windier as the
day went on, but there was no rain.
My
yardage advantage over the young guys was reduced. I played 6,249 yards vs. their 6,675. My tees featured five par fours over 400
yards. As we were walking down the first fairway my opponent inquired if I
wanted to take on a side bet suggesting a $100 Nassau. I declined, explaining I didn’t need any more
stressors. In keeping with my custom, I
started strong. I was on the green in
regulation on the first three holes, all going downwind, but I three putted all
of them for bogeys. I birdied the fourth
hole, a 159-yard par three into the wind.
My putt stopped short of the hole and then the wind pushed it in. Yea! Then the wheels fell off. I met my goal of breaking 100 finishing with
a 97.
Miscellaneous
I
used my iPhone feature to track of the miles and elevation of my walking each
day. Portmarnock was 9.2 miles and 48
equivalent flights of stairs climbed.
RCD was 8.2 miles, 30 flights.
Doonbeg was 7.4 miles and 25 flights. Lahinch Old Course was 8 miles, 30
flights. That’s a pretty good day’s
walk. It was so much fun I never really
got tired.
My
favorite course, a view shared by all, was RCD. The remaining rankings are a close call, but
I’d go with Doonbeg, Lahinch Old Course, Portmarnock, and Lahinch Castle.
Like
most European countries, the people we encountered were predominantly trim and
fit. Real estate prices are quite
high. I checked real estate office signs
in both Lahinch and Malahide. Relatively
modest dwellings were being offered for sale in the €650,000–€850,000 range. The euro traded at $1.20 during our
trip. One of my caddies is a real estate
speculator. Smoking is heavier than in
the U.S. Most people roll their own as
packaged cigarettes cost €12 / pack.
A
special thanks to Dan for organizing this wonderful trip. Thanks also to my eleven lively traveling
companions. I heard some terrific
stories from some mighty impressive people.
I was again reminded that we live in a big small town with one degree of
separation.
And
that’s the news from here.
Chuck
Charles A. Wells, Jr.
3317 W. 68th Street
Shawnee Mission, KS 66208
816 289-1924
Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't:
An Anthology and
Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People
Also available at:
Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street,
Fairway, KS
