Maybe I am just a little grumpy today , or was it the four and half hour round , or the .... ? .
But did anyone else find Tim Yeo's column a bit infuriating today .
Jealous ? , Me ? .
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/b605c3d0-239b-11db-ae89-0000779e2340.htmlJust look at the view . . .
By Tim Yeo
One of golf's many merits is the rich diversity of the surroundings in which it is played. Tennis players, footballers and other sports enthusiasts play on lots of different courts and pitches but most are pretty similar. By contrast, no two golf courses are the same. There are times when the view is so spectacular that it helps you to cope with playing badly.
I was reminded of this last week at St Enodoc in Cornwall. Having just been soundly beaten by my host I stood on the 17th tee and drank in the perfect harmony of man and nature apparent in every direction. Ahead was the green on which my ball landed a moment later. Beyond it the humps and hollows of the 18th fairway could be glimpsed. Behind, on a distant hillside, sheep grazed, while on the fields on the other side of the estuary the harvest was being gathered.
Below and to the right the tide was out, exposing a swathe of sand on which walkers and swimmers were enjoying the sunshine without disturbing the fishermen catching bass. No motor vehicle was in sight, unless the ferry plying sleepily between Padstow and Rock could be so described. Inspired by all this beauty I finished par-birdie, too late to save the money but in time to salvage a respectable score on my long overdue first visit to this heavenly spot.
There's a seasonal aspect to the best views. In September it's hard to beat the outlook from the Big Room at St Andrews during the Autumn Medal. After lunch, if it's one of those rare occasions when you've posted a half-decent score in the morning, seeing the flags blowing horizontally in a freshening wind as your fellow competitors set off down the first fairway can be positively delightful. Sitting there with a glass in hand, who would want to be anywhere else, even though the Scottish Executive has denied members the chance to enjoy a Hoyo de Monterrey cigar at the same time? In winter, comfort of a different sort is needed. Few sights are more reassuring on a chilly January afternoon than the yellow lights glowing in the Smoking Room at Royal St George's. Viewed from the 18th fairway these conjure an image of tea and hot buttered toast in front of a roaring log fire. Nursery food was always designed to temper hubris and provide solace for disappointment.
But in early August, when humble tribunes of the people are allowed a few days off from their labours at Westminster, there's another view to be savoured. This very Saturday morning I shall draw the curtains in a simply furnished first floor Scottish bedroom and look out on a truly memorable scene. Every hole on one of the world's fairest and most challenging links is visible from this window and green keepers are busy ensuring it is in perfect shape. A day of undiluted pleasure, courtesy of the generosity of members of the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, beckons.
At Muirfield, if the golf is a struggle to begin with, there's always the chance that the view from the sixth tee of the Forth Bridge in one direction, the Fife coast across the water in another, and of rolling hills that are miles inland in a third, will raise your game. If it doesn't there's still the sunset to be appreciated through the west-facing dining room windows. What's more, the after-dinner speeches will be short, leaving time for a putting competition outside when the sounds of the music wafting over from the fair at the Gullane Games will be heard.
This weekend, on the day after the formal match is played, a relaxed but keenly contested game takes place between four of us who are staying in the club. Afterwards we will dissect the outcome as we dine alone in a little private room. Happily, the postwar restriction limiting those people staying in the club at weekends to only one bottle of whisky between them no longer applies.
Tomorrow afternoon this particular treat comes to an end with a leisurely lunch after a fifth and final round of golf. On the way home good shots, however scarce, will be recalled and bad ones, however numerous, forgotten. There will be smiles at the old friendships rekindled and new ones formed. No golf trip lasts for ever and although more are planned for later in the year they won't get any better than these three days at Muirfield. The closing lines of a Rupert Brooke poem will come to mind: "Eastward we turn and homeward, alone, remembering Day that I loved, day that I loved, the Night is here."
tim.yeo@ft.com