Ah, May of 2015, when, outside of a few dismissive comments about the doomed Scotlexit, Americans and British could meet up without immediately comparing notes on the future of liberal democracy. I made the trip to Goswick from North Berwick on the last day of my holiday, and it was worth every mile.
I was greeted warmly and was sent to a very fine practice area, just a 400-yard wide-open field where you can truly loosen up and let it all hang out. Fairly soon, I was called over to the first tee and was paired with two senior citizens, one of whom asked me if I was up for “a pained, a pained, a pained”. Come again? “A pained, a pained, a pained.” Excuse me? “Come on laddie, it’s the morning game. With two other groups. A pound on the front, a pound on the back, and a pound for eighteen.” Stroke play in the Kingdom! My three pounds went into the Nassau (is that what they call it?) pile never to return, but I made two fine acquaintances. I got some funny looks when I announced a solo trip to the old country, but the trash-talking and parsimonious wager-reckoning after my round was as if I had never left Riverside Municipal.
You ever meet a girl who was very plain and very hot? That’s Goswick - not that quirky, not that scenic, not that striking. But Ran is correct – when you peer into the course and try to seek fault . . . with the closing hole, with the flat holes . . . you can’t find it. I’m still trying to put my finger on an “everyday” course, but this is it if there ever was one.
P.S. – I played the too-blind and too-steep Castle Bamburgh in the afternoon. Although this course was spectacular and quirky, perfect for the Painswick nerds out there, I wish I had played Dunbar instead, or perhaps even played Goswick again. There’s plenty to do in the neighborhood. And yes, whenever I am flailing about in the wind and the fescue and see those peaceful souls walking their dogs on those massive beaches, I want to trade places.