TD,
My business partner across the desk was a member for 20-odd years. It is essentially a social and tennis club with a 9-holer. That is all the room there is, believe me. There are actually 10 holes - with an additional drop-shot for use during flooding or construction.
It is very tight and the routing disproportionality favors a strong draw off the tee . . . . kind of a short Fort Ord, with a string of "Combat Corner" holes - doubtless you're familiar. The General who helped design it was a bit like C.B.'s first effort, except he was a lefty with a sweeping slice.
The primary allure and challenge of Saratoga CC is the constant temptation to pull the big stick and try the hero shot. The reason most gunners get their asses handed to them the first few times is if you tug or block it with a wood in your hand, the penalty is double or worse.
The last partners tournament I played out there, we were paired with a true scratch who could just not keep his johnson out of the Chinese finger trap. You know what a "lay-up" chicken I am, so I'd punch 4-iron onto the short grass - leaving 60-125 yards - and still, Mr. Scratch was like watching a recovering alcoholic try and resist a double-shot of Hornitos.
Most of the time, bulletproof thinkers like Matt Cohn can shoot par or better by the 2nd go-round. But temptation is a fickle bitch and by the time we'd made the turn, Mr. Gunner was so mind-fucked from self-inflicted ass-rippings, he couldn't even hit the fairway with a mid-iron; one that comes to mind shot 87 at the Invitational, lost his entire wallet and never returned.
As for Swinley . . . I was beyond blessed to have played with Group Captain Ian Pierce, Secretary - and then had a beer with the great Peter Allis. One of the Royals was out in front of me, but I was so enthralled with the golf course I barely noticed.
My recollection is the par-4 #12 was in the Pantheon of brilliant simplicity. We played the back nine with a local member named Mr. Hill - and "Bismarck, an incredibly well-behaved Terrier, so named because he was brought home from Germany.
Dogs on the golf course are perfectly okay at Swinley - a club where there are no tournaments and no official handicaps.
Bismarck let out nary a peep, tottering along obediently, never chasing a rabbit, barely stopping to sniff the heather; when Mr. Hill putted out, doggy would walk silently ahead to the next tee, sit and wait for our group. Not his first time . . . .
That was until #16 tee, when a gas golf cart came rattling by - one of only two on the premises. Bismarck immediately shot after it, snarling, barking and biting at the tires as it went by. Mr. Hill, obviously quite displeased, hissed for him to stop and come back immediately, scolding Bismarck when he trotted back to the tee.
"What's up with your dog"? I enquired, noting he's barely peeped since we joined up.
"Oh that," said Mr. Hill, shooting a British frown at his pet and remembering I was an American, "Bismarck does not approve of buggies."
Captain Pierce - an excellent golfer I might add - winked, tapped a Sterling cigarette out of his pocket and whistled another one, right down the middle.