During the Funky Stumpwork Workshop, Paul came bursting through the door – not, as we all assumed, to see his wife Teresa - but to give me an update on the state of the local golf courses.
“I’ve just been for a drive to my course and it is covered in ice. I can’t think it will be open for weeks yet,” he says, although there is a twinkle in his eye.
“BUT, I think courses nearer the coast where it’s warmer may be playable. Shall I see if I can book us a game?”
Silly question, Paul. Yes, yes, yes!
An hour later, Paul reappears with glad tidings.
“I have booked for us to play at Arbroath.” He arranges to pick me up two hours before our tee time as Arbroath is a fair distance away. Golfers are notorious for travelling great distances in order to hit a little white ball many times during a long walk – especially when, like now, we have been cooped up for weeks.
“It’s a traditional links course and it's quite difficult,” he says, a little apologetically. “But if it’s not windy, it’s not too bad.” In this instance, desperate for a game, Paul becomes master of the understatement, I am to discover.
The great day arrives, sunny and fresh (loosely translated, that means zero degrees). Before Paul tells me the history of the Arbroath Artisans Golf Club, he exhales with relief as his eye wanders up to the trees. There is no wind.
Way back when, in the days when golf was invented, the artisans of Arbroath – being unwelcome at the hoi polloi’s golf club – set up their own club right next door. Over time, by good management (Scots are canny with money) the artisan’s club flourished. Meanwhile the gentry were flagrantly extravagant at their club, finances were parlous and the club became in danger of going under. Perish the thought! So the lairds and gentry approached the artisans to see if they would like to join their club, thinking that despite their low breeding, their success in financial matters would be of welcome assistance.
The artisans refused this offer – presumably not wishing to be dragged down to the level of the gentry – but instead, extended the opportunity for the gentry to join their club. Which they did. And now there is but one club, although the clubhouse of the original lairds still stands just a few metres away.
I can only comment that the artisans must also have had a sense of humour. Their links course could best be described as woodland rough with the odd bit of fairway popping up now and again amongst the hillocks, plus a good peppering of sheer-sided bunkers. Signage was also minimal, thus explaining why we failed to find holes 10 and 11. Our errant balls also often fail to find the fairways, rather, favouring the rough stuff or beyond onto fields and the adjacent railway line. Imagining the further complication of wind does not bear contemplation. To further protect the fairways from our hacking, we have been armed with wee hard woven plastic mats to place our ball on when (occasionally) hitting from on the fairway. These prove to be yet another impediment, the plastic mat giving added resistance and having an uncanny knack of being able to grip the golf club head at critical point of impact. But it is a bad workman etc.....
Nevertheless, it is braw to get out and enjoy the pleasure of walking in a straight line on green grass, not having to constantly duck and weave around ice patches.
Arbroath is famous for its smokies and its abbey, so after our 16 holes of golf we toss away our scorecard and go to investigate both local attractions.
After visiting this fishing port even the most unobservant person could not fail to know that Arbroath is famous for its smokies, for every second shop loudly proclaims the sale of said ‘Arbroath smokies’. I have a half smokie and salad for lunch and can testify that the smokies – haddock smoked over a variety of woods, tasting not dissimilar to kippers – are delicious, despite being very boney.
Replete, we go to check out the abbey, built in the 12th century and now largely in ruins, but nevertheless magnificent. The abbey is held dear by Scots as it was here that the Declaration of Arbroath was signed in 1320, witnessed by Robert the Bruce, establishing Scotland’s independence from England.
The abbey towers over the centre of the town and it is not hard to imagine that the monks lived a pretty pampered life here, with much power and wealth. Abbots came and went and one was even sacked by his own monks for (God forbid!) supporting the English.
On the drive home, we detour via our local golf courses to inspect whether any of them look likely to be playable soon. Our hopes are soon dashed when we see extensive snow and ice still stretching along fairways and greens. However, a rumour is circulating that the wee 9-hole course may open at the weekend. As our pitiful efforts today confirmed that much practice is needed to get our games back in shape, I undertake to pursue the matter.
I ask the starter at the pro shop if the rumour is true. He tells me that it is possible six holes will be open on Sunday, if there are no more hard morning frosts.
Oh well, three rounds of six holes and we will have achieved our first full 18 hole game of 2011, albeit in rather unconventional fashion.
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