When Ha'ar is no laughing matterI hear that there is a thick ha'ar in Spittal today and not much better in Paxton and Hutton. Can't gloat. There are many reasons why the powers that be -Royal County Down Green Keepers Inc and the Neo-Con Club Committee -keep you off the golf course-snow, frosty, Monday, Walker Cup soon,inappropriate tee shirts, socks tucked into trousers but mist is not usually one of them. But today the East wind brought a magnificent day, but invisibly so-you could sense the sun out there somewhere but not in Bath Lane nor on the first tee of the RCDGC (PBUI)where visibility was about 50 metres at the most. So, course closed. Health and safety and even for the ladies, whose competition day it is. No good even limiting the entry to those who could only hit the ball 49 yards-ie most of them. As there is always some Amazonian player, coinciding a sneeze with a hefty drive taking out a green keeper 75 yards away and invisible in the fog.
And thereby hangs a tale.
The last time this happened-so it is said when a visiting group of Americans on 'do a course a day' tour arrived at Newcastle (so that must have been a Tuesday)to find the course closed and little prospect of any play with visibility not much beyond the end of the tee, never mind 50 metres. What a row broke out-we have come all the way from Mini Town, Minnesota (Pop 67) to play this great course, no second chance, lecture tour on return booked, photos syndicated coast to coast. We gotta play. Come Hell or High Water. But no good: Health and Safety, Insurance, shortage of guides, dangerous terrain, come back next year and in the meantime how about a nice cup of tea-or some thing stronger? Cup of Coffee. On the house' 'Don't give a Donald if it is on the Donald roof-we are going out. We paid up front. And we are going to get our golf. Off they went, canary coloured sweaters, loud trousers, Garish,tam-o Shanters bought in the Duty Free in Shannon Airport, state of the art equipment, millions of Titlists.
Never seen again. They say.
But sometimes in the dark winter evenings, with the fires blazing in the club house and drinkers huddled around them for their own safety, you can hear far out on the course the faint moans of lost Americans, struggling along, balls lost, them lost, hope lost. And no prospect of making it to Portrush on Wednesday. And little prospect of ever seeing again the ten bright lights of Mini Town, Minnesota (Pop, now, 52)
Of course if they had been Dutchmen it would have made a better ghost story.
But we bloggers have to work with what material we have.
