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| The Turning of the Tide |
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| Written by Sara Woodward |
| Monday, 01 March 2010 10:56 |
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The Sheriff had been busy searching the internet for a Swindle day out. Somewhere to escape the frost hard fairways and unforgiving greens. The evening had proved fruitful and a deal found on the coast. Bacon butties and a round of golf. Lunch, tea and cakes. It was an offer not to be refused and only needed running past the Golf Police. “But if you belong to a golf club, why do you need to pay to play somewhere else?” he said hunting for a pair of socks and an ironed shirt. “Links golf” I said packing the bag and cleaning the clubs. I put the clubs on hold and threw a hot iron over a crumpled shirt. I added something to the shopping list. Between butter and bread. Socks. Then I returned to the seven iron. “So whereabouts on the coast?” I am not good with directions and points of the compass. “Somewhere near a marsh and the sea” I said and turned my attention to the military planning required for an away day. The shoes were clean and packed with a change of clothes. Waterproofs and hand warmers. The battery was on charge and the trolley in the boot. Before hitting the sack, I checked out the late night weather forecast. A band of sleet or rain was tracking its way up the Channel. With one of Pancake’s prayers to St. Jude and a kiss of the Blarney stone it might miss our corner of the coast. We left early. We left as the commuters were dashing to catch their overcrowded trains. Before children had left teddy and the snugly duvet. Before the Golf Police asked for tea and porridge. Somewhere Sid was putting on his striped socks and Big Rich was programming the Sat Nav in the motor. We left behind the barking dog of Ruggy and went to find fuel. We were on target. On time and the day lay ahead like an unexplored island. The Sheriff had made the arrangements. Bacon Butties and coffee at zero nine hours. Sharp. Big Rich was the first to arrive. He was quite alone and had read the paper from cover to cover and could smell the freshly grilled bacon. He was hungry. “Where are you?” It was a good question. We had filled with fuel and the traffic on the motorway had been light but a lapse of attention meant we missed our junction. The Sheriff had been specific. He dealt in specifics. Junction Ten. Bacon butties at zero nine hours. GMT. We never made Junction ten. We came off at nine and were lost. “Nearly there” I said. “See you shortly”. Rich went back to the papers and we went back to the map. Half an hour later the phone rang again. “Where are you?” said the Sheriff. We had missed the deadline. The butties had been demolished and the swindle were changed and ready to play. “We are so much nearer now” I said, glancing out to fields of sheep and twisting lanes. “You’re lost then” said the Sheriff. “Why didn’t you use the Sat Nav?” There was no answer. Ruggy wanted to do it on her own. Just a map and Ruggy against the motorway junctions and left and right. The Sat Nav sat back and smiled. “We have saved your butties. See you on the tee.” We passed a lot more sheep before we found the clubhouse by the sea. A Championship links course tucked between the English Channel and the bleak marshes of Romney. A testing course and testament to the golfing skills of the five times Open winner James Braid and Abercrombie of The Addington fame. Pot bunkers, subtle undulating greens and the salt laced winds from the sea. Ruggy demolished her bacon butty,the shoes were laced on the way to the tee. The balls were dropped, Ruggy got Big Rich and Gus and missed the first fairway. I drew Sid and the Sheriff partnered the Busman. The sun shone and ahead lay pot bunkers, true greens and the twists and turns of fate. As we headed to the first green, a four ball practiced on the putting green. They read the putts well. Unbeknown to Sid, they would become part of his day on the links, with his striped socks. It only took me two holes to lose my new Taylor made. It should have stayed in the pocket of the golf bag. It was not a day to take out a ball which had seen no action. It was crisp and white and did not deserve its fate. Links courses are deceptively hard to judge yardages. There are no solitary oaks guarding the green. No clumps of gorse or heather. Just pot bunkers, ditches and undulating fairways. I played my approach shot to the half hidden green. The flag peeped enticingly between two long grassy mounds. I didn’t trust the club or the yardage and the ball hit the far bank of the ditch. Lost forever. Until a black clad diver with a tricky zip came to retrieve it from the icy depths. “Unlucky” said Sid who played a low skimmer which carried the ditch and stopped short of the mounds. The tide was still on the way out and somewhere a child called for her father and a dog ran after a flung stick. The sun shone and a hazy mist softened the edges of the red brick clubhouse. The Chef was checking his numbers for lunch and the Secretary was trying to balance a spread sheet. Figures were down due to the snow and he needed to attract golfers to his patch of bunker strewn grass between the sea and the munching sheep. The Chef came up with the answer. A round of golf. Bangers and mash and tea and cakes. The course had been closed due to a heavy snowfall. Scattered snow still sparkled in the long linksy grass and the bunkers were snowy ice traps. North facing ones were sandless and required a local swindle rule. “I hate to say it” said the Sheriff glancing at my ball which sat silently on the ice, “but you will have to drop behind the bunker. No penalty”. Ahead, Big Rich’s three ball found mixed fortunes. Behind the four ball had begun their round. Four perfect swings. Tempo, precision and perfection. Their balls stayed on the fairways and their putts rattled into the holes. But they had not yet met Sid. The child continued to throw pebbles into the sea and the dog still ran for the stick. The Busman and the Sheriff took the front nine and the scores did not make for pretty reading. “We can do this Sid” I said. “Get them on the back nine”. Sid looked determined. “I know” he said. “I know”. But he didn’t know about the fourteenth. Behind, four pristine balls landed on the green with back spin. The putts rattled into the cup. With nonchalance. The fourteenth is a par three. One hundred and eighty seven off the whites. Stroke index five. The fourball putted out the thirteenth and we decided to call them through. “Let’s play our shots” said the Sheriff. This was the day the sun shone on Sid. The day he would remember forever. The day of his lucky striped socks. It was his honour on the tee. He settled behind his topflite and glanced up once to look at the flag at the back of the green. The ball looked good in the air, it dropped and ran up to the hole. Just outside a putter’s grip. None of us beat Sid. Not even the Sheriff with his impressive four handicap. It was the Nearest the Pin hole and the day belonged to Sid. And then it got better. The four ball played through. The Young Guns with their second skins and blue shirts. A new putter in the bag and a Birthday Boy. “Good swings” I said. “Handicaps?” “Plus one. Plus Two. Two and Two” they said quietly, with modest smiles. But none of them beat the ball of Sid. None of them got the birdie and they walked off with their pars. “Need to see that putt in” they said to Sid, pausing by the green. They had found Sid’s Achilles Heel. Along with the silent suffering of Sid with his footballing knees, he dreaded putts. It was a putt which should have been conceded but Swindle Rules are set in stone. All eyes were on Sid and the ball on the green. Watched by the county juniors and the England International Birthday Boy. He sunk the birdie putt. “Have a good season lads” we said. “And never forget the day you were beaten by Sid”. We stood in awe and let them pass. Sid got his four points and the tide began to turn. The Sheriff turned a paler shade of pale. It was not only the tide the other side of the sea wall which had turned. A three point swing. The wind began to ruffle the flag sticks and the temperature dropped a few degrees. The snow filled bunkers and patches of ice in the links grass sparkled in the sun. The Busman and the Sheriff conceded defeat on the eighteenth green and we headed in for tea. The Chef did us proud. Sausage and mash with onions and thick gravy. Big slabs of cake and cups of tea. The child had long since stopped throwing pebbles and the dog was asleep by the fire. We headed home by grazing sheep in the fields. Sid would always remember the day he wore his stripy socks and sunk the putt for birdie on the on the links course between the Channel and the marsh of Romney. Watched by the Young Guns.
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