A place where golf's traditions remain well preserved - Prestwick

Posted by Jamie on 24 July 2010 | 0 Comments | Tags: Prestwick, links, Ayrshire, The Open

Prestwick must surely be as traditional as it gets in the golfing world.  And I like it.  Nay, I love it.  Our visit to this hallowed place has been a long time coming: a Scottish expat now living in New Zealand – The Rt. Hon Kenny Thomson (Jnr.) – saw us on Breakfast TV back in February and noticed we were planning to be across here around the time of The Open.  As it happened, so was Kenny – so he dropped us a line and asked whether we might like to join him for a game down at Prestwick before he returned back to NZ.    After taking the 50:50, asking the audience and phoning a friend I confirmed that yes, we would be happy to slum it for a day and make the trip down to Ayrshire.  And so a 5 month wait ensued.

After getting bucketed on last night at The Dukes Course on the hills overlooking St. Andrews we zipped across Fife to stay with dear family friends of mine, The Lows.  The 4 hours’ notice I gave Auntie Phil that we’d be descending upon Dunearn Farm didn’t seem to inconvenience her or Uncle Jock, although my mum would be mortified at such Gaul.  With 4 of us – Michael and I, and friends Doug and Tim from New Zealand – packed in The Tank, along with 16 tonnes of luggage, we were glad to pour out onto the doorstep and into the comfort of The Lows’ lovely farmhouse cottage.  It was also something of a relief to get out of St. Andrews after a manic 5 days of All Things Golf.

I’ve been lugging around my sports jacket for over 200 days because I’d need it at places like Prestwick.  As such I took some satisfaction in donning it in the morning, feeling like a 5-year-old off for his first day at school.  One thing I haven’t lugged around – and which I’d need – was a tie, but Jock kindly came to the party and lent me one (which belonged to his father before him, as it happens).  Sporting freshly ironed white shirts and jackets and ties we hopped back into The Tank and headed West.   Doug and Tim were dropped in Glasgow to watch Tim’s cousin (and our friend) Peter play cricket for Holland against Bangladesh; Mike and I continued south down the M77.  And then we found ourselves in the carpark at Prestwick, chomping at the bit.

While hauling out our gear from the car we got chatting to a couple of Nor’n Irish cum Californian folk who’d parked next to us, and to a chatty Westie the car over who turned out to be Davey the 4th member of our group.  Davey & Kenny – like Michael and I – went through University together and, though Kenny now plies his trade 12,000 miles away in the Antipodes, they still keep in touch and try to catch up whenever possible.  Often on the golf course, which is the best place to catch up with old friends if you ask me.

The path to the clubhouse entrance takes you past the big bay window inside which all the members gather on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings before play.  Between 8 and 10 each member is dealt to from a pack of cards; the Aces and Queens play together against the Kings and Jacks – a tradition that has endured since the club’s early days nigh on 160 years ago.  This way you don’t know who you’re playing with until the cards are dealt, and you inevitably end up meeting most if not all of your fellow members, rather than keeping to cliques as is the case at many clubs.  

Kenny was perched in the window looking dapper in a blue blazer and his Prestwick member tie, but came out to greet us at the front door.  We were shown to the old locker room to drop our gear, then taken into the bar for a dram and a coffee before play.  It’s not every day that I’d have a whisky at 10am before teeing off, but at Prestwick I made an exception.  Because it’s Prestwick.  In keeping with the sociable fabric of the club, the chairs in the bay window are set out in two parallel lines rather than into huddles of 4 – meaning everyone really sits and likely gets chatting with everyone else.

The time eventually came to step onto that famous 1st tee.  Our 4 ball was at the end of the members’ block and a good 15 minutes or so before the visitors would tee off – so we were all but assured of a good pace of play.  The balls were thrown up and Davey and I paired together.  An offshoot of this was that Michael would benefit from Kenny’s local knowledge and I wouldn’t.  (That’s not entirely accurate actually; I promised to wind Kenny up in the blog and am starting as I mean to continue).  

What a golf hole.  Your brain doesn’t know quite what to make of it upon first impression.  Or after you’ve played it, for that matter.  There’s a wall running the length of the hole on the right hand side, over which is the railway (from which the holes its namesake, “Railway”).  On the left is heather and bunkers and generally inhospitable territory.  The fairway is largely obscured from view by said heather, so you have to 1. Rely on Kenny’s instructions; and/or 2. Consult the diagram on the fence by the tee that sets out how the hole should be played.  You know you’re in for something of a calamity when the club has to put a picture up telling you how to play a hole!

We all got our tee shots away safely enough – none over the wall at this point – much to our collective relief.  Then I blocked an 8 iron that looked like it was heading 25 feet pin high right (it’s a semi-blind shot).  I must’ve misjudged both the shot and the wind because it flew straight over the wall onto the railway!  A shot I will never forget.  In the context it wasn’t just despair and anguish that I felt, but also amusement and almost delight.  

The course is littered with quirky holes like the 1st.  No doubt they’re polarising: some people for whatever reason detest playing blind shots.  I’m in the other camp, and relish the challenge / lottery.  All the anguish is worth it when you walk over a dune and spot your ball sitting 6 feet from the pin, having 5 seconds ago not known whether it was in a pot bunker, in the long grass or somewhere playable.  

Take the 3rd, an unorthodox par 5 if ever there was one.  First of all, there’s a heathery ditch at about 260 yards or so, and a huge railway sleeper bunker behind – so you basically have to hit 2 iron or 3 wood off the tee (on a line Kenny tells you).  Then it’s a blind approach over the hill and said mischief to a Himalayas-esque fairway and a semi-blind approach to a postage stamp green surrounded by humps and hollows.   Then the 5th (named “Himalayas” - pictured below) is a 200+ yard par 3 straight over a big sand dune.  A couple of little wooden crosses stuck into the face of the hill (one red, one white) give something of a clue about where you’re meant to hit it.  My partner Davie rifled one right between ‘em and to 8 feet – a very impressive shot indeed.

The deceptively innocuous sounding 6th hole (“Elysian Fields”) is a more straightforward hole but if you stray into the Fields as I did you can Forget About It.  Kenny quipped off the tee, “you’ll either find it or you won’t” - which at the time sounded a little Irish to me.  When I walked up to where I thought the ball was, I realised what he meant.  Either it’d be sitting somewhere obvious or it would’ve been gobbled up by the merciless heather.  The latter, as it turned out...  I particularly liked the 8th too, another blind approach with the line marked by a pole behind the green.

On the 10th hole (“Arran”, named after the island of the same name to which you look out to as you approach the green) I really found out what Prestwick rough is about.  Because I can’t swear on the blog I’ll have to find words of a similar strength that can be used.  Let’s try abominable, atrocious, gruesome, harrowing, abhorrent, unpleasant and cursed.  My ball didn’t appear to be sitting too badly upon first inspection, so I pulled 5 iron and had aspirations of knocking it There Or Thereabouts.  Haha!  Oh how naïve.  The ball to its credit moved, but only 5 yards or so, this time into a yet less enticing lie.  For my 3rd shot I grabbed a sand wedge and tried merely to dig it out onto the fairway.  Again, to its credit, the ball moved, but again in its wisdom it decided to stop short of the fairway – which by this time was beginning to seem like a Very Distant Paradise.  Finally for 4 I made it; then hit a good pitch to 10 feet; then missed for double, carding an ugly triple bogey 7.  Lesson learned.

Along the back there are some extraordinary holes.  The 13th green (pictured below) is mental – something you discover when you eventually see it after traipsing up and down through the moguls.  

The aptly named 15th (“Narrows” )has one of the narrowest (if not the narrowest) fairways in world golf.  And it’s a cracking hole too.  As Kenny told us on the tee, when the greenkeeper mows the fairway he starts at the tee and heads in a straight line to the green (just the one trip).  It’s a partially blind tee shot, and on both sides of the “fairway” is – you guessed it – heather.  To get to the green you climb up a wee hill and then descend a few yards, making the 2nd shot (if you’re lucky enough only to be playing your second) a semi-blind one.    

 

17 is my favourite 17th hole to date, without a doubt.  You drive through the heather to an undulating fairway – again, pretty narrow stuff – then pitch over a heather covered dune with 3 little stones atop it (to show you the line: left stone if you’re playing from the left; right if you’re from the right; middle if you’re on the fairway) to what must be one of the most zany green complexes in the world.  I won’t try to describe it but check out the photo below.

On 18 tee you can see the lights of the bay window beckoning up ahead.  All that stands between you and The Prestwick Lunch is a straightforward driveable par 4.  In our ineptitude none of us managed a birdie, but by this stage all that was on our mind was a hot shower and some grub.  Davey sadly had to get back to work so our 4 was then 3.  We hopped quickly through the showers – another thing Prestwick is well known for, quite rightly – then put our jackets and ties back on, ready for the next chapter.  

Kenny let the staff know that we’d be through momentarily then took us once more into the bar for a silver tankard of ale.  (There’s a story behind the tankards but this blog is already getting long enough).  The dining room is quite something.  A huge long table sits smack bang in the middle of a room that probably hasn’t changed at all for 150 years.  There are huge paintings of past captains and others on the walls.  The table is set as if King George XI was coming for a bite (the Queen wouldn’t be coming as it’s gentlemen only).  And there’s the most magnificent cheese board you’ve ever seen on the sideboard.

A young waiter with a broad Weegie accent informs us that there are 3 soups on offer today: French Onion, Curried Parsnip, or Cream of Mushroom.  We each have a different one.  I fill up on oat cakes smothered in butter while we wait.  Then it’s either Venison, Chicken or Fish for the main event.  We all have venison.  And life is certainly very good.  Because we snuck in just before the 2.30pm cut off, we were the last ones to dine.  Had we arrived an hour earlier the table would’ve been packed with the morning crowd and – like the bay window – you just take your seat and get chatting to the fella next to you.  There must’ve been some fantastic lunches in that dining room over the years, something you can’t help but try to imagine while you’re in y’er seat.  

To round off the Prestwick experience we sat once more inside the bay window to digest our lunch with a coffee and Kummel (some austere looking colourless Russian liqueur – Prestwick & Troon combined reputedly consume about 80% of the total volume imported into the UK each year).  Then Kenny took us on a quick tour of the clubhouse; picked himself up a very camp looking pink shirt in the pro shop; and we did our farewells.  Poor Kenny isn’t going to be coming home for 3 years or so, but when he does he’ll have a few days at this amazing place to look forward to.  Before then we’ll have a hit over in New Zealand Kenny my friend, where things are a little different but no doubt we’ll have a blast all the same.

An incredible experience with two good lads we’re privileged to now call friends – Kenny and Davey.  Prestwick is a bastion of golf’s traditions, where the finer points of the game remain well and truly intact.  It was the venue for the very first Open championship, 150 years ago.  It’s also one of the most fun courses I’ve ever played and one I hope to play slightly better next time!  At least I’ll know that the wall on the 1st is closer than you think...

JP  

Postscript: After leaving Prestwick we shot up to Glasgow to catch the second half of Pete’s cricket match.  Holland beat Bangladesh in a nail biting finish, to card their first ever win against a test playing nation.  A huge achievement for Dutch cricket, and a special one for Pete as captain.  Needless to say they celebrated in style in Glasgow that night, and we were glad to be there to share the euphoria with them.  Well done boys.