The Lowell Courtney Travel Blog

The world's great Tinkers

I'm afraid you'll have to pronounce the title stage Oirish if the rest is going to make sense but, working on the safer than the Titanic hypothesis that my five educated readers have done so, we're off and running.

Re-reading my previous paean of praise to the industry in our garden, it occurred to me that I was about to wax (ah! the pun is mightier than the swearword) lyrical about "my" bees.  Clearly, any notion of possession is mad - but then it's no madder than some of the beliefs which have either ruined man's behaviour or, more likely, provided a Godiva-like cloak for his greed and violence. No madder than the average mullah, certainly.

And so I began to ruminate on the various theories and philosophies which have grown, flourished and withered in their turn, though the blood which they have spilled can ne'er be rebottled. Now, I would not have you think that I am a total utilitarian, dear reader (if such there be). But it does need to be asked: did "Cogito, ergo sum" improve the lot of your average medieval peasant - or did the Black Death do a much better job of driving up wages?

Did Kant's "Critique of pure reason", fun read as it may be, actually produce a better road surface or did the unlettered James Mcadam deliver the goods, after a fashion?  We all "know" the many blessings and welfare which Marx and his crazed disciples brought to their fellow man but does post-modernism feed the kids when you are unemployed and in negative equity?

And it occurred to me in another reflective monent that the more "powers and principalities", as the AV neatly puts it, laud and lard themselves with vainglorious titles, the more sure is their demise.  For example - purely at random, you understand - let us take those two fine bastions of liberty and excellent welfare: the Democratic Republic of Korea and the Islamic Republic of Iran.

God knows what Kim Jong Il or Him Wrong Will or whatever calls himself but I'll bet it's something along the lines of Dear Blessed Leader. Sounds like the form of address found in emails promising untold riches from a sadly deceased west African finance minster (if we could just have your bank account details, please.)  And I note with interest that the Ayatollah (Tollah than whom - your average jockey?) modestly calls himself The Supreme Leader. No, really.

History is littered with idiots whose linguistic excess perfectly matched their capacity for destruction. One thinks with fondness of Mao, The Great Helmsman, whose pursuit of power steered over 25 million (give or take a million) to a premature death. And it just niggles me that many of these "leaders"  base their claim to authority upon an unholy wedlock of soon-outdated speculation and never in short suppy evil.  As the recent scandal about the ludicrous expenses claimed by British MPs of all parties has neatly demonstrated, letting people decide for themselves, in fact forcing people to think for themselves is the rock on which demagogues founder, as will be evidenced in due course.

In contrast, there is the rock of ages, in which you can chose to believe - or not. It's your choice. And perhaps one should be mightily grateful for same. Allowing the self-appointed "elite" to tinker with your desire to live your life in the manner of The Great Commandment just strikes me as plain reckless.

Good beehaviour

Yes, I know that I am one of many orthographically challenged. My feeble excuse is that it is the mark of an experienced teacher when your spelling goes to hell. I should know - lifting my 1976 Chambers dictionary from floor to laptop provides my daily workout. But read on.

Like my regular readership of 4 - now 5, I am reliably informed - I have been toiling away at keeping the greying head above the flood waters of recession.  I have been touring Ireland, visiting golf courses as remote as Ballyliffin and Waterville - just God's little joke to put the best courses at the ends of the earth.  I have been trying to inform, educate and entertain some bemused visitors in various languages and I have been marking ("grading" to you, ma'am) some senior tourism papers, the highlight of which was the information that "the Channel Tunnel runs directly from London to Paris."

And I have been delighted and immensely cheered these past two days by  three things: a group of senior citizens, a couple from Tennessee and the bees in our back garden. To wit: I had the undiluted pleasure of touring with 50 senior citizens - "recycled teenagers" as one wag put it - from the north east of Scotland, Peterhead direction, to be precise.  In contrast to the surliness of youth and the temperament of middle age, these good folk were a pure pleasure to accompany.

Not only did they have the good sense to stay on the north coast, thereby saving me a 120 mile round trip every day, they did not attempt to see the entire country in 48 hours.  They left me to plan their days out in such a way that I could bring them to the nooks and crannies of three counties which most tourists never see because they will not dedicate the necessary time and besides, Rick Steves doesn't mention it, so it's not worth seeing. Really.

Thus I was able to patronise (hence the crooks and nannies) the delightful Ulster American Folk Park and the Glenariff Tea House and was able to show off the best of counties Antrim, Derry and Tyrone to our guests. But what really made my days was their attitude.  None of the foot-stomping, tongue wagging and clockwatching petulance of their younger counterparts but a care and concern for one another and the God-given ability to laugh at themselves - in spades. People, I thank you. If the me-generation begat the I-pod generation then the "may I?" generation beats you hands down every time.

And on that score, another thank you to a couple from Knoxville who are much too modest to be named. I played Portrush and Portstewart with himself - at least I did till my calf muscle exploded 6 holes out - and he was southern manners exemplified, as was his good lady, who not only took the time and trouble to arrange very personal and appropriate gifts for my wife but who wrote the nicest possible "thank you" note.  Consideration personified.

And finally, to the bees. We have been having a great spell of weather recently and it has been my pleasure, after a long day looking after others, to indulge myself with a beer and a leisurely contemplation of the wonderful purple-headed shrubs (hebes?) which Carol has produced in our back yard. And I have been watching the bees working away.  I am told that there is great concern in GB that the bee population may suddenly drop dramatically and pollination may do likewise.

Well, I can assure you that our bees are alive and well and beeavering away in these recessionary times. And what cheers me up is that they quietly get on with it; they don't interrupt another at work, they don't swarm round the photocopier; they return again and again to each flowerhead until they are done and they leave me alone as I leave them alone.

I can hear my readership buzzing ahead of me as I write - if homo sapiens could manage even the half of that, we'd all be flying, wouldn't we?

Guns, drugs and crocks o' gold

This is perhaps the most personal blog to date. I thank you in advance for both your comprehension - and compassion.

My family moved to Coleraine in 1954 when my father was made cashier in the Northern Bank, a solidly protestant institution which had been caring for presbyterian and anglican funds and families since 1824.  Catholics went to the Bank of Ireland or the Hibernian.  Coleraine was known as "the trim little borough", a small town and port dating from the seventeenth century Plantation of Ulster.

Not much happened until around 1968 when our world began to swell, heave and then erupt. The government of Northern Ireland decided to site the second university in Coleraine, thereby ignoring the much better claims of Derry/Londonderry and thus striking the match which would ignite the riots of 1969.

And the directors of the Northern Bank decided to appoint the first catholic to the staff of their Coleraine branch whose manager was by now my father.  Consternation all round.  At least six of the major local nomenklatura called to inform my father in no uncertain terms that they would withdraw their accounts forthwith and instanter and would never darken the doors again if such heresy were to come to pass.  My father, having run himself ragged securing the university account for the Northern Bank - where it resides to this day - raced up to Belfast to discuss this with the directors and was  instructed to let the aforesaid accounts go.

All well and good in the calm of the boardroom - not so easy when you have to eyeball the offended in the street, the shop and the golf club.  The upshot was that the young man was duly appointed, my father was so stressed that he suffered the first of the heart attacks which would kill him a year later and not one of the accounts was ever withdrawn.

I thought of this at the weekend when a crowd of drunken, so-called protestants descended like a plague of locusts upon a street to taunt and abuse their soccer opponents.  Sectarian politics play proxy soccer in Northern Ireland: the bigots on both sides play out their fantasies by supporting either Glasgow Rangers or Glasgow Celtic.  Rangers won the Scottish league for the first time in four years and four years of humiliation and taunts were visited upon the local Celtic supporters.

Kevin McDaid, a catholic community worker married to a presbyterian, went out to try and stop the hand to hand fighting in the street. He was abused, attacked, beaten up and stabbed - and died in his son's arms.  His wife and a pregnant neighbour were also seriously assaulted before the police could call in reinforcements.

And we tell the world that we have a peace process? No, we have a sham - and it will continue to be a sham, a fake and a sleight of hand until eventually the slightest glimmer of reason begins to dawn on even the thickest neanderthal that violence begets and achieves - nothing. The defence pleas of "under the influence of drink and the mob" will fall on the coldest of hearts and the deafest of ears in due course.

I spoke to my son last night.  He was thinking of working over here for a few months next winter.  For the first time since he moved to England, I told him that he would be better to stay away, no matter how much I would love to see him more regularly. "At least", said I, " over in England they just murder you for normal reasons: guns, drugs and crocks o' gold."

Ashamed? You don't know the half of it.

The price of good will

Tempted as I am to immediately throw myself from a great and unlearned height into the debate as to whether a recent portrait is really that of Wm Shakespeare Esq., I shall refrain and stick to a topic which has been tunnelling its Colditz like way to the surface of the mind of late.

When I was paying perfunctory attention to accounting lectures during the abortive MBA (More Best Ale), the concept of "goodwill" as a balance sheet item swam fleetingly before my shortest of attention spans. (It was so short, you couldn't have bridged a stream with it, but no matter.) "Goodwill" was, I think, an asset and was to be included in the prospective sale price of any business.

What an understatement. The intervening 35 years - and my esteemed other half of Lynchpin, David Hudson - have taught me that goodwill is a sine qua non of both business and personal life. And it is a lesson which many of the "Me Number One" and now the "Me Too" generation are learning the very hard way.

At its simplest, goodwill is but an extension of the courtesy which has capped a few of these columns in months past.  There are a blessed few who are born with a Rebecca-like sunny nature and are well disposed towards their fellows, but few they are and few they shall remain. (And no, it's nothing to do with the silver spoon in the newborn mouth, since you ask.)  But there are some who have either learnt by example or have worked out for themselves - I hate the word "intuit" as a verb; an intuit lives north of Hudson Bay - that goodwill is not only the balm of social intercourse: it makes the world go round a helluva sight more smoothly than money.

And most blessed of all are those who have overcome their natural predisposition to the all too human cynicism which prolonged exposure to homo sapiens' less attractive mores induces.  Probably best exemplified by the awful but memorable sight and sound of Eric Idle singing "Always look on the bright side of life" on the cross in "The Life of Brian", the conscious determination to begin orienteering any relationship with the compass of trust and the map of good cheer is in many ways as courageous as going on night duty in the South Side, armed only with a swagger stick and a fast tongue.

And goodwill brings it own rewards - see Scrooge E, Dickens C et al.  In our tourism business, the patent desire to help, to enourage, to put the other fellow's need and ambitions above your own for a while soon becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.  I could give you many, many examples  but we (David and I) now find ourselves cautiously treading places to which we always aspired - but only in those mad moments on the road or in the bar where we thought no-one could hear.

Unwittingly - and probably unintentionally - we now find ourselves being invited to functions, being asked for market intelligence and yes, even consulted on business plans by people and organisations whom we once thought would send us to the tradesmans' entrance, if any. And why?

Because we pay our bills on time; because we answer our emails; because we thank people for their efforts; because we apologise if we cannot help but try to at least offer a lead to someone else; because we remonstrate quietly and civilly on the rare occasions where things ain't wot they should be but mostly because we don't shout and scream and demand but quietly try to understand that other people are under pressure, too.

No doubt there are many who feel that we undersell ourselves; that our self-promotion is distinctly Minor League; that our reticence makes us retards. Let me close with a story: we were introducing our wonderful webman to the delights of the Crown Bar in Belfast when he offered to include a filter on our home page to detect and deter "undesirables". Says I: "John, what percentage of the visitors to our site appreciate the dry wit which perfuses the copy, as opposed to infusing the coffee?" Says he: Very few. A very select few."

"And you need another filter?" said I.  There is an apocryphal story that Frank Sinatra once sang "The Sash" in that very same bar. Well, maybe he did and maybe he didn't, but he sure as hell sang "I did it my way".  And quite right, too. And goodwill will spin its own gold, in its own good time.

Wee Mac and G Mac

Now that we have all recovered from Kenny Perry's on course torture and off course triumph - oh Lord, make us as full of grace, but not just yet - I would beg to draw my esteemed readers' attention to the success of the Irish contingent at Augusta.

I know what you're going to say: Harrington didn't too well. In fact, he had a moving time, especially at the fifteenth and the odd seven or three isn't too pretty but think on for a moment: twenty, no ten years ago, we'd have been exceeding joyous just to have one Irishman at the tournament, never mind top fifteen, or thirty or whatever.  And now we have three.

And whilst much of the attention was focussed on our three majors winner and on young Rory McIlroy's dramatic debut, it may have escaped your attention that this neck of the woods produced the leading European, Graeme McDowell.

No sandy exploits for GMac. No, sir. No appearances before the Men (in Green Jackets - must be a movie lurking in there somewhere); no swimming in Rae's Creek: just a steady improvement to finish sixteenth, building quietly upon his Ryder Cup debut and Scottish Open wins in 2008. In fact, it's an irony that his surname causes more controversy than his behaviour.  Outside Northern Ireland, it's McDowell as in "owl" or as in "fuel" but at home it's McDowell as in "old".

Wee Mac, on the other hand, has relatively few problems with his surname - or anything else for that matter - though the starter at Augusta put the stress on the "El", rather than the "roy", which is where the Irish language would naturally place it. Either which way, El Roy may not be too far off - given a fair wind and no major personal hiccups, the young man will win Northern Ireland's first or second major since Fred Daly at Hoylake in 1947. Not the king yet, but certainly the first in line. And no, I don't think he's the young pretender.

But what I really like about these two is that, for all their success, the feet are firmly on the floor. GMac went straight from winning the NCAA to the European tour and won his fourth event (and called back to open the bar at his home club of Rathmore, less posh club in Portrush) but then had to adjust to the grind of the tour. And grind he has, en route buying his parents a nice house by way of thanks for all their support.

Wee Mac takes no head staggers either. When home, he still collects his girl friend from school and listens to what his folks and his manager teach him about correct behaviour. Any aberrations are as swiftly cleared as his belated return to Augusta to watch the video. No tall poppies there, then. It's an Irish thing - Padraig Harrington had about 29 second places before he made the breakthrough and he worked constantly and intelligently to get there.

So no Big Macs yet, at least not in the persona department. But it's only a matter of time before one of them gets there. Watch this space.

Golf Wales - Ryder Cup 2010

My fellow golfers:

I have seen the future - and it will work.  Yer Man and I have just been to the Celtic Manor resort in south Wales (that's the bit of England that sticks out on the left of the map), venue for the 2010 Ryder Cup, where Europe will attempt to once more claim the trophy which it had fondly come to regard as its rightful proeprty after years of humiliation at your golfers' hands.

Now I don't know what your idea of Wales is, though. come to think of it, I doubt if many US golfers are even aware of its existence.  Scotland: home of "goff"; Ireland: more links than a web page; England - near Scotland and Ireland; but Wales? Don't they have a charlie for a prince?

Grossly unfair, both to a fine country and to the intellect and knowledge of many of my fellow golf addicts across the Atlantic. As for Wales, whilst its main sport is rugby - and do try and find a You Tube clip of the Welsh team singing their national anthem before a game; then count the hairs on the back of your neck  - the golf is an undiscovered secret.

Following an itinerary suggested by the late and much lamented Dai Davies, a wonderful golf journalist whose memory is to be honoured at the Memorial in Columbus soon and whose lovely wife Patricia has been a great help to this scribbler, we visited Royal St Davids at Harlech, Pennard, Pyle and Kenfig (known as P&K), Royal Porthcawl and Celtic Manor, where we played the 2010.

I'm no expert - as all of you who have seen my "putting" (Jackson Pollock in his "green" period) will readily testify - but I can honestly say that those courses are top notch. With the exception of the 2010, all of them are fine, "play it as it lies" links courses, mostly laid out by the Almighty on a sunny afternoon, though He threw in a gusty breeze aka gale to keep us all honest.  And in every case, the welcome was warm and sincere, as was Royal Liverpool's (Hoylake) but more of that anon.

The 2010 is a totally different proposition.  The hotel is a massive twelve storey palace, just off the motorway from London to Cardiff and is a monument to the drive of Sir Terry Matthews, born in the old stately, then nursing home which now comprises the first stage of the complex. TM has done for Wales what Michael Smurfit did for Ireland but the hotel comes as a terrible shock to those expecting the usual British low-rise hotel.  It's like Vegas came to Abergavenny.

There are three courses on site. As a couple of gentlemen of the road, we did not expect the honour of attacking the 2010 but the management very kindly let us loose to do our worst.  Verdict: the first 12 holes are set in the valley of the river Usk and play accordingly. Plenty of sand, water and scenery. Daunting enough for the average hacker but will it really challenge the pros? I don't know. But what I do know is that from the 13th onwards, life becomes decidedly adventurous. The carry over water to the 14th will be challenging; the uphill 15th to a green guarded by a precipice in front and wilderness (and possibly wildebeeste) behind appears to have been designed by a regular user of hallucinogens and the final three holes along the hillside will make for some splendid life and death gambles in the inevitable tight matches.

All in all, there is no doubt in my mind that the closing holes will make wonderful TV and the hillside will provide splendid spectating for all. Whilst the K Club might take issue with their claim that the 2010 was the first course specifically built to host the Ryder, there is no doubt that Celtic Manor have made every effort to ensure a magnificent event.  The fact that Terry Matthews made his fortune in North America has meant that there is a touch of both Old and New Worlds. And all the staff, despite being under pressure from various events and conferences, could not have been more helpful in every way. The folk and the food at the restaurant in the 2010 Clubhouse most certainly revived us and it is a tribute to the ethos which the management have inspired that no-one so much as grinned when the pair of us, armed with seven clubs each in pencil bags, set out to tackle the course.

We genuinely wish them every success in 2010. We just hope that they are not hampered by the weather - remember the paddy fields of Kikdare in 2006? - nor by the late date of October 1,2 and 3. If it's tight on Sunday, they could be needing floodlights by the finish. Now that would be a first.

The Grumpies

Ladies and gentlemen, today I give you an interstellar new award.

An award which will cause stars to fall, casting couch divas to run marathons on Everest and the Dow to reach for the oxygen mask.  Forget the Tonies, Emmies and Grammies.  Ignore the Oscars, NASCARs and Whiskas.   Ladeez and gennlemen, I give you "The Grumpies"!

Unlike all the other awards which are reserved for litterati, glitterati and other fine specimens of human intellect, charm and philanthropy, the Grumpies will be open to nominations from those members of the species who have never sought their 15 minutes of fame, notoriety or standing naked in the Circus Maximus Mediorum.

Whilst your humble scribe is, as ever, open to suggestions (especially if submitted on nice, clean C-notes), possible categories could include:

• Best Supermarket Checkout Rage (special award for any recipients of suspended sentences for breach of the peace)

Longest Post Office Queue Rant ( a unique opportunity for the under 25s on pension days)

• Most Inaudible Mumble in, on or about any form of Mechanised Transport or Provider of same
• Wet Weather Whinge (on or off-line)

• Complaint about the Youth of Today (over 45s only)

• Best Modern Technology grump (closed to anyone who can switch on a DVD )

The top award of the afternoon (you don't seriously expect us to stay awake after 10, do you?) will be for The Most Irrational Rant of the Year. Contenders are expected to include those cruise excursionists who can't understand why half the bus can't go shopping whilst the other half goes to the coast; men who think that "polish" is next to "polygamy" in the devil's dictionary (thank you, Ambrose) and women who complain about their partner's limited attention spans on matters retail in the fourth quarter of the Superbowl.

Now, all we need is a nice warm venue, a kindly Chapter 11 airline to fly us all there for free, a hotel which would positively welcome some out of season business, a well-endowed sponsor (say, a bank or some other reputable, asset-laden financial institution) and a Rules Committee with the integrity of Bernie Madoff, the humility of Augusta National and the warmth of Osama bin Laden.

Ulan Bator in January, anyone?

Wales 101

Hello again from the wind-lashed clifftops of Ireland. Yes, I know this is about Wales but, by the perverse logic which influences the (non) workings of "convenience" apparati such as washing machines, laptops and cars, so the middle of May has brought four days' rain and 50 mph gusts to Portrush.

Himself (The Chauffeur) and meself (The Gofer) recently went to Wales - for the first time. Motivated by curiosity and a need to see the venue for the 2010 Ryder Cup - ah, you may gloat - we took ship to Holyhead on Anglesey and drove down the west coast, along the south coast and right back up the middle - in three hectic days.  And it was wonderful.

Now, I do not commend such a schedule to holidaymakers but we were on the charge, so to speak:  people to see, places to go, sheep to worry. And boy, do they have a lot of sheep. But for those of you on t'other side of pond, I should explain that there was an added edge to this trip.  You see, the previous Saturday had seen Ireland win their first rugby Grand Slam for 61 years i.e. beating the other top five teams in Europe and it had culminated in a ferocious battle in Cardiff where Ireland had won in the last two minutes by the narrowest of margins, thereby deposing the reigning champions Wales.

So were not there to gloat - but every Welsh person we met congratulated us on a long overdue triumph, then adding sotto voce: "Thank God you beat the English."  All the English working in Wales did likewise, adding very, very quietly: "Thank God you beat the Welsh - they'd have been insufferable if they had won."  And you folk think you have problems between the states?

Wales is a fabulous place - and largely undiscovered.  Most tours go to the north west area to see the monumental - and I do mean Chrysler Building scale - castles which Edward I built to impose his will upon the stubborn Celts. Caernarfon Castle is just stupendous, especially bearing in mind its thirteenth century origins.

But the real attraction of Wales is the more gentle centre of the country.  When you leave the valleys of the south coast, traditional homes of coal and steel and ports and government and meander up the A470/A483 via Bulith and Llandidrod Wells, you discover a countryside that is as far removed from the stereotypical image of Wales as you can get.  Good hills, nice pubs, helpful people.

Of course this is subjective but in our admittedly limited experience of Wales and its people, we met nothing but helpfulness and a co-operation which certain sections of Irish society have seriously unlearnt - a sort of "dimming down" of that sprit of willingness which lights up the traveller's way.

To switch metaphors, perhaps our Welsh cousins never lost the recipe where as a generation of Irish have either never learnt it at their mother's knee in the first place or are now acquiring the baking instructions after a constipatory helping of humble pie.  Whatever the case, Wales is a grand wee country - good roads, good hotels and some splendid golf courses (addicts please see next blog) - and should not be bypassed in any madcap dash round Britain.

Real Golf in Ireland - Ardglass GC

My US golfing friends and opponents know well that I take a very dim view of those brochures whose "Gahlf in Ahreland" offerings are limited to about eight "big name" courses. This is mainly because the directors of aforesaid companies are taken on freebies (aka "fam trips") round the usual suspects by various tourist boards and frankly, can't be bothered to do their homework.

Nowhere near good enough; which is why - in the purest interests of research on your behalf, you understand - I found myself standing on the tee of Ardglass G C last Saturday morning with Clem Milligan, captain Charlie Bell and pro Philip Farrell. Having received a glacial welcome at one of Ardglass' more illustrious neighbours on the previous afternoon, it was good to be amongst the company of men who understand that a pound a corner in a Saturday fourball has infinitely greater value than Ryder Cup points.

Now you will also know that I would not have you suffer the foolish belief that Ireland is a dry country. Oh no, neither in the bar nor on the course, which is a nice way of saying that we played in what is known in Ulster-Scots as a "dreich" of a day. Irish rain is as insidious as the carpet dealer's pitch in a Moroccan bazaar: just when you think you'll turn away, it eases off just enough to draw you on. But I'm not making excuses for our defeat.  The howling gale up the first four and the trench foot and the pro's miraculous putting had nothing to with it. Honest.

But this I can tell you: Ardglass is a gas. Never mind real golf; this place is surreal.  Imagine a clubhouse in an ancient castle with the oldest trading street in Ireland running behind it to the quay where fish and immigrant Scots were landed in equal measure for centuries.  Imagine a seaside course which is pure clay but which has superb greens; a course where a low-struck drive is likely to strike masonry and whistle back past your ear; a course where the sea lurks half the way round in wait for any slightly off-centre shot - and a club where the welcome is top drawer.

The first hole has a 50' climb up to the fairway from the tee and the green slopes at about 20 degrees towards the sea.  The second is a full driver into the wind -and it's a par three. The first nine finishes with two par fives, the ninth (St John's) being the most magnificent signature hole. The golfer is between the devil of a vertical gorse bank on the left and the deep blue sea on the right. And that's just the first nine. Pebble Beach ($500 per round) - eat your heart out.

To the unitiated -and those who foolishly traverse Ireland by helicopter - Ardglass might appear an unremarkable collection of fields. Just as the Old Course might appear to be, in Dave Hill's memorable phrase "a cow pasture."  You would be very foolish to share this view.  Any course whose summit offers you views of the Mountains of Mourne, the Isle of Man, the south western tip of Scotland and a comfortable bar overlooking the fishing harbour is worth investigating, especially, in these straitened times, at a weekday green fee of GBP40.

And the real draw is the banter and the welcome. From secretary Debbie Turley to the bar staff to the gents above who very kindly accommodated my deviations from the straight and narrow, Ardglass folk know how to look after their guests.  No over the top empty gestures but sound, genuine hospitality. But don't take my word for it - you really have to experience it for yourself.  This is the real deal in Ireland - no pretensions, just 100% delivery.

www.ardglassgolfclub.com

Ulster says: No Way.

It is a bright spring morning here on the north coast of Ireland.  The wind has died; the rain has dried up and the sun is shining with a little warmth.  Midway between the saints' days of David and Patrick - and hard times notwithstanding - it should be a good day to be alive.

Except that two young British soldiers and one Ulster policeman are no longer alive -and two other soldiers and two pizza delivery lads - one Polish - are seriously ill. Various splinter groups - the "Real" and the "Continuity" and for all I know, the "Heroic" IRA - have, as they think, "succeeded" in reigniting "the armed struggle".

They are wrong. They are utterly, futilely, cynically and perpetually wrong. After the seismic upheavals of the past 40 years, when "Ulster says NO" meant first a refusal to grant civil rights, then a refusal to allow our neighbours any say in our affairs and finally a refusal to share power until all aspirant parties renounced violence, today Ulster says "NO" to a return to violence and division.

People: I write this blog to amuse, to inform and, admittedly, to promote.  But I also write as one who refused to leave his native province and who stayed to try and rebuild civilised life here. And in contrast to the many who flounce and denounce from the outside, I and my motley crew do our damndest to bring some small measure of prosperity and pleasure to the entire island of Ireland and its many good-hearted friends in North America.

I tell you straight this morning: the twisted and evil few apart, no-one - but no-one - in this transformed corner of ours wants to return to The Bad Old Days. Now that both communities have learned so much about sharing - 'cos everyone loses in a domestic brawl while the bailiffs are knocking down the door - no-one wants to go back.

If you want a much more eloquent and no less impassioned analysis of recent events, I recommend a piece in today's Times: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/david_aaronovitch/article5877219.ece

For myself and the rest of my generation who have come through so much, we say to the retards: "Your time is past. If you do not accept the rule of law, there will be no hiding place. Nor will there ever be an amnesty for you, for you want to destroy the good."

It is the height of irony that a policeman was killed on the night when BBC Northern Ireland aired a programme inspired by my good friend John McCann.  "Over Here" tells the story of the US troops stationed in Northern Ireland in World War II with great humour and pathos. These boys become men fought and died to preserve the government of the people, by the people, for the people.

And that, my friends, is all we want.