The Lowell Courtney Travel Blog

Grim Reaper tees off, ducks rebound.

For those of you puzzled by today’s title, a paragraph or three of explanation will arrive in due course with all the speed of an Amish buggy – slow but reliable.

But first, a word from our sponsor and an addendum from His ain folk:

The world belongs unto the Lord and all that it contains –

Except for the North West Highlands, which belong unto MacBraynes.

For those of you not familiar with this part of the world – or at least the bit that lies scattered like discarded orange peel north of my Atlantic domain, the reference is to the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry company which provides all the services from the Scottish mainland to the Hebrides. CalMac are the lifeline to places such as Islay, Jura, Barra, Lewis and a score of other scraps which the Creator turned out of the pockets of his jeans – but only after he’d emptied the celestial washing machine for yea, He was An Man, and men are made to do these things, yanno.

Now the above wee verse is a vairy guid reminder till ye all (must stop this mock Hieland tongue nonsense) that earthly powers are transitory, as fleeting as those blessed dawn moments before the Wagnerian chorus of delivery vans, avian racketeers and the well-intentioned roofers next door with their tile cutter at 6.30 a m. Bless them.

And they came to mind the other day when I heard the latest in a litany of so-called professionals warn the new British government that any cuts in “their” budgets would result in varying forms of the apocalypse. To wit: lack of policemen on the beat (that caused many a wry laugh in Engerland, I can tell you, where coppers on the hoof are as rare as wildebeest in the Arctic); uneducated children (so wot’s new?) and, best of all, prioritised medical services.

Followed, no doubt, by plagues of frogs, locusts and witless contestants from any country that is foolish enough to imagine that it has a talent for anything but utterly vapid game shows.

But the highlight of the morning was the comment from some “high heidyin” in the British Medical Association (in other words, a qualified Druid) that doctors “were now consulting intensively with their local health authorities and even with their patients.”

“Even with their patients”. Oh God, how the powerful have fallen. “Look on my docs, ye mighty, and despair.” That the once great and august institution which cares for the medical profession in this sceptred isle should be reduced to actually listening to its ultimate fundraisers and long-suffering clientele, for whom the medical practitioners have sacrificed so many years of education (like none of the rest of us actually graduated, y’understand) and for whom they work such long hours for so little reward (average General Practitioner salary 2009 approx. £100,000 minimum). ‘Twould make a grown man weep.

To which I say in all sympathy: Ya muppets.

And I say it with equal sincerity – with almost as much heart and passion as the great and good Mr Albert Gore – to all the fellow publicly-funded bleaters whose spokespeople have so enriched our airwaves since the former Labour Chief Secretary of the Treasury left his successor a jocular billet doux, which read: “Sorry there’s no money left. We spent it all.”

For the benefit of the aforesaid heart-wrenchingly impassioned spokesmen, I have a simple message, so eloquently expressed in another Scots ballad of former times. As the line from ‘The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens’ has it”:

 

“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud/Fu’ loud I hear ye lie.”

 

And herein lies the title of this piece. For the grim reaper of fiscal austerity is sweeping the land like the Black Death and those who seek to impute that a spell of minding the pennies might be the end of civilisation are having to face the wrath of those who have been fed half-truths for way, way too long.

Time for an end of the “essential” conferences and congresses which so enliven many a “profession” – as in “the world’s oldest”, y’unnerstan.  Time to quit the grasping at all the latest conveniences which make administration so expensive. How many schools have you visited where the office has every latest p c and gizmo and the classrooms have chalk and blackboards?  In how many hospitals have you languished in A&E for hours or days while the “management” issue yet more directives in the manner of the late, unlamented Kommisariat?

Visited any local, regional or national assemblies, congresses or parliaments where the pols worked for the minimum wage?  Thought not.

Methinks the time has come – as various would-be government censors are discovering to their cost – that us peasants have maybe had enough of self-serving “professionals”.  I’m not for Wat Tyler nor Robespierre – nor even the Tea Parties – but I think that the day may have arrived when those who can justify neither the style nor the alleged substance of their so-called professions may be looking very nervously over their shoulders. 

The peasants are not revolting – yet – but they are well educated, literate and in touch with one another in a way which should make the Ancien Regime afraid for their diaphanous “authority.” 

Very afraid.

Graeme McDowell; pride of Portrush

Early this morning, British Summer Time, one of our own made history.

Graeme McDowell, of the Rathmore Golf Club in Portrush, became only the second person from Northern Ireland to win a golfing major, the US Open at Pebble Beach. In doing so, he joined Fred Daly, also of Portrush, who won the Open at Hoylake in 1947.  And it is maybe no accident that the local administration has recently seen fit to put up a blue plaque marking Fred Daly's birthplace, a mere 300 yards from Graeme McDowell's home club.

The weather in Portrush this morning is much the same as Pebble Beach yesterday - overcast.  Apart from one or two local TV vans, there is nothing unusual about the town. The tide flows; the tide ebbs. But Graeme McDowell's victory is a quiet triumph for everyone who just goes quietly about their business, keeping their head whilst all around are either losing theirs or hawking their exceedingly modest "talents" in the media.

McDowell had an outstanding US college career - and indeed won only his fourth event on the European Tour. To celebrate, he called his home club and opened the bar on his tab. It was not abused. He has won only - only! - five events on the European Tour, the latest with closing rounds of 64 and 63 at Celtic Manor, but  was always regarded as the less glamorous of the Two Macs. Many thought that his appearance at the last Ryder might be the highlight of his career.

Not so, my friends, not so. On hearing that he hails from Portrush, many assume that he is a member of Royal Portrush. Not so - Rathmore is the working man's club in the town, playing on the Valley links at the grace of its famous neighbour.  And its members are not professionals from the usual suspects of the law, medicine and finance. They are working men and women, people who understand that the only place where success comes before work is in the dictionary.

Which is why Graeme McDowell, despite material success and a very comfortable living, set out to make himself better and better, regardless of time and effort.  And his victory is one for those of us who know that we have to serve our time, the grafters who just get on with the job, meeting and greeting triumph and disaster day and daily, the "little people" so easily dismissed as journeymen.

Oh, we're journeymen all right. We're the ones who don't need inane sportswear ads exhorting us to "just do it." We've been "just" doing it all our lives: running our affairs competently and honestly; taking care of those entrusted to us; laughing at our own peculiar follies and sharing others' heart-ripping tears; putting our own ambitions aside - sometimes for ever - so that we can further the hopes and dreams of others.

And for those of us who hail from this little backwater, known until recently for all the wrong reasons, it is a day of quiet satisfaction that one of ours has made it to the top of the tree. To see that "NIR" at the top of the leaderboard at the end of the day - that's the business, Graeme. That's the business.  And the gracious messages of congratulation which we have received from all our golfing friends in the USA and the Republic of Ireland bear eloquent witness to this.

You say that you want more majors - and indeed we hope that you succeed. But you've already secured your place.  You've grafted your way to the top and that's enough for us, friend.  Thank you - from life's journeymen.

British or Irish?

My good golfing buddy Scott Simpson of New York City has posed the question as to whether we, the long-suffering folk of the province known as Norn Iron, consider ourselves to be British or Irish.  Now there's a Pandora's box, if ever there was one.

I can't speak for the other 1.7 million but for what it's worth, here's my penny's/nickel's worth. (By the way, a bottle of finest Bushmills falling down water for anyone who suggests suitable everyday names for the 1, 5, 10 and 50 cent euro coins. Pfennig and sou, anyone?)

First, the legalities.  As Norn Iron is a constituent part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, anyone born here is de facto a British citizen. No problem there, then. However, under the terms of successive Irish constitutions, anyone born in Norn Iron after Partition (December 1920) was also entitled to Irish citizenship, a facility of which many nationalist residents - and not a few unionists - availed over the years. Now don't fall asleep, 'cos the fun bit starts in 1998 under the terms of the ironically named Belfast Agreement. (The only agreement which works in Befast is who's standing the next round.)

For the past 12 years, we blessed band have been able to "designate" ourselves as British, Irish or both. Which is a bit like saying that you can be classed as gay, straight or both, depending on the phase of the moon, the jetstream and the pound/euro exchange rate. With me so far? Good - it gets better. Some folk have one passport - Herself is staunchly British, my neighbours equally solidly Irish - and some of us have two, which means that we are regarded as traitors, sell-outs and bacterial infections by the True Faithful on both sides.

Still on board? Jolly good, cos there are two other angles to this. Citizenship be blowed, the first is the immensely practical matter of passports. And money, natch.  From time to time, there is a substantial price difference between the passports. As of today, a British passport is 92 pounds ($150), and an Irish one is 80 euros ($110). Go figure, as they say. And there is an Irish passport office in Belfast, which is like the Mexicans having a passport office in DC. Equally bizarre.  And I well remember from my time as a travel agent that during a prolonged strike in the British passport offices, many fiercely "loyal" Unionists, who would have shuddered and suffered a seizure at the mere whisper of "Irishness", would quietly inquire with an embarrased cough as to whether we might perchance stock "foreign" application forms. Hilarious.

But now to the crux of the matter. Technicalities are as a mere bagatelle when it comes to the question of whether one actually feels British or Irish. (From the amount of bizarre tatoos I have seen in the gym recently, there's a helluva lot of Polynesians running round here. But I digress.) Over the years, my stock answer has been that my heart is Irish but my wallet is British. True, up to a point.

Part of me is unquestionably British, but never, ever, ever English. (That way madness lies.) I admire the Brits for their manifold virtues. Indeed, I was expounding on same to our Scottish counterpart, Alastair Cunningham of clansandcastles.com over dinner on Monday night. I work for a British exam board. Their attention to detail, their patience, their tolerance, their reliability, their straightforward sticking to tried and tested values are the embodiment of solidity. Put an English yeoman beside you in a fight and he will never desert you.

But Lord, imagination is not their territory. The classic story of the US diplomat who worked with both traditions during the 1998 negotiations is as follows: "What I like about the Irish is that, faced with problem, they'll always say 'Why not?' And the Brits will invariably say 'How?'" Ireland may be the land of saints but the devil is aye in the detail. As evidence, m'lud, I present the shambles of the north-south border in Ireland.  Under the 1920 treaty, many nationalist areas expected to end up in the south but the relevant clause was imprecise and so they ended up in the north, with resultant tragedy for all parties for 90 years.

So what are we, then?  There is an interesting "third way" which is slowly emerging from the bogs and the brickworks.  In the same way as many Scottish vehicles now carry the "international" plate "SCO" (which doesn't officially exist), quite a number of local cars now carry an oval "NI" plate. No, it's not NIger or Nigeria, since you ask, tho' that would be fun.

In short, we have decided to reclassify ourselves. Move over, Linnaeus, homo neanderthalis is alive and well and living in Belfast politicians. No, that's unkind, but you see what I mean. Rejecting both the "GB" and the "IRL" plates, a good number of the citizenry have decided that they are Northern Irish.  And you'll hear this designation used more and more in the media as the United Kingdom begins to become a looser affiliation than before. Since the regional assemblies (Edinburgh, Cardiff and Belfast) kicked off, the UK is not breaking up but - and here's a conspiracy theory for you: if the south eastern quadrant of England declared independence, income tax would halve overnight - it is slackening.

So maybe we're neither fish nor fowl. Maybe we're flying fish, taking some of the best and the worst from both traditions. At times we dig our heels in deeper than the Marianas; at other times we throw passes which not even Eli Manning could conjecture.  Sometimes the best of both worlds; at others vengeful and vindictive.

But if we do manage to forge a new identity - the Northern Irish - then who's to say that it will all have been a failure. Not I, for one.

Most favoured nationals

February brings yet more snow and the usual winter gems from the so-called Advanced Level Tourism papers which pile up on the office floor like drifts. A question on the importance of Thomas Cook elicits the information from many candidates that Mr Cook "filled all the plane seats on his first excursion in 1848." About as enlightening and well-informed as your average federal budget.

However, the inbox also brings a cheeringly sensible question from our good friend Lisa Kelly in sunny Nebraska, asking what characteristics we would attribute to our favourite guests. The SAD (Snappy Answer Department) produced "A civil good morning and a smile" from David and "No bouncing checks" from your boringly pedestrian scribe.

But it's a question well worth debating.  Herself and I were in a b&b in Belcoo, Co Fermanagh, a few years ago and one of your fellow citizens approached me with the words: "Forgive the intrusion from an ugly American but could you help me with phone numbers north to south?"  "You're nothing of the sort" said I, "for you have exceeding good manners and to be honest, some of us have the same problem - and we live here."

(A quick excursus: I discovered by chance that the reason why some allegedly internationally enabled cell phones do not work over here - or over there - is the formatting of the numbers. All cell phones should carry the numbers as follows: plus symbol; country code (1 for US/Canada; 44 for UK including Northern Ireland and 353 for the republic of Ireland); area code (minus the first zero in GB & Ireland) and then the number. So my local number is 70823232 - all Northern Ireland landline numbers are on one code (028) and have 8 digits - therefore any cell phone would store my number as +442870823232. So now you know.)

To our theme: as our generation know ('cos we had it instilled by the pedagogically un p c wooden spoon): Good manners cost nothing. I have often maintained that being able to say "Please", "Thank you", "How are you?", "How much" and "Very good" will carry you a long way in any language. However, I think that courtesy is the sine qua non for the traveller.

The next priority is a natural extension of manners. It is the ability to put yourself in your host's place and to adapt the mores of his/her country. To wit, the vexatious issue of tipping.  When in USA, I naturally add the customary 10-15%. (A lifetime ago, I made the mistake of tipping English style in Atlanta and have never forgotten the mutual mortification of both parties.) Over here, I still tip -and Herself has recognised that it is a good idea - but it tends to be 5 or a 10 for someone who has made an effort. Most of the waiting staff are paid the minimum wage and therefore rely on cash tips for a living - half of anything on a credit card goes to the government.

The point is that a little homework and forethought goes an exponentially long way. As does consideration for others.  As does attitude. It is the foolish fashion to start from the undiscriminating line that every supplier i.e.Your Man and I is hell-bent on ripping you off and that only a resolute hand and a scowl will prevent same. You may recall the story of the wind and the sun competing to get the coat off a man's back. The wind blew like fury and the man tightened his coat to the utmost. The sun shone and he peeled off the layers. 'Nuff said?

A final thought.  Console yoursleves that my fellow lowlife in the tourism business rate the three worst nationalities as the Russians (overbearingly rude nouveau riche tightwads); the Japanese (they always know better than the locals) and the Israelis ("whaddya mean, we have to pay for the minibar?"). And there is also the oft-quoted but scurrilously untrue apocryphal question: What's the difference between a canoe and a Canadian? Answer: A canoe tips.

To my Canadian friends, I apologise - unless, of course, you have pockets longer than the St Lawrence Seaway. But, speaking as one who is a mix of British and Irish (please see next blog), I conclude that the old Yiddisher advice to "Sei ein mensch!" ("Be a human being") holds good in most corners of the globe.

The Casserole of Time

Typical, isn't it? The silly old fool writes nothing for weeks and then, like London busses, three come along at once. I hesitate, dear reader, to impose upon your patience and forbearance, but bear with me a little longer and I shall try to explain.

The title of this piece is, you will be relieved to hear, not an extended metaphor on life. You know the sort of sermon/homily/headmaster's address which begins: "I have always thought that life is like a stew." Tom Lehrer had the answer to that sort of tripe: "Soon we'll be out amidst the cold world's strife/ Soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life." Bullseye, as opposed to other taurean produce.

No, I owe this title to some of the many wonderful women who adorn my life. To Herself, who cooks divinely. To my US pal Mary, whose memory is as selective and eclectic as my own. To my doc's wife Heather, who has given me sage advice and who recently observed that, in the local League for Fine Eccentrics, your humble scribe was the Undiluted Champion. And to a very dear friend who is undergoing a mastectomy tomorrow and for whom only my heart can speak.

In common with many of my vintage, I am beginning to have a little difficulty with words. No, I don't spill my coffee when trying to operate my phone and I have never found much of a problem with expressing emotion, especially when we are losing a soccer game with a minute on the clock. But of late, I have found words queuing up to express themslves in a most undisciplined order.

To wit: I wanted to thank Mrs C for the wonderful stew which awaited my return from yet another freezing afternoon upon the terraces. Of course I wanted to tell her what a tasty casserole she had produced. And all I could compliment her on was the quality of her carousel. At this point, Joni Mitchell fans will get the joke - Herself just looked puzzled and then gave her omniscient, the men in white coats will be here soon smile.

Worse was to follow, for on the very next day, she inquired innocently as to whether I had prepared my ancient car for our next jaunt. "Yes, dear" quoth I,"shovel, torch, rugs - and in view of this inclement weather, I topped up the engine with after shave just this morning." Sounds like? Of course it's anti-freeze but it's got the same number of syllables with the same stress and intonation. Doesn't it?  So now my mind is playing vocabulary charades with me.

The list is increasing exponentially - and what is all the more tragic is that words like "exponentially" are at my linguistic side in a flash but simple objects such as "stock cubes" and "jerry cans" (petrol containers to you guys) are as elusive as Osama bin Laden.

And yet, and yet. The casserole of time may be a misnomer; my once-fabled command of words may be as fleeting as any earthly power but it is far from wasted. It is a reminder that we shall not bestride the earth for long and that whilst we still have whatever personal resources the good Lord has lent us, we must put them to the best possible use.

So, ladies (and gentlemen), here's to you and yours. May the casserole of time be the richest of stews to you all and may you live long to enjoy it to the last drop. Let those who come behind do the dishes and if their washing up liquid isn't as orgasmic as it should be - well, that's their problem.

Up the creek, midwinter

Good day to you again, my readers and fellow sufferers of political ineptitude.

I apologise in part for today's coleric rant (see previous piece) but we are, after all, the Dyspepsia Generation. And there's no earthly point in us complaining about the state of our winter because our snow is but as a piece of cotton lint in comparison to the winter in most of your states. I understand from a casual glance at the NBC bulletins that the white stuff has even reached Florida. Imagine undergoing full body imaging (isn't that what FBI stands for?) just to be a half-frozen snowbird.

Herself and I spent Christmas in our usual hideaway in Fermanagh and, thanks to the horrors of modern technology, I might even be able to put the first ever pic in one of these dispatches. Let us try. Ah well, still beyond my capabilities but I draw comfort from the fact that you light upon this column to read. Gawping you keep for YouTube.

Truly, this is the time of year when things are at their drearest. (Not a typo - just Ulster Scots.)  Outside we have finally staggered to the dizzy climatic heights of 35F; there is a very nasty cold rain landing on the glacial ice sheet which covers my driveway and the sky is a glowering grey. However, for those of you reading this in lands where winter has an even tighter grip, I suggest that you look up Thomas Hardy's "Darkling Thrush".  To me, this has always been the poetic equivalent of a soaring aria and I hope you derive as much improbable solace from it as I do.

And on that theme, I looked out the window on Saturday and was stunned. Our front garden is a 30 yard patch of grass with roses and fuchsia. The normal birdlife is a motley collection of sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds and other ne'er-do-wells hoping to benefit from Mrs C's charity. (Takes one to know one, y'unnerstan.)   But lo and behold, not only were we now hosting a couple of oyster catchers - presumably because the seashore was providing no shellfish - but they had been joined by their even longer beaked cousins, the curlews. Now I don't know if you have ever seen a curlew, but that long curved beak is a thing of extremely frightening efficiency and can winkle out just about anything. Like the Chinese State Press Bureau, one supposes.

And as our neighbours are about to tumble their summer houses and have thoughtfully removed all the windows, the oyster catchers and the curlews now have shelter and I have a beautifully and organically aerated front garden, courtesy of two days frantic pecking by my unexpected guests.  Snowbirds indeed - and a blink of serendipity amidst the gloom.

Never mind the bleak midwinter - a well-shaken cocktail of the human and the divine is a reminder that the seasons will roll round again. And if they don't, they'll find my frozen fingers still attached to the filter at the bottom of the oil tank........

The Heart of the Matter

The current outbreak of humour about the lovelife, times and queer finances of Iris Robinson (Sample: Why is Iris like IKEA – one dodgy screw and the whole cabinet falls apart) are a mere diversion from some core issues.

 

To wit: both London and Dublin recognised in Peter Robinson the one man who might just possibly drag the Calvinist core of the DUP kicking, screaming and psalming into the realisation that cross community government, however unpalatable it may be to tender Presbyterian consciences, is the only game in town for Northern Ireland. “Forward to the past” may be a big hit in paisleyite homes but it’ll never outsell “Back to the future.” Ever.

 

If Robinson falls, the remaining minnows will never be able to deliver the final piece of devolution.  Curious to think of Paisley’s chief strategist as a putative statesman, but cometh the hour etc. And if policing and justice fail, then the whole DUP/Sinn Fein experiment will fall, too.

 

And who’s to say that it isn’t about time?  Not the principle of cross community governance per se, but who would deny that the current crop have long since gone stale, nay rancid.  It is now coming to light that Iris Robinson’s dealings with Fred Fraser, the now conveniently deceased “developer” who covered much of the local government district of Castlereagh (a Robinson fiefdom for many years) in housing extend far further than tapping him for 25K for start up capital for her lover’s business.

 

And our local politicos are rushing to assert that, whilst any investigation – for which read “knifing” – of the Swish Family Robinson is absolutely “essential”, they are keen to ensure that any judicial or public inquiry should not, nay never, extend its smutty, inquisitive remit into other local and national government areas – deep and murky pools from which may emerge, covered in the slime of nods and the grime of winks, a veritable orchestra of whistleblowers.

 

Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn. Nor could a fair percentage of the long-suffering population of Northern Ireland and the equally maligned British taxpayer.  For at the same time as the Iris and Peter show was getting the headlines, a Catholic policeman, a representative of the new, improved Police Service of Northern Ireland, a fluent Irish speaker and GAA player, lost his legs in a booby trap planted under his car.

 

And how was this made possible?  In the week in which the UDA finally decommissioned, fifteen long, weary and frankly unnecessary years after their “ceasefire”, our politicians were once again engaging in the game of brinkmanship was kept them in well-paid jobs for a generation or two. All enabled by the implicit blackmail that if the London and Dublin governments would not listen to their petty bleating, then the men of violence were lurking in the background and they would be much, much harder to handle.

 

And whilst our pols have played one side off against another or gone running to Big Daddy in DC every Paddy’s Day, they have comprehensively blown out the window of opportunity which the ceasefires and the 1998 Agreement created.

 

They have given the dissident republicans time to re-arm and recruit the next generation of gullible youth who believe that killing and dying for a vague concept called “Ireland” is a great and glorious thing. They have prevaricated, thinking only of their own breadbasket and have diluted and poured away the trust of their electorates.

 

No doubt they will all get very upset by this proposition. And there are honourable and hard-working MLAs. I have seen them in action and a good job they try to do. But lest they accuse me and my sort of cynicism, I have also seen MLAs indulging in petty points scoring which would disgrace any kindergarten – and in front of well-travelled overseas guests who were bemused, then puzzled and finally appalled by what they had seen.

 

No, ladies and gentlemen, it is you who have behaved cynically and dishonourably.  It is you who have hidden behind the hard men of all your parties and who have failed to lead but have capitulated to threats.  It is you who have failed to spell out the reality of power. 

 

And the reality is that you and your kind and over 40% of the NI workforce are financed by the Treasury – to the tune of £8 billion last year, I believe.  Now that the international bond markets and the rating agencies have forced some financial steel into the Chancellor’s backbone, one of his first belated cuts might be to look very, very closely at your cosy little world.

 

And he might conclude – he might very well conclude – that you, and the 26 local councils which represent the equivalent of the population of Birmingham, are a luxury without which HMG could well live, especially in these straitened times.

 

And who’s to say that he’d be wrong? Not I, nor my fellow exporters, who are busting a gut to provide, in however little measure, employment and revenue for both parts of Ireland.  You think you have a tough job? You think you are well paid to take abuse? How many of you have had to clear a bar at Saturday night closing or had to deal with the consequent injuries in A&E at 2 am on Sunday morning?

 

What goes round has now come round. To quote Cromwell, appropriately enough to the Rump Parliament:

 

“You have been sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!”

 

 

Northern Gales

For the non-golfers amongst you, I apologise if this piece is a lamb in a hyena's clothing (or something of that ilk) but please bear with me. Rather like Sutter's Mill, there's a little more than rock there.

I went "tae the gowf" this morning. Now this doesn't mean that I have been on the pills. Haven't time for them, as you know. Mind you, a UK government drugs adviser was sacked this week for opining that, statistically speaking, ecstasy was less dangerous than horse-riding. I was about to relate this with glee to Mrs C, who had just fallen off a horse for the first time in her nascent equestrian career, when I bethought me that her whip could inflict serious fleshly damage, so I desisted.

No, I went golfing this morning with my oldest buddy, the Doc. Now the Doc and I predate the PreCambrian, so the conversation ranges very far and wide. And as the poor man puts in as many hours as God sends him and as many as his very sensible wife will allow, any golfing rendezvous is treated as sacrosanct.  Which is why the club attendant looked somewhat askance when two aquanauts turned up, ready for the fray.

Now you have to understand: the wind - fresh and direct from the Arctic ice cap, 'cos there's nothing between the north coast of Ireland and the pole - was screaming off the sea at 35 mph, 45 mph in the squalls.  The foam was flying over the first fairway from the whitecaps, all of whom were auditioning for a part as extras in the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie - the one set at Cape Horn, that is - and hitting a ball required X-ray vision if, like me, you wear glasses.

Still, a teetime is a teetime. As Tiger so sagely observed: It is what it is. And, being Ulster Scots, we are what we are.  A recent tragicomic TV documentary about the role of Calvinism in Scottish Presbyterianism does much to explain the gift of guilt which is our birthright. And as for the frivolous concept of having "fun", that's the spiritual equivalent of Oliver Twist daring to say: Please sir, can I have some more?  So we amused ourselves greatly - whilst leaning at 45 degrees into the wind on the first green - with the idea that driving rain and screaming winds were conclusive proof that fun was most definitely not on the divine "Things to do today" postit flapping on the door of the heavenly refrigrerator.

And yet - it was fun. For blindingly obvious reasons, we had the place to ourselves: now you know why there was only one twoball at the Royal Garden of Eden Golf Resort and Country Club. And as we climbed the hill, the rain stopped for a while, the sun lit up the headland and we had an uninterrupted 50 mile panorama from Inishowen in County Donegal to Islay in the Hebrides. Said the Doc: There's loads of people passing by who would think that we're mad to be out here.  Sez I: There's wards full of people who would give every penny to be out here with us.

It is what it is. We are who we are. And thank God for both.

Golf in an Irish Lake

 

 

For those of you familiar with the Arthurian legend, the Lady in the Lake extends her arm with the sword Excalibur attached. For those of you more familiar with the dark potions of Arthur (Guinness), the lady in this particular lake might well appear bearing a finely-crafted 56 degree lob wedge.

 

Now I know it’s the end of the season but we haven’t all gone mad. Yet. And whilst the title of this piece does not refer to skimming balls over water – tho’ that’s an option, folks – what I really mean in golf in, around and beside the spectacular beauty of Lower Lough Erne in county Fermanagh in Northern Ireland.

 

Yes, I know you haven’t a clue where it lies so go on, get out the map of Ireland. Look in the upper left hand corner and you’ll see two lakes near the border between north and south. Yes, that’s the border no-one notices any more, unless you’ve come up for the month’s groceries ‘cos they’re 25% cheaper. Now, on the left hand, or upper lake (that’s why it’s called Lower Lough Erne) you will see a town called Enniskillen. About 5 miles from there lies Ireland’s answer to Sawgrass. Would I lie to you?

 

Now, my three regular readers - plus my fellow Americans who make up the turf-cutting pondlife of our transatlantic golf tourism - all know that, as a true, unimaginative Ulster Scot, I do not do wild enthusiasm.  I do not personalise or eulogise courses or soi disant poseurs (that’s enough culture for today) who raucously proclaim themselves to be the “most exciting development” since Hillary and Tensing laid out the tentative, if slippery, first nine near the Rombok monastery below Everest.

 

But I have been alternately charmed and terrorised by the Faldo championship course at the Lough Erne Golf Resort. Armed only with a half set, an upside down map and ably abetted by my ever faithful spouse who doubles as caddy/coach/psychologist and retriever of flung clubs, I have metaphorically staggered my way (yes, on foot) round this magnificent course.

 

And “stupendous” would be an understatement. At 6,700 yards from the blues – and by God, sir, I now know the meaning of same ‘cos I have paid my dues in full – and a dreadful 7,200 from the blacks, this is one hell of a course. It would be an impertinence to suggest that local millionaire Jim Treacy set out on an R T Jones style quest to create the golf course without equal – and five star hotel with all the accoutrements on the side – but if he and his people can see it through, I can assure you that he will leave a wonderful inland legacy to complement the links jewels in the crown of golf in the north part of this island.

 

From the moment you walk across the narrow neck of Castle Hume Lough to the first tee, you begin to understand that this is a place of biblical proportions. There are more carries across water than Moses in his basket; it takes an epic leap of faith to trust your line and club on many holes and it certainly helps to be able to walk on water in the closing stretch. Three carries into the wind; three tees where humming the chorus of the old Methodist faithful “Trust and Obey” might do more good than David Leadbetter; three silent prayers of deliverance.

 

The first four are merely a warm up: two short fours, a pitch and a straightforward five. Then it’s: “Are you sitting comfortably ? Cos here comes Johnnnny!” A 175 yard, all carry smash to a green exquisitely sited beside the hotel so that the guests can watch you floating or floundering. With pin positions which leave you no get-out from behind.

 

And then it’s up a ski slope to the 6^th tee, where the true, achingly beautiful panorama of the lakes, the hills and the skies disguise the fact that you are about to boldly go into the first of four monstrous par fives (holes 6, 9, 14 and 16) and three more truly devilish par threes (holes 13, 15 and 18). It’s only later that you notice that, unlike many, many courses, the par fours come as a little light relief.

 

I’ll not bore you with the detail – you must come and see this for yourself – but the course jogs back and forward between the lake and the woods.  It may appear tricksy in places but it isn’t – it has been designed to make you think your way round in spades.  You can score with caution – but you can overdo conservatism. You can risk it all – and lose – but if you make the carry, what an achievement!

 

In short, dear people: this is one of those rarest of courses and resorts, in the loveliest and not quite remotest of settings, for good roads link Enniskillen to Belfast and Dublin airports and they will be much better roads in two years’ time.  This is the only new course which has ever put me in mind of Castlerosse’s words to Henry Longhurst in the 1930’s, when he was using his family estate to build the wonderful course that is Killarney: “We could build the loveliest course in the world here.”

 

Lough Erne is a modern Killarney.  The hills are not mountains – but the course is just a wonder and the hotel is genuine five star.  When our present financial troubles are seen for what they are – a cyclical bump – then come, come and see and play it for yourself and enjoy. Oh, do enjoy.

Horse Feathers

As readers of a certain vintage will see, I am indebted to Marx for the title. As a noted trade unionist began at an 80's labour conference: "Comrades, as Marx once said: we started with nothing and worked our way up to extreme poverty. That was Groucho, not Karl." And I allude to this movie because I got on a horse for the first time in 50 years yesterday.

It is all too fashionable these days to talk about "trauma" and its long-term effects. Well yes, ladies and gentlemen, as a fine cook's apron has it: "Shitake Happens". So the fact that I first got on a horse at the age of eight, promptly fell off and decided that this was a mug's game has nothing whatsoever to do with trauma. (Neither has the fact that in the intervening fifty years I have also been orphaned, bullied, shot at, divorced and assaulted by visigoths on a rugby field.) It happened - end of story.

Now one of the vicarious bonusses of having been a teacher in a vocational school is that many of your ex-pupils have gone into a wonderful range of businesses, matters equine being but one of them. And I am deeply indebted to Michelle Smith and her husband Stephen who run a fine stables in deepest county Tyrone. Michelle was in my second ever class and had to suffer my eccentricites whilst I learnt the business of teaching. I am surprised - and deeply grateful - that she does not hold it against me.

Nonetheless, it was with a smidgeon of trepidation that I remounted, though the passing years have diminished my ability to swing my weary bones over anybody or anything. Indeed, "mounting" is a fine way of saying that Stephen threw me up on the horse and I'm very indebted to all parties - and particularly the horse - that I didn't fly straight over and measure my length on the concrete.

Now those of you who are regular riders will think nothing of the following - it will be as old hat to you as an NFL helmet.  But what strikes the newcomer is the tremendous feeling of altered perception from horseback. No longer are you the footsoldier but the cavalry; you are the aristocracy when your eyes are suddenly an extra six feet from the ground. And secondly, you are immediately and intensely aware that whatever control you may exercise over any machine with hand and foot and eye, you are most certainly now working with and utterly dependent upon another creature - and woe betide you if he or she decides on a policy of non-cooperation. At best, you will be motionless; at worst, you'll be collecting air miles with surprising speed.

I am reliably informed by my horse-riding spouse that I looked nervous.  So would you, sunshine, if you realised that half a ton of animal could throw you further than a well-tossed six pack.  Not that I had any cause to be nervous, as Michelle led the horse from start to finish. But the whole experience was a wonderful insight into the miracle of man and animal working together. And a gentle reminder of the therapy with which animals unwittingly anoint stressed-out humans.  As a complete novice, I caught only a glimmer of why people like horses. Whether the feeling is mutual is a moot point. I can only imagine the yard conversation last night: "How was today, kid?" "You wouldn't believe it - I had this complete idiot who couldn't have turned a table mat."

Either way, it was a wonderful morning.  Unlike matters mechanical, I did not feel divorced from the workings of my transport of delight.  You knew instantly that you would feel the horse's moves - and vice-versa. It was like a two part harmony, even if one of us was seriously off-key.  It was a terrific reminder of how much we miss by ignoring our oldest friends and of how much we gain by working with them. 

And how many of us can genuinely say that our cars have distinct personalities, whether for better or worse?  I know that horses are expensive to maintain; I know that "dude ranching" is a joke to many but, believe me, this was fun.