The Lowell Courtney Travel Blog

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.

If

My ever literate readers will recognise the title of this piece instantly.  It may be fashionable to decry Kipling as the arch-imperialist (funny how we don't hear that being shouted ad nauseam outside US embassies these days) but I was reading a collection of pieces by one of Britain's best commentators    (A A Gill of the Sunday Times) and he was full of admiration that Kipling had spent months working on that killer title: "Just So."

And my sporting - or at least sporty - readers will know that two lines from Kipling adorn the gates of Wimbledon: "If you can meet with triumph and disaster/ And treat those two impostors just the same". This very sentiment could now be fitting for my friends (and they are many, thank God) in the US. To paraphrase: " If you can meet with bull runs and recession/ And deal those two deceivers the same hand".

I have just returned from my annual schmoozefest in parts east of the Mississippi and, whilst I detect an inevitable nervousness re: the economy and an equally unavoidable disillusion with the President, nonetheless I have been at pains to reassure my associates on both sides of the Atlantic that Armageddon can wait for a while yet. The darkest hour is always just before dawn and I sense that, hard as this downturn has hit everyone - from high to low - the bounce back has also begun.

Having the dubious distinction of having survived at least three previous recessions, I can assure you that the end is far from nigh. People will always want to trade - it's in our genes. And the more enterprising amongst us will adapt faster and set off on a new path. And for those of you who think that the years preclude a new departure, let me cheer you with the thought that you are now equipped with a carapace of experience and savoir faire which not even the mightiest of twenty-something geeks can boast.

Oh yes - and one further consolation for my contemporaries: I saved $6 last weekend by buying my first ever senior's ticket to a soccer match. Of course I was annoyed that the nice lady at the turnstile didn't query my eligibility; of course I was disheartened by the onrushing years but, folks, $6 is $6. And in that spirit, my friends, I enjoin you: Onwards and upwards.