THE rain which seems to have become an integral part of the golfing scene has led to numerous course closures and has cramped the style of golfers to such an extent that many have taken to moping around clubhouses dreaming up wounding things to say t
o the secretary and any board members rash enough to risk entering the premises. It is, of course, quite unreasonable to go blaming individuals for the weather, but we needn't feel too concerned for the individuals in question for they rarely pay the slightest bit of attention to the bleating going on around them anyway.
One of the things I've tended to do while driving my nervous system to breaking point with endless cups of coffee, is to gaze out of the windows at the saturated scene, reflect on years gone by and, as far as memory allows, try to make comparisons. This can be quite interesting in a boring sort of way. For instance, though there are probably sound reasons for course closures after heavy rain, we've had heavy rain before in this country and many's the time we've played through it. The old philosophy appeared to be that if people were daft enough to do it, they should press on and enjoy themselves.
Perhaps the greenkeeper's art has become more sophisticated than it was then, and attitudes have certainly changed. There was a time when it took a virtual flood to banish golfers from courses. Club officials wouldn't have tried to stop them unless flares were going up. It was quite common then for golfers to play to greens dotted with small lakes of rainwater which made it necessary to lift and replace golf balls in such a way that a clear line to the hole could be achieved without gaining any advantage in the length of the putt.
Presumably, if and when the point was reached where it was no longer possible to find a line clear of water, then even the die-hards might have come to the conclusion that the course had become unplayable. John Shade, the old Duddingston professional, was firmly of the opinion that the course closed itself and that no intervention was required from him or anyone else. Whether he would have held to that view now, when there are undeniable signs that water tables are changing, we'll never know, but he was echoing the prevailing sentiments of his day.
When Henry Cotton won his second Open championship at Carnoustie in 1937, he played his last round in atrocious conditions. Members of the press who were present said the weather was indescribable, though most of them had a good stab at it. Suffice it to say that the first group out on that fourth round found nearly three inches of water around the cup at the opening hole and play was delayed while greenstaff battled to clear the green. Thus was the pattern set for the rest of the day which ended with Cotton round in a remarkable 71, having, like others, had to place his ball on many a waterlogged green. He won by two shots from Reg Whitcombe.
The previous year at Hoylake, the championship itself (won by Alf Padgham) got away with it comparatively lightly, but the qualifying over Hoylake and Wallasey was disrupted when a violent thunderstorm and torrential rain left players attempting to putt on flooded greens with their mashie-niblicks. Two men were taken to hospital having been struck by lightning and a golf writer telephoning from Wallasey was knocked out by a bolt. On his recovery he was immediately interviewed by a colleague on "How it feels to be struck by lightning on a golf course." A nice little follow-up would have been: "How does it feel to be grilled twice on the same day?"
I have difficulty recalling the worst weather I've ever experienced on a golf course and it might be that it was so bad I've erased it from my memory. A leading contender would have to be the storm which hit a press competition at Crail some years ago when the course caught the tail-end of a hurricane which had been causing havoc somewhere else on the globe and had dropped in to give us the benefit of its last throes.
It was more wind than rain, but the rain, when it came, came at such a speed it almost drowned those who found themselves in its path. As the day progressed, the rain became hail and flayed its victims. I first became conscious of what was going on when I arrived at the club, staggered across the carpark and attempted to open the clubhouse door. It wouldn't budge and I thought that perhaps the clubhouse hadn't opened yet. As it turned out, however, the door was open, but the wind was holding it shut. It was man against the elements and man wasn't doing too well.
That should have been enough, the signal for common sense to break out and for me to settle for pie and beans in the comfort of warm and welcoming surroundings. That's not the way it works, though, and before the day was out I'd suffered hardships which would have put an Eskimo in bed for a fortnight.
The full article contains 891 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
