It is fine golf that is to be had now on Kent’s eastern seaboard, and
each time one comes down into this neighbourhood with one’s bag of
clubs, the more one is strengthened in the conviction as to its equal
excellence with any other golfing district in the world, and the
abundance of its fine prospects for the future. The magnificent
character of the golf, chiefly that which is enjoyed under the
authority of the Cinque Ports Club at Deal, is becoming better known and
appreciated year by year, and even now the feeling is general that here
is one of the finest links that were ever made for a championship to be
played upon. The sister course of the Royal St. George’s Club is
practically joined up to it, and now a little farther along the bay in
the direction of Ramsgate is the new course of the Prince’s Club, and a
very fine course too. So here we have stringed together along a small
stretch of coast three of the very best courses that are to be found in
the whole world of golf--one which is actually a championship course, a
second which is perhaps by way of being so, and a third which may soon
be mentioned in the same connection. There is enough good golfing land
left in Pegwell Bay to make a fourth course, and some day not very far
distant it may be made. Nature has here given to the golfer every
natural advantage that it is possible to afford him in the preparation
of those seaside links, the contemplation of which brings the light of
pleasure into his eyes. Golf is great in our modern scheme of things,
and some have said, without irreverence, that they see the shaping hand
of Providence in short holes of such sporting quality as the Maiden and
the Sandy Parlour, in those glorious last four holes at Deal, and in all
that bumpy ground to be covered in approach play which calls for such an
abundant exercise of the wits of the thoughtful golfer, and inevitably
recalls to him some of the best characteristics of St. Andrews. So much,
indeed, does all this place look as if it were made for golf, and
intended to be a capital of golf, that a man with whom I played there
once was led, while we were waiting at one of the tees, to the remark
that if golf had never been invented it would surely have come to be so
as soon as intelligent men had wandered hereabouts, so direct is the
suggestion that is made by the nature and the contour of the land. One
finds it difficult--nay, even impossible--to think of a better stretch
of golfing land in the whole of England or Scotland, or anywhere where
there are three links of this quality joined up to each other, so that,
if so whimsically disposed, a golfer might play on from one to the
other, and make a triple round of fifty-four holes.
Here, then, is a place which is eminently adapted to become a leader
among golfing centres, and it would surprise no one if, at an early
stage of the further evolution of golf and golfing matters, it came to
be regarded as the chief of all. It is not to be overlooked that it
enjoys the inestimable advantage of proximity to London. When London
takes a fancy to such a thing as golf she likes to be its master, and
will leave nothing undone to assert her supremacy. She has taken to
golf, and Scotland already knows with what masterful zeal she is
pursuing it. These seaside links of eastern Kent are to all intents and
purposes London links, in that they are nearer than any other to London,
and are fed almost exclusively from the capital. And a further advantage
that the place possesses is in the fine bracing air with which it is
enveloped, air which for its invigorating properties is hardly to be
excelled anywhere in Great Britain. When the wind comes from the
south-east with moderate strength, as it so often does down there, it is
a fine thing for the golfer, and a stimulant not only to himself but his
game.
The locality begins to feel, as one might say, like a great golfing
centre. You know how St. Andrews and Carnoustie and North Berwick “feel”
like that. The intelligent interest of the non-golfing people in the
towns and villages round about is being awakened in the game, and they
are all discovering in some way or other how they may make themselves to
benefit by it. Particularly is this the case with regard to a certain
good class of private hotels and boarding-houses catering specially, if
not exclusively, for golfers. In all the great centres of the game one
finds these places in abundance, and every player of experience knows
how, in many respects, they are often to be preferred to the big hotels.
Then we find a leading thoroughfare called Golf Road, houses called Golf
Villas, establishments named Golf Bakeries and Golf Laundries, all of
which little details are a sign that the game is coming to be regarded
in the district as an “industry,” and the district is wise in arriving
at such an understanding in good time. Moreover, one would be inclined
to say that the standard of play down here is at least as high, taking
it all round, as it is at any other big golfing centre. There are
foozlers on every links, but more men with very short handicaps, men who
have really come to grips with the game, are playing round Pegwell Bay
than in most parts, chiefly because, whether member or visitor, the
expense of playing is considerable, and the play itself is difficult,
and the long-handicap men have discovered that there is not much fun in
paying high rates for the privilege of spending week-ends in bunker
practice. And yet another attribute of the large and important golfing
centre does this neighbourhood possess, in the good quality of the
caddies which in the course of many seasons it has at last developed. A
man once said that if he saw the caddies beforehand he could tell what
kind of golf was played in a place, and though this may have been going
too far, there was a germ of truth in the idea. Mediocre links and
mediocre players never produce good caddies, and the reverse argument
generally holds good; and everybody knows that a good race of caddies is
not to be produced in a couple of seasons. Oftentimes it needs at least
a generation. But the caddies at Deal and Sandwich nowadays are
excellent, and this is not such an unimportant matter as some people
might imagine it to be.
X
When you think of it, there is no inconsiderable portion of our golfing
lives that is spent in travelling to and from the links that are far
from home, by railway and by motor-car, and if one falls into a
reflective mood there are many experiences, some curious and some
trying, that are to be called to mind in connection with these journeys.
On the whole, perhaps, the reflection does not make for much joy, except
in the knowledge that these are things of the past and are not likely to
be repeated. When the assemblies for the championships are being made,
there is less talk of current form than there is of adventures in
travelling. Oh, the horrors of a wait at Dumfries in the small hours of
a cold morning, when the mistake has been made of trying to get to
Prestwick that way! Turned out from the comfortable, warm, snug
sleeping-car at Carlisle, even the blanket and pillow that were
vouchsafed to you on parting from the express are begrudged you now at
this most icy, inhospitable Dumfries. With that curious, dirty, dazed
feeling as of being a boiled owl, you watch the men throw the mails into
the van that is to take them and you on to Ayr, and listen to them
joking about the events of the previous night as if it were now really
morning. You tell everybody what you think about Scottish common sense
in not having a fire in any waiting-room and no place available for any
refreshment, and the Scots themselves are too courteous to say what they
must think of your common sense for a golfer in making this journey in
this weird way. Then you get into a smelly, dirty carriage, and with
jerks and jolts the train drags itself out of the station and slowly
away along the line. Stop, stop, stop every two or three miles, but at
last it is Ayr, and the worn-out golfer, cursing himself for his folly
and others for their heathenism, gets out and steps forth into the land
of Burns. But it is yet only a little past five o’clock, and all Ayr is
fast asleep, and there are no fires, no refreshments, and no ways of
getting to Prestwick just yet. This is to be a golfer! But all things
end sometime except eternity, and at last you are at Prestwick, and the
finest thing you ever did in your life was then to keep your first ball
straight and uninfluenced by the gravestones in the churchyard, and to
squeeze a heartening if a little fluky 3 at this first hole. My reader,
be assured that the night train through Carlisle, and changing there and
at Dumfries, is not the way to go to the west coast of Scotland where
are Prestwick and Troon. Run through to Glasgow and down again, as
indeed everybody but those crazy people who are always finding new ways
of doing things, always do.
But generally night-travelling is an excellent thing when you get used
to it, and it spares a day to golf. It is a fine thing to pack your bag
of clubs away lovingly in your berth after a dinner at the London
terminus, and before you turn off the light you look at them and think a
“Good-night!” to them in a cheery way as of old and trusted
companionship. “Off again, my friends!” you seem to say. “We have done
this sort of thing before, eh? We know what we are going to do, you and
I, eh? Yes, you are the fellows. Bonny boys, you are! Where? Didn’t you
know? Why, North Berwick, of course! Now, bye-bye! Let’s sleep. Play in
the morning.” And then you switch off the light, and slip away into
dreamland where there are glorious holes on seaside courses, and
presently there is a big thump on the door and that dream is spoiled and
dispelled by a man’s gruff voice. But the next moment is one of those
most worth living. The dream is realised or is in the realisation, for
the caller brings you to your joyful senses by declaring that in fifteen
more minutes you will be wheeling into Edinburgh. In those dreams which
were helped by a soothing lullaby from the wheels below, the London was
slipping away four hundred miles from the tail of the train, and here is
Golf, its own rare land.
And what feats one can perform on a motor-car! And does. Just finished
our putts on the home green at St. Andrews, and the sun going down, and
up comes one of our impulsive party and says it is ordered that we go to
Gullane to-night by car! Goodness! But it has to be, and in half an hour
we are bowling along those Fifeshire roads, and we are ferried across
from Burntisland in the gloom and run into Edinburgh. Good supper, some
talk in a tone of suppressed excitement as if great adventures are
afoot--as they are--and history is being made, and then we hoot-hoot
away into the blackness of the night. And it is black farther on. And
the blacker it is the faster that dare-devil man at the wheel makes her
go. Running along roads the width of the car and stone walls on either
side, while branches of trees are almost scraping the tops of our heads,
and one might swear the speed-gauge has its finger on the fifty.
“Mrs. Forman’s!” you say to the man beside you, to show you are not
thinking of the awful risks as we dash by Musselburgh. Farther on a cap
is lost in the black and windy night, but nobody complains. It is enough
that all survived that terrible twist round the corner at Gosford.
Aberlady! That is a fine thing to hear. “Will you stop here to-night, or
come on to Gullane?” It is the end. You have indeed come through a great
ordeal, and it is a great thing to be standing there in the night with
your bag of clubs under your arm, and to be able to answer a greeting as
it ought to be, and to let your thoughts slip away soon to the golf of
the morning that is coming.