When a Golf Society Weekend Does Not Go to Plan

View From The Fairway by Derek Clements

So it turns out that there are two types of golf societies.

On the one hand there is the society which is run with military precision by an organiser who stands no nonsense, who tells everybody where they need to be, when they need to be there, how much cash they need to bring with them and has sorted out the draw weeks in advance and has marked up everybody’s cards so they know exactly how many strokes they are receiving. He has told everybody what format they are playing, and has clearly designated the long-drive and nearest-the-pin holes and has gone out with the markers long before anybody gets to the first tee.

And then there is the other sort, where almost none of the above applies. I have just returned from such a trip. To save potential embarrassment, I am not going to name names or identify the course and hotel where we stayed and played - suffice to say that it was a superb hotel with two magnificent courses.

The organiser had set up a WhatsApp group but the first thing that became obvious to me was that hardly anybody actually read it because they kept asking questions to which he had already provided the answers for! And, of course, there were the usual flurry of last-minute cancellations and requests for the return of non-refundable payments.

Incredibly, however, they managed to get themselves to the appointed venue on the designated date.

Some of our group were playing on the Friday, Saturday and Sunday and were staying four nights, while others, myself and a good friend included, opted for Saturday and Sunday. In total, there were about 40 golfers of varying shapes, ages and standards.

On the Friday there were about 20 golfers and they enjoyed a glorious summer’s day, with blue sky and the sun beating down. They had a fabulous day. I wasn’t there but according to most reports a good time was had by all in the bar that evening - long and late into the night.

When my mate picked me up at 7am on the Saturday morning there were ominous black clouds in the sky. Typical! We had enjoyed weeks of glorious weather, with most of us complaining about the heat.

But on the drive to the venue the rain held off and we were pretty optimistic. We arrived at the course and headed for the designated meeting point. On a table were various sheets with meal options. We filled ours in and asked where we should leave them. "Just put them on the table mate."

I turned to my friend and said: "You can be absolutely certain that when we go for dinner tonight they will have no note of what we ordered." More of this later.

We were then asked for cash to pay for assorted prizes - nobody had told us to bring cash! Who carries money now?

Lots of people were milling around and we eventually found out who we were paired with. 

I had expected to be handed scorecards. Not a bit of it. We had to head to the pro’s shop to pick up our cards and work out what our course handicap would be. 

We were then introduced to our playing partners, two elderly gentlemen we had never met before and who seemed less than impressed to meet us. As we stood by the first tee we were suddenly informed that we were first off.

At this point it was still dry. But the moment I teed up my ball the rain started to fall. Steadily at first. 

So on went my waterproof jacket. It was still around 25C so I was wearing shorts and opted against putting on my waterproof trousers. I cannot be the only club golfer who hates wearing waterproofs during the summer. They may keep the water out but when you strip them off at the end of your round you are soaked in sweat. So why bother at all?

The rain got heavier and heavier. It was utterly miserable. But here’s the thing - I was playing really well. And I holed just about every putt I looked at - a grand total of 11 for the front nine, and just 25 in total for 18 holes. 

Under any other circumstances, we would have walked off the course but we had paid a decent amount of money for this golf break and we agreed to finish the round, come what may.

By the time we reached the 10th tee, the scorecard I was keeping for my mate had completely disintegrated. Fortunately, he had not been playing well so we agreed that it would not be a problem. We trudged through sodden fairways, tried to avoid water-filled bunkers and still it was hammering down.

And as I holed my final putt on the 18th green, guess what? It stopped raining!

I discovered that my waterproof jacket is not waterproof. I also discovered that my shoes are not waterproof. And neither is my golf bag. Even my wallet was soaking wet. Everything was utterly drenched.

We checked in and took all our soaking gear to the room. I turned to my mate and said: "Where do we even start?"

"I know," he replied. "Back in a couple of minutes."

And he duly returned with two pints of beer. Genius.

We dried our clubs as best we could, put our waterproofs on the heated towel rail, showered and then headed off to the bar to meet up with the rest of our party. It turned out that many of them had indeed walked off without completing their rounds.

We were meant to sit down for dinner at 7.30pm and myself and my mate duly headed to the upstairs dining area. On the tables were place-mats with people’s names and their food choices. Everybody except us! Fortunately, a waiter recognised our plight, asked us what we had chosen and put things right. We eventually had all gathered by 8.15pm!

It was a fun night. We did not know many of the group but were made to feel welcome. And afterwards we returned to the bar. We were teeing off at 8.30am so called it a night at around 11pm. Most of the rest of our party did not!

Unsurprisingly, we were first down for breakfast. 

We had been told to assemble at a specific bar before teeing off but when we got there it was closed! But eventually we hooked up with everybody. Again, we had to get our own cards from the pro. Again, we had to work out our own course handicaps. 

We were playing with different players on the Sunday. I was meant to be in the first group but nobody could find one of my playing partners so that went out of the window. I was assured he would show up at some point.

As we were waiting, my mate said to me: "Mate, can you smell weed?"

"Too right!"

And there, leaning against a tree was a golfer puffing away on a joint. It turned out that I was playing with him. We were finally introduced and our third member eventually turned up and off we went. Mr Weed, as I will refer to him from this point on, played off 11, while the other member of our group was a 22-handicapper who struggled from the off.

As we set off, the sky was grey but no rain. Once again, I found myself playing some superb golf, hitting fairways and greens, holing putts and scoring really well. And on almost every hole, Mr Weed would roll himself another joint! He struck the ball beautifully but not necessarily always in the right direction!

We arrived on the ninth tee and it started to rain. Gently at first. I walked off the green and was four over par. By this time the rain was coming down more heavily. "You guys OK to continue?" I asked. "No problem," came the reply.

I parred the 10th hole after a superb up and down (even though I say it myself) but by now it was coming down in stair-rods and my partners announced that they’d had enough. I wanted to continue but had no choice other than to walk off with them - followed by most of the rest of the group.

Fortunately, I’d had the foresight to check the weather forecast and had brought a change of clothes, so off I went for a shower.

And when I returned to the bar I was met by Mr Weed, standing in the doorway, larger than life, rolling another joint! Bold as brass, not a care in the world. Unbelievable!

My mate was one of the few who completed his round. Not surprising since he came in with a 77 off an 11 handicap. The prizes were duly handed out and we headed for the car, looked at one another and burst out laughing!

It was disorganised chaos but I have to say that apart from the weather it was a fun weekend.

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