And the walk to my next tee box in Doonbeg, it wasn't bad. Long. A bit boring. Plenty of cows and a few curious on-lookers, wondering who these yanks were out walking the narrow stone-walled roads with golf clubs strapped to their backpacks. When we arrived in Doonbeg after three or so hours, we were knackered, as they say, but invigorated by the possibility of a destination, and the possibility that this whole trip itself might actually be done, one leg at a time.
Standing in the center of town, breathing in Doonbeg, we dropped our bags and went into the petrol station. We were here, but we had yet to see a sign for any golf course. Curious, as this was one of the major golf destinations in all of Europe.
"Oh, the golf course," the shopkeeper with wispy red hair told us, a look on his face like we had asked him the quickest way to Shanghai. "The golf course is well outside of town. You've still got five miles or so to go, I'd say."
Five miles? FIVE more miles? We'd made it to Doonbeg, damnit. Doonbeg, we're here, the sign says so! It was like a 12-year-old finding out at the last minute that Christmas this year would be on the 30th.
"You've got two, three miles to go around to the entrance. And the drive into the course, once you're past the gates, well that's another two miles itself."
And we were broken. All was lost. First day, and Ireland had already won.
"But then again," our friend explained, "there is a shortcut."
So after a half hour walk down a cow path, Joe and I found ourselves walking directly toward the behemoth Doonbeg clubhouse, manor house meets modern luxury, a stone golfing castle calling us home. Five miles? Impossible. We'd barely gone a mile, and found ourselves staring at the clubhouse, just a few paces away. I could have tossed a Titleist through one of the windows.
And if either of us could have walked on water, it would have been one of the greatest short cuts of all time.
I can say with confidence that of all the people who played Doonbeg that day — an absolutely impressive golf compound, perhaps the most luxurious, most pristine setting I'll find in Ireland — Joe and I were the only ones who arrived by taking off our shoes and socks, rolling up our pants, wading across a chilly stream, scrambling up the face of a sand dune like we were storming the clubhouse, and slipping through the rear service gate as a food truck reversed its way up to the clubhouse.
And yet, it felt the perfect way for us to arrive. The golf was brilliant, some of the most interesting links holes I've ever seen, immaculate greens cradled within 50-foot dunes. And it was one of the richest-feeling resorts I've ever visited, a surprising find outside a modest town on the coast of Ireland. But for a couple of guys sweating their way along the N67, strapped for not having found a cash machine for two days, cow shit in our shoes and a solid three-day stubble, sneaking into this Shangri-La, it just felt sort of right.
Next, onward to Spanish Point, Lahinch, Connemara ...
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