Tom Coyne, author of Paper Tiger, is making his way across Ireland on foot this summer, playing every links golf course in the country. In Fall 2008, he'll publish a book about his adventures, A Course Called Ireland. In the meantime, he'll be writing a travel journal for GOLF.com. This is the sixth installment; the rest are here.
I'll have to admit it — I was in a bit of a funk. Traveling Ireland solo this past week, the setting seemed to be losing some of its charms. The lovely chips, the morning sausages, the any-time cup of tea — I was afraid I was growing tired of it all. Even the pints — well, the pints were still sound, but not quite as smooth when sipping them alone. Golfing and trekking without company, I felt as if I was just trying to get through Ireland, rather than trying to get into it. But that all changed yesterday when that funk of mine was lifted fast in a place called Cruit Island.
Pronounced Crutch Island, I'd heard good things about the links on Cruit, been told it was the best nine-holer in Ireland. I had been intrigued by Ireland's nine-hole layouts, which, percentage-wise, are a far more prevalent part of the golf landscape than in America. Spanish Point is a good enough course to become a fixture on your southwest swing. Mulranny was good fun, and I'd recommend Clew Bay if you have a free afternoon in Westport and a strong pair of legs. And if you want to see sheep, at Achill Island and Gweedore Golf Club, they hardly get out of your way.
Yet I had learned that a nine-hole track would never quite rise to the joy and challenge of playing eighteen distinct golf holes, that a nine-holer would never be able to compete with the grand and proper links of Ireland. But then again, that's why I came on this trip. To learn something new.
My curious route to Cruit Island only made me more partial to this spot on the yonder edge of Donegal. After hiking eight miles up to Kinncasslagh and checking into my hotel (there was only one), I was disappointed when the gentleman behind the desk told me that the golf course was still a good three-plus miles away, another hour on the hoof.
As I slung my sack of Mizunos over my shoulder and started out for the road, he stopped me.
"You're really walking?" the gentleman asked.
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