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 ninth installment; the rest are here.
Nine weeks on the road and I'm finally playing the back nine of this course called Ireland. All downhill from here. It hurts to know how untrue that is.
The last leg of the trip provided a nice boost of unexpected scenery and solid golf. The Antrim coast in Northern Ireland is relentlessly beautiful, and the road I walked took me along the water's edge for days, through rock tunnels, sending me out to viewpoint after viewpoint. The Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge was as cool a tourist thing as any I've done in Ireland; it's not to be missed. After having made my way to Belfast, I can say that if I take one more picture of sea-splashed rocks and rolling green cliffs, my camera is going to explode. But if you've done the Ring of Kerry and think you've seen Ireland at its most beautiful, Antrim might have something to say about that. And in season, I still found the roads and the sights pleasantly uncrowded.
As was the golf course in Ballycastle. I had heard from friends that Ballycastle was a favorite town in Ireland, and I was eager to find out why, particularly after the pleasant but underwhelming reception I had received in places like Portrush and Castlerock. The people weren't rude, but I hadn't had a conversation with a stranger since arriving in Northern Ireland. Traveling solo, you really start to rely on a chat here and there.
The Ballycastle golf course was a bit confusing, a tad uneven, but the views were spectacular. From the clubhouse, you spot golfers off in the far distance, on top of some unreachable mountaintop, and you say, "We're going there?" And it is breathtaking once you finally get there. The first five holes are a bit sleepy, plain parkland holes winding their way around the ruins of Bonamargy Abbey, circa 1500, which keeps you interested enough until you work your way out to the wind. In the case of my brother-in-law Tim, who joined me along with my sister for four days, the Abbey provided a different opportunity, a stone wall off which he might play his tee shot on the fourth hole, ricocheting his ball out of the ancient graveyard and back into play.
I don't know what it is about Ireland, but it has been tough on my brothers-in-law. Brian has just recently recovered back in New Jersey, so I hear, and Tim had a tough enough time of his own. He nearly gave up and made camp along the A2 during our three mile walk to his B&B (this walking thing takes another newcomer by storm), and he white-knuckled it along the rope bridge over the Atlantic (Tim has a nasty fear of heights). But he also found himself braving ice cold showers (a tip when in Europe: electric showers, don't forget to pull that cord), and we all had to laugh when we heard that Tim had fought his way across a busy Ballycastle street, dodging traffic and jumping into the driver's seat of his car, only to find that, once again, someone had switched the damn steering wheel on him.
But I think his few days in Ireland became well worth it, when, on the sixth tee in Ballycastle, he hit a drive that went so far right it was almost traveling backwards, bouncing off a lovely white cottage that, in the 116 years of the golf club's existence, had probably never been struck by a golf ball. So after a week of tireless touring, it was nice to see Tim make some Irish history of his own.
