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. The complete journal is here.
I had hoped to play with a few of the big names of Irish golf during this trip, but my e-mails and phone calls to agents and handlers had been largely rebuffed. It wasn't until we stepped up to the first tee of a stunning seaside track in Wicklow that, to our great surprise, we found ourselves playing alongside Mr. Harrington himself.
Granted, it was Dave Harrington, and his son, Brian, and I was probably a closer relation to Padraig than either of them. But it's a special treat to tee it up with members on a course unknown to Americans, no tour buses in the parking lot, a course like Wicklow Golf Club. It was there that my travel mate, Chip, and I found ourselves accidentally thrust into the thick of a modified Stableford tournament. (After six crowded holes, I asked Brian if there was a tournament on at the club today, and he explained, "Yeah, you're in it!") Chip and I made four natural birdies, which left us just short of the prize table, but we were pleased enough with our afternoon. While we'd heard of more storms in Dublin, just a half hour to the north, we soaked up the sun all afternoon, long shadows following us around one of my favorite finds in weeks.
Now, Wicklow is not a great golf course. It is short at 5,900 yards, and in need of a few more John Deeres, or more people to push them. So don't drop your tee time at the European Club to give it a go. But considering we happened to actually stumble upon it en route to Pat Ruddy's masterpiece in Brittas Bay, it felt like I'd uncovered another Irish secret, the sort of find I hoped to earn for taking on this country by foot. Greencastle, Ballycastle, Cruit Island, Bettystown, Mulranny — and now Wicklow. It's something of a semi-links perched upon sea cliffs above the Irish sea, ruins of the old Black Castle hanging off the rocks at the end of the first hole, giant canons still pointed at the sea, as if warning us to respect those O.B. stakes.
Rather than focus on the fine points of architecture and design, I have come to judge the golf courses of Ireland by a more essential set of criteria — number of balls lost, sandwich selection in the bar, proximity of the clubhouse to a B&B with a working shower, locker size (can the lockers fit, say, an overstuffed backpack?), and most importantly, number of times I reach for the camera. Wicklow scored above average in most categories, but it was among the Irish leaders in the last. You need a pair of mountain boots and a few carabiners to repel your way around the mountainous back nine, but on a day when I was just trying to squeeze in an extra round for Chip, who was coming to the end of his first golfing trip abroad, we looked at the sea and rock and sky around us that afternoon, and, sage course critics that we are, muttered to one another, "Man, this is pretty cool."
Before his arrival in Bettystown, where I spotted him by his Penn State golf bag, Chip and I had met a total of one time. Friend of a friend, he'd heard about this golf adventure and volunteered his company on the road. I knew he was a nice guy, assured by our mutual friend that he was, indeed, "a good dude," but I was somewhat leery about traveling a week and sharing close and mediocre accommodations with a stranger. And when I heard of his plans for transporting his clubs around Ireland, frankly, I was a little scared.
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