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.
My Kinsale story begins in the farthest reaches of Northern Ireland. Many weeks ago, I found myself walking into a place called Ardglass, and as I've written before, I found the stone's throw triangle of clubhouse to restaurant to pub to B&B to be one of this adventure's great finds. A close second to the discovery of the Olde Commercial Pub in Ardglass was the discovery of a gentleman named Gerard sitting within said pub. His bewilderment at what I had undertaken, to walk and golf the whole of this island, was a genuine amazement, and I certainly appreciated it.
As I race for the finish line, I often forget what it is that I'm so close to pulling off. Gerry made me feel like something of a Superman, and I almost believed him. It was another one of those boosts that keeps the knees going. Gerry was also a proud Ardglass member, and he wetted our appetites for the fine links across the street with hole-by-hole accounts of what we had in store for us. He was a good guy, and in the space of an evening, became a friend.
As we discussed my itinerary, recounting where I've played — a list too extensive to recall from memory — and where I was headed, to the great links of Dublin and the Southwest on my way to Ballybunion, my story stopped when I made the turn from the European Club, and Gerry heard that I was indeed headed to Kinsale.
"You're going to play the Old Head?" he said, eyes wide, a shy sort of reverence in his voice. I knew many Yanks who considered Old Head to be a golfing Mecca, but I figured the Irish to be more blase about a course of their own. Gerry thoughtfully conveyed to us that playing Old Head was one of his life's dreams. And after a few pints, feeling quite full of myself, Ireland's golfing superhero, there was no way for me to bite back the inevitable promise: "You make it to Kinsale, Gerry, I'll make it happen."
How I was going to make it happen, I had no idea. Frankly, I didn't know if they'd let Gerry on the property, didn't know if he could break 150, couldn't be sure he was going to show up in sneakers and cut-offs. You see, where I'm from, promises that have anything to do with tee times, business and/or travel plans, loans of personal property, etc. — when made after 11 p.m., they are to be considered null and void until reaffirmed in the sober light of day. I thought my offer had vanished with that evening's lager. But this was Old Head I was talking about. And this was my new fourth in Kinsale, Gerry from Ardglass.
The texts started rolling in a few weeks later, voicemails left from a number in Northern Ireland, inquiring as to whether I was still headed to the Old Head, and still looking for some company. I'm basically golfing Ireland at the kindness and charity of these clubs. I can't rightly say who I can or can't ask to join me, really, but I also can't say no to Gerry. If there's any Irish trait I hope rubs off on me when I return home, it's a bit of the relentless hospitality. Just a few of the absurd acts of graciousness we've encountered here in Ireland: my buddy Tim getting an hour's lift from the airport with the Irish woman he sat next to on the plane; Chip getting an hour's ride to Dublin with Pat Ruddy's son; Terry from the Rosapenna hotel, who not only treated us to one of the best meals I've had in Ireland, but threw in a foot massage! This wasn't the land of "I can't make it happen." This was the land of "I'll get it sorted," even when you didn't have a clue how the hell you would.
