I whiz around New England. And I’m starting to play OK. Before I left home I had a couple of lessons to fix my short irons. Without boring you with the technicalities, the Pro has me fanning the club open on the back swing and this is starting to work as I’m hitting big lofted approach shots that make the game a lot easier. So Massachusetts, Franconia Golf Course an 88, Cedar Knob, Connecticut an 89, New Hampshire an 87. Four young chappies in front of me in NH. They have trouble with their hats (none of the peaks seem to face forward) and they all have sleeves of ink to show what non-conformist individuals they are. I know that last sentence sound old farty, but what inconsiderate pricks they were. I’m on my own in a cart and they have pull carts, but they don’t call me through until the 17th hole, when two of them lose balls. “Many thanks”. I don’t think the Americans have a word for dag or daggy and we don’t have a word for douche (which is what these lads were) and we desperately need one. Maybe a Swanny or a Richmond No 4.
The gent behind the jump in NH had been to Melbourne during the Vietnam War when his ship had shore leave. He was very taken with the place and our lasses and one lass in particular called Fay (I think) with whom he kept in contact with for a time until the tyranny of distance took over. His name is Gerry. So Fay if you pashed a yank back in 1967 (it couldn’t have been anything beyond a pash in 1967, I’m sure), Southegan Woods Golf Course, New Hampshire. I don’t want to give the wrong impression, these four Swannies notwithstanding, most nearly everybody I meet at the courses are great and back at the 19ths often shout me drinks. Which is both awkward and endearing.
The Links at Outlook, Maine (good course) 93. Rhode Island, shit course, shit player. On the way to the course I see what the Americans call (I think) a sign dancer. Sign Dancers are people who dance with a sign outside fast food joints to get attention for the establishment. Outside this one place is a female (which in itself is somewhat unusual) who is dancing with a sign that says Buffet $6. She must be close to 80. I now understand what Mr Hockey means when he talks about the inherent dignity of work. At the course in RI there are two women meandering down the first hole laughing uproariously at every duffed shot. I ask the pro what the story is. “Oh! She has got Alzheimer’s. She used to be a famous surgeon”. The other woman is her carer. I wait. I’m in no hurry. She sometimes hits the buggy on her backswing and sometimes on her downswing. But she isn’t the slightest perturbed and has a fine old time for the four holes they play. I remember what Ronald Reagan’s daughter said about the President when his Alzheimer’s was quite advanced. Everybody except my father is concerned about his condition. Every day he is absolutely amazed, thrilled and awestruck by the rising of the sun that he is seeing for the first time.
About the only thing that is famous about Vermont is Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream that is located in the state’s north. A two hour trip. I had decided to go there after seeing Stephen Fry in the aforementioned doco doing a tour of the factory. It looked like great fun. How do I put this diplomatically? It’s shit. It looked great for Mr Fry because they gave him a personalised tour and he got to invent his own ice cream. He got to do this because he had a BBC camera crew with him. I had a dodgy Nikon with me.
You have to wait for approximately an hour to go on the tour. So you get to look at an extensive collection of olden time ice scoops (pictured) while waiting.
I once visited a woman who collected vintage irons and at the time I thought that was the lamest thing you could collect. Well it is practically head twirling compared to 130 (you count em’) ice scoops. Ben and Jerry fancy themselves as hippy fair traders who value and love their employees and customers. This may have been true once, but now they are owned by the conglomerate Unilever, a Dutch Anglo carry on. So I’m sure they’re a fun loving, socially conscious crew.
The tour consists of a 10 minute orientation film, then a tour of factory that is about the size of a football change room and has a reasonable number of vats and pipes. You do this from a raised behind glass platform. It was a Friday, but they weren’t producing. So you got to see an old sad looking gentleman slowly mopping the factory floor. Then it is an extremely small sample and you can bugger off now. All this for $4. $4 is extremely exorbitant.
Vermont is my last state in the North East and then it is off to the Midwest. So even though it was getting late I was keen to get Vermont done, so I don’t need to try and get on a course on the busy weekend. I drive south for a couple of hours and rely on Jill to come up with a public course. She suggests the Quechee Golf Course. It’s getting late, so OK Jilly girl. Ummm, this is extremely ritzy. “Are you open to the public”? “Yes sir, on a limited basis”. “May I play nine then”. “Certainly sir that will be $72”. “Fuck off!” Well I thought that, what I actually said was “Very good”. Her, “Quechee is the fourth ranked course in the state and is made up of the western Highlands course and the eastern Lakelands course. Sir may choose either”. Sir goes over to the bag drop off spot and the chappie in charge there says to play 18 if I want. Me, “I’ll see how I go”.
The tees don’t have markers and the courses are sort of link style and overlap. I’m trying to play the Lakelands. I keep getting lost and keep having to back track and ask people which hole is which. They can’t understand me and I’m acutely aware I am making something of a bastard of myself. I come to the fourth. It is supposed to be a par 4, but it looks awfully short and not the 290 on the card. But I’m looking directly into the sun so maybe that is throwing me off. I pull out the Big Dog. Reasonable connect, but rightish. I drive over the creek. I‘ve driven the green by quite some way. Some 60 metres past the green there is a team setting up pyrotechnics. There are rows and rows of pots, caps and electronics for tonight’s fireworks. A very large chap leaning on a shovel slightly to the left says “It is over there”, indicating a spot twenty metres away, ‘It hit the shovel and took off”. Me, “I’m so sorry”. Him “that’s OK, but if hit one the pots or the caps, things might have got interesting in a big hurry”. This wasn’t the par four on the Lakelands course it was the par three on the Highlands. I very quickly scurry off.
By the time I get to the sixth (after a few more diversions) I’m joined by the Marshall. Him, “Do you know where you are going?” Me, “Not really”. He escorts me for the rest of the round. Sort of like a Spitfire getting a damaged Lancaster bomber home over Northern England during WW11. When I get back to the Cart section, I run back into the chappie in charge. He is equally bemused and amused. Him, “What happened out there?” Me “What! You heard?” Him, ”It was all over the 2 ways”. Me, ”What? Australian goes berserk!” Him, “Something like that”. Me, “So the local media will be on their way?” Him, “Well, It is on You Tube with a million hits”.
Well, after much laughter. From him, not me. I say, “I have no idea where my car is”. He tells me to jump on the cart and he will drive me around until we find it. This is reminiscent of when I was five and I got lost at a packed Windy Hill with the Bombers playing our friends from Royal Parade. A copper put me on his shoulders and walked around the boundary until my brother somewhat reluctantly claimed me. I’m proud to say I’m not quite so blubby this time.
• There must be something interesting about the Midwest
• Pickett’s and Brian’s charge.
50 States of golf 