The Isle of Harris video is now live on YouTube – a motorcycle tour in search of more Golf in the Wild …
Happy Christmas viewing – an alternative to the Great Escape50, GS, Lewis
The Isle of Harris video is now live on YouTube – a motorcycle tour in search of more Golf in the Wild …
Happy Christmas viewing – an alternative to the Great Escape50, GS, Lewis
My dad was condemned to work much of his working life in the industrial heartland of Manchester. I could have found my way to ICI Trafford Park blindfold. The warm wheat smell of Kellogg’s, the hot electrics from Metropolitan-Vickers, the burnt rubber from the tyre recycling plant, the metallic smell of British Oxygen, the tainted hot steam from ICI. My mother blamed this atmosphere for my father’s late ill-health, ignoring the twenty cigarettes he smoked every day for much of his life. Almost sulphurous, this must be what Hades smells like.
Sited at the end of Westinghouse Road, one of the oldest thoroughfares in the park, the Dyestuffs Division factory overlooked Trafford Moss, undeveloped land, popular with peat diggers. Less than a mile north was the original location of Trafford Hall, demolished in 1939. In 1897, the Manchester Golf Club obtained a lease for 80 acres of land and laid out an 18-hole course, using the hall as the clubhouse – a short walk from the grand entrance to ICI. Sited close to the Manchester Ship Canal, even then, the aromas on the course could be quite overpowering (golfsmissinglinks.co.uk – Manchester Golf Club (Manchester St Andrews – 1882 – WW1).
1947-48 ICI Works Council at the gates on Westinghouse Road – undeveloped Trafford Moss is in the background, with the original site of Trafford Hall beyond. My dad is far left on the back row.
Paternal nepotism delivered a series of holiday jobs: site postman, tuck-shopkeeper, toilet cleaner and canteen washer-upper. This, in turn, delivered an Austin Mini 850 on my seventeenth birthday. An obsession with speed and a teenage conviction of immortality proved a dangerous combination, so the first accidents were not long coming. The more recent obsession with motorcycles is just an extension of a teenage preoccupation. When my father retired, he collected stamps. I bought a Ducati.
If the sulphurous air in Trafford Park was the work of the devil, the Atlantic-washed atmosphere that rolls across the Isle of Harris must also hang in the air at heaven’s gate. On a mild September Monday afternoon in 2024, I rode off the Ullapool – Stornoway ferry and breathed it deeply. With the rest of the day to fill, I circumnavigated Lewis anticlockwise taking in the mandatory stops: Port of Ness, Butt of Lewis, Gearrannan Blackhouse Village, the standing stones at Callanish. The skies were leaden, but far out to sea in the west, a thin bright light promised a better Tuesday, the day I would finally play the Isle of Harris golf course. Thwarted by gale force winds in 2016, eight years later I was hoping for better.
Tuesday did not start well. The bright light, if anywhere, was still out at sea and a dull beginning soon transformed into steady rain. Pulling into Lochs Services on the A859 for petrol, things got worse. Much like a golf carry-bag in a strong wind, a motorcycle at rest has but one ambition – to fall on its side. Motorcyclists put the idea of high-speed accidents out of their minds and ride on regardless, but slow speed or static drops are a constant concern – there is the embarrassment and, in the case of modern, fully laden adventure bikes, the difficulty of picking them up again. I did not drop the BMW at the services but parked on a sloping forecourt, sloping so much that once on its side-stand, the lean was so great I needed outside assistance to get it vertical again. In a soft Hebridean accent the good Samaritan confirmed “I’m a rider too, I know what this service station is like – this weather is going to be a good test of the wet-weather gear – looks like it is set in for the day”. I did not want to hear this.
And then, a minor miracle occurred. Failte do dh’Eilean na Hearradh, said the sign and through the top right-hand corner of my rain spattered visor, blue sky crept into view. The further I rode south, the brighter the light became. At the turning for Hushinish and Amhuinnsuidhe Castle, the rain had stopped. At Tarbert, clear skies emerged to the west and, as I passed the turning for Luskentyre, Aunt Julia brought out the sun. Pulling into the car park at Harris Golf Club, the skies promised a perfect day. I had arrived at heaven’s gate, Scarista.
The view from the car park promises much – the sweep of Traigh Scarista, Ceapabhal (Chaipaval) the highest point on the nearby uninhabited peninsula with Toe Head beyond – as far west as you can go on Harris without getting your feet wet. In contrast, the clubhouse is invisible – comprising three shipping containers dug into the hillside in a hobbit-like fashion. A grand design; Kevin McCloud would surely approve.
The view from the car park on arrival – Traigh Scarista and Ceapabhal with the 4th green and marker post just visible
Arriving by motorcycle demands that I rent clubs and judging by the excellent hire sets, this must a be a regularly used service as golfers arrive, empty handed, from all parts of the world. Preparation was a slow process – clambering out of motorcycle gear, donning something more appropriate, storing helmet, boots and tank bag, remembering to extract camera, phone, tees, and golf balls – all of this in the dark as my arrival coincided with a power cut. I was not unexpected, but timing was always going to be an issue, so I was fortunate to meet the captain, Melanie, and greenkeeper James, a man whose job presents challenges peculiar to a golf course at the edge of the known world – equipment maintenance, repair and acquisition being top of the list.
And then, of course, there is the weather. Considering its location, it is a wonder that a course was ever laid out at Scarista – Established 1935 says the scorecard but history is more complicated. The Oban Times and Argyllshire Advertiser of 10 August 1912:
New Course Opened at Scarista, South Harris – Through the kindness of Lord Dunmore, South Harris is now provided with a nine-hole golf course, the formal opening of which took place last Wednesday afternoon (7th August 1912). The work of construction was carried out under the direction of Mr Marling, Royal Aberdeen Golf Club. The ceremony of declaring the course open was performed by Dr. Tolmie Obbe. Thereafter a number of golfers from the various shooting lodges, who motored over to take part in the opening of the course, played a round. The best return was made by Mr Norman Robertson, factor of South Harris, whose two rounds were 35 and 36 = 71, which for present will figure as the record. The course is situated, with the waters of the Atlantic below and some of the finest bens in Harris in the background.1
History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again – Kurt Vonnegut.
There is an intensity to long distance motorcycle travel that is unsurpassed by any other form of transport. You are in the moment, in the scenery, pressed on by wind and weather, flowing with every undulation and corner, completely alive, and addicted. It also intensifies the arrival. I am here, I have made it, I am alive, I am standing on the first tee at the Isle of Harris Golf Club. And, what an opener, the 249 yard (yellow tee) downhill par 4, Borve – and all you see is the sea, and Taransay. Elevated drives are always a joy, even when they leak right into the rough – and I had no excuses, the wind was gentle for these parts. Pitching into a narrow green protected by a mound, I came up short through a misplaced fear of finding the briny. It is a very fine introduction but, for me, the gem comes next. At 289 yards, the par 4 Scarista loops around the bay to an elongated coffin-shaped green. Longer hitters may take a direct route but bailing out right and pitching in from 100 yards+ I came within a few feet of the pin. I missed the putt, of course, but the prospect of a birdie always leaves a lasting impression. The third, the 298-yard St Kilda, climbs back up the hill to the top of the course taking a dogleg left to a green surrounded by raised banks, always a help to the wayward approach. The fourth is also delightful surprise – a 130-yard par 3, Ensay is blind from the tee but pitch over the marker post, walk forward, and you are presented with a glorious, over-sized green, which only the most wayward can miss.
The opening holes have a magic to them – mild progression from right to left, right to left, right to left and finishing with a short blast over a blind brow. They have a rhythm, flip-flopping like a motorcycle through a series of opposing bends, it is equally satisfying, a golfing delight, counter-steering the irons.
It is tempting to imagine this is the original layout, but the course has been through several iterations. The club website says there is evidence the course was used in the time of Lord Leverhulme in the 1920’s but we now know it was first opened in 1912, re-opened in 1935 and re-opened again in 1985. Regardless, the astonishing backdrop has been unchanging throughout. Post World War II resurrection was first mooted in January 1964 at the inaugural meeting of The Harris Council of Social Service. Among many suggestions, it was proposed that renewed attempts should be made to re-open the golf course in the Scarista district.2 No further progress would be made until 1981, the meeting concluding that the salvation of Harris lay in the revival of its traditional industry, namely weaving.
The 1985 course would extend slightly further north than the 1935 version, which was run by the father of the late TV broadcaster, Scarista born Finlay J MacDonald (1926-87). The course redesign was the responsibility of Finlay Morrison, an Edinburgh-based professional golfer with strong links to Harris. Born on nearby Isle of Scalpay in 1914, he appeared in the Open on five occasions and played alongside some of the greats in the game. “I was at home in Harris around 1981 and someone asked me if I would help them redesign the course. I spent the next few weeks walking the machair with my clubs and suggested where they should put the tees and the greens”. 2 Finlay was to reach the grand age of one hundred, surely attributable to the Harris heavenly air.
Johanna and Julia MacLeod were also born and raised on Scalpay and the family surely known to the Morrisons. Johanna was the mother of the Scottish poet and teacher, Norman MacCaig whose modern English poetry is loved for its simplicity of language and subtle humour. Julia is the subject of his fine poem, Aunt Julia:
She was buckets
and water flouncing into them.
She was winds pouring wetly
round house-ends.
She was brown eggs, black skirts
and a keeper of threepennybits
in a teapot.
Aunt Julia spoke Gaelic
very loud and very fast.
By the time I had learned
a little, she lay
silenced in the absolute black
of a sandy grave
at Luskentyre.
On several occasions while on Harris, I mentioned my intention to ride out to Luskentyre, not in search of Julia’s grave, but to pay my respects to her landscape and listen for her seagull’s voice. On each occasion I was met with blank stares.
If MacCaig does not have the local recognition he deserves, no such fate has befallen the golf course. Charles Murray, 8th Earl of Dunmore, Lord Leverhulme and, more recently, Nick Faldo have sung its praises, and all have a connection with Amhuinnsuidhe Castle (Gaelic for Sitting by the River – pronounced Aven-suey). The Castle was built in 1865 for Charles’ father, the 7th Earl of Dunmore and was subsequently occupied by Lord Leverhulme before passing into the hands of Sir Samuel Scott, whose wife, Sophie, is said to haunt the castle. Just five years after their extravagant 1896 society wedding, Sophie was named in a high-profile divorce case. This combined with a habit of running off to her relatives suggest she was not always happy at the castle and her ghost possibly not as benign as advertised. While the registers were being attested at her wedding, a member of the choir sang “Be thou faithful unto death” from Mendelssohn’s “St Paul”.
After the war Amhuinnsuidhe was sold to Sir Thomas Sopwith, the aircraft-manufacturing tycoon before eventually being purchased by the Bulmer family, the cider producers. Jonathan Bulmer lived there for ten years before selling up, following the breakdown of his marriage and the need to fund his divorce settlement.
It was at this point that a case of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me into Here broke out on the island. Potential buyers were named as Mohamed Al Fayed, Michael Jackson, Madonna, Sting and Nick Faldo. The interest is surprising considering its unique lack of privacy – the public road to Hushinish passes just feet from the front door. Ultimately there was an unusually happy ending – the North Harris Estate was the subject of a successful community buy-out and is now managed by the North Harris Trust which is governed by a board of twelve volunteer Directors who are elected to represent the various local communities. The castle was sold separately and is now rented out for fishing and field sports parties. The islanders would seem to have a had a lucky escape.
*
In recent years, the fifth, Langavat, has changed from a par 4 to a 486-yard par 5 (off the whites), utilising what was the ninth fairway in the opposing direction. James was keen that I should play off the back tees to get the best view on the course. It was good advice, the churning sea and the full sweep of Traigh Scarista making for an inspirational sight and, a challenging par 5. From the high tee, the ball descends into green valley where the sound of the sea diminishes and remains out of sight until the ninth, no longer a backswing in tune with the rhythm of the waves. The intended destination was unclear to this newcomer such that I improved significantly on the back nine when I had a better idea of where I should be heading. The sixth tee, Toe Head, is at the extreme of the course and plays uphill as the shortest par 4 on the course. A dogleg right, the challenge is to find the smallest of greens imaginable, protected by two bunkers to the front – you could fit half a dozen of these greens on the ample acreage of the fourth green – variety is the spice of life.
The seventh, par 3 Pabbay, plays across the hill and over the 6th green to a target which slopes dramatically from right to left, following the natural contours of the land. Hitting the target is one thing, holding the green is another. This is followed by another par 3, the 182-yard Taransay where you need to fly most of this distance to avoid a ball-swallowing hollow, lined with heavy rough. I speak from experience. Finally, the par 4 340-yard ninth, Killegray climbs the hill parallel with the road, a drainage ditch providing the only risk for a medium hitter. Carrying a bag on ageing knees makes for slow progress and a tired swing such that I take four to reach the green, enclosed by high green banks on all sides. And then, it is time to start again. This is the joy of 9-hole courses – a second chance to take on the holes you made a hash of at first attempt. Another opportunity to make a hash of the holes you played well. The repetition imprints the course on your memory, unlike 6000-yard inland courses with unrelenting tree-lined fairways. Every hole at Harris has individual character, and unique geography – once played, never forgotten.
So, once again, I stood at the 1st/10th with the exciting prospect of launching another ball at, and into, the blue. Much time, effort and cash is thrown at the perceived problem of attracting new blood to the game by the various Golf Unions. One enhancement that would be sure to attract the merry hordes would be golf balls that emitted coloured vapour trails. The Red Arrows achieve this by injecting diesel and dye into the aeroplane’s hot exhaust. While this solution might not be immediately transferable to a golf ball, it is visible, tangible, analogue solutions we require. A tracer on a smartphone is the last thing needed – hold your head up, hold your head high – reach for the stars. Gerhard Zucker would have understood this.
On 28th July 1934, Herr Zucker attempted to introduce a rocket based postal service from the Isle of Scarp to the mainland of Harris, a distance of approximately a half mile. A 30-pound canister containing 4800 letters was attached to the rocket which sat on a wooden runway with hoops to steer it in the intended direction. Those in attendance included the Lochmaddy postmaster, the local MP and Sir Samuel Scott from nearby Amhuinnsuidhe Castle. Herr Zucker signalled to the crowd to retire to a safe distance, connected up the electric fuse and pressed the button. Instead of the rocket shooting over the Sound of Scarp, however, there was a dull explosion, and when the smoke cleared the wreckage of the runway and the rocket was seen on the shore, with the letters strewn about. The rocket was split open and twisted out of recognition, but although most of the letters were charred few were badly damaged.4
Three days later a second firing was attempted, this time from Samuel’s castle, thereby avoiding the water crossing. Again, this resulted in abject failure … there was a flash of fire, a cloud of smoke, and when the air cleared the letters were strewn about the wreckage of the firing apparatus. It is understood that a piece of the rocket was found somewhere near the objective.5 Gerhard blamed the German Government for banning the export of the firing canisters he had used in earlier, more successful experiments. Deemed a danger to himself and the public, he was eventually deported back to Germany where he was arrested on suspicion of cooperating with the British. How far we have come – compare this with the October 13th, 2024, SpaceX Starship take-off and its Booster 12 rocket subsequently finding its way back to the launch tower and, by comparison, golf balls emitting coloured vapour trails seems a trivial challenge.
*
Another eight holes of delight and it was over. The power was still off in the clubhouse, so clambering back into the biking gear was again accomplished in the near dark. Melanie recommended the restaurant attached to the Isle of Harris Brewery, so I pointed the bike in the direction of the pier at Leverburgh. It did not disappoint. With the sun streaming through the window, a beer in hand (zero alcohol) and the arrival of the Berneray ferry on a glistening sea, it was time to reflect. The following day I would head south, catching the Tarbert ferry to Skye, but not before riding out to Luskentyre and then circling the Island, taking in the Golden Road. What I get from these experiences is personal, deeply felt and near impossible to explain. It is much more than playing a series of golf shots or bonding with a motorcycle over long days in the saddle. It is a unique sense of place and my part in it – I have felt this since my first journey to the northwest in 1973 – it is peculiar to wild places, and it only surfaces when I am there. Riding a motorcycle and playing golf in the wild is a mental reset, I come away renewed. The land snaps us clean like freshly laundered sheets – Barry Lopez.
Chapter 12 – Newcastleton and Allendale (the old course)
The last is a downhill par 4, with the road to Carrshield and out-of-bounds to the right. It is reachable in one by those of a certain skill level and physical disposition. So, allow me this final luxury. A long drive, straight down the middle, leaving a short pitch to the green. In the dim light I lose sight of the ball, but you always know when you have struck one sweet and true. I cannot spin the ball by design, so my pitch lands short and runs on a few yards to within feet of the pin. Standing over the birdie-putt, the twilight is enhanced by the yellow light shining through the clubhouse windows. I am distracted by the shadowy outline of three figures gathered in the centre of the room and miss the simple putt. A man in his late twenties, wearing a heavy tweed suit, an elbow on the table, a cigarette raised to his face. Smoke obscures their features.
The woman, in a utility dress, is deep in conversation, forever breaking the silence, while a small girl with a serious expression looks on earnestly. I should cross over and join them, but not just yet. I am going home. I have no idea what happens next.
The section on Lauder Golf Club in Golf in the Wild – Going Home, was written under lockdown and based on memory; from a time when business meetings in Edinburgh gave rise to drives up the A68, a hasty rush through the agenda and, with luck, time to call in at Lauder Golf Club on the return leg. Surreptitious rounds, sneaked in during company time, were the sweetest of forbidden fruit.
With the aid of Google Earth, I resurrected the shape of the golfing landscape on Chester Hill, but certain features remained elusive, not least the clubhouse – how closely did it resemble the building opened on 20 July 1911 by Mrs Rankin of Allanbank. The original intention had been that Lady Lauderdale would be the guest of honour and declare the opening, but in a letter to the club secretary, she regretted her inability to attend due to the damp day and my not feeling very well. She continued in the manner of Violet Crawly, Dowager Countess of Grantham: I much hope that the clubhouse will be a great comfort to the community at large, and that it will be the means of bringing many visitors to enjoy the beautiful air and restful quiet of our pretty town and neighbourhood. I may be ambitious, but I hope in time to see a flourishing hydropathic, for I am sure that Lauder is an ideal place for invalids. Wishing you all success this afternoon.
The description of the building in the Berwickshire News & General Advertiser of 1911 seemed consistent with a hazy memory: The pavilion, a handsome erection, is quite an ornament to the course and will provide a great boon to all who are likely to use it. It comprises two spacious rooms (under twin elevations) … and there is a covered verandah running the whole length of the building. In early November, with the opportunities for two-wheeled excitement and golfing adventures diminishing, this demanded a ride north to investigate.
There are two approaches to the course – signposted from the south it takes you through a too-uniform, modern housing estate or, carry on a little further and turn left into Mill Wynd at the cruciform church with its 1830 watchhouse, built to guard against bodysnatchers. This ‘invalid’ delights in the macabre, so I always choose the latter. The entrance to the course is a just over a half mile up Chester Hill, with its surprisingly large car park, perhaps a legacy of the occupation by a Polish tank regiment during the Second World War. The course was closed and occupied for the duration of hostilities, but it was a further sixteen years beyond the end of the war before golf was played again on Chester Hill.
The original twin elevations and veranda have survived fully intact, while the extension is in keeping with the original design, but for the squinting changing room windows. It is a fine building, entirely consistent with the scale of the golf course and its surroundings. The white clubhouse glowed under a low autumnal sun and I regretted the two-wheeled transport which did not allow the carriage of clubs – the view of the last, a glorious downhill drive was the source of my anguish.
Instead, I once again pondered the unlikely similarities of experience between the two tribes – those clad in leather and those in checked pants. On the ride home, it became all too apparent – we do not like riding/driving into a low sun. Deep shadows hide obstacles – bunkers/potholes; bright light in the eyes plays havoc with distance estimation whether braking or pitching into a green. Facing a low sun diminishes the experience for us all – the joy of intimate exposure to the landscape we are playing in or riding through.
The full story of Lauder and its golf course is told in Golf in the Wild – Going Home
Chapter 11 – Earlston, Melrose and Lauder:
The Lauder Golf Club was formed in 1896, initially based on land near the Stow Road and then moving to Chester Hill, where Willie Park Junior (1864–1925), Open champion 1887 and 1889, supervised the layout of the new course. As it matured, and to celebrate his involvement, he was invited to give a demonstration match with his friend Iain Christie, and it was at this event, on 5 August 1905, that he set the professional course record of 70—out in 36, back in 34.
This grand event was enthusiastically covered by the Berwickshire News & General Advertiser, an extensive piece which included reference to second sight and psychic research. The Kirk Elders should have been informed:
It is a well-known fact, especially to such as are gifted with second sight and whose facilities are clarified by psychical research, that it is possible, under certain conditions, to hold communication with the shades of the departed. Quite recently, the shade of Thomas the Rhymer, which still haunts the Valley of the Leader, visited the Tower near Earlston and communicated prediction regarding Lauder and its golf course. The prediction was given in the Latin tongue, of which the following is a fair translation:
As sure as one and two make three,
Lauder will deserted be
By visitors,
Unless some local interest be
Aroused, and that right speedily
In golf.
There is no ambiguity about the Rhymer’s predictions, such as was attendant upon those of the Delphic oracle, and therefore it is most desirable that the inhabitants of Lauder, with something like the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, in the form of this prediction, should at once awaken their interests.9
A colourful piece, no doubt influenced by time, too long spent in the beer tent. A little less alcohol, and the journalist may have reported the correct score—the Berwickshire News declaring a score of 71, out in 36, back in 35.
Chapter 9: In the early summer of 1914, Lieutenant Fred Ricketts, a member of the 2nd Battalion of the Argylls, and its army band were stationed at Fort George. An occasional golfer, Fred was playing Ardersier one bright morning when a sharp two-note whistle rang out across the course, swiftly followed by a wayward golf ball. The tuneful hacker had whistled B flat and G instead of shouting “Fore!”. According to Fred’s wife Annie, writing in 1958, the two-note warning with impish spontaneity was answered by my husband with the next few notes. There was little sauntering—Moray Firth’s stiff breezes encouraged a good crisp stride. These little scraps of whistling appeared to ‘catch on’ with the golfers, and from that beginning, the ‘Quick March’ was built up. Frederick Joseph Ricketts was better known by his publishing name, Kenneth J. Alford, the renowned composer of marching-band music. The short refrain that began on the banks of the Moray Firth in the days immediately preceding the Great War would become one of the most instantly recognisable pieces of band music ever written—the appropriately named ‘Colonel Bogey March’. The connection with the golf scoring term is not coincidental.
Chapter 8: The country lane winds its way south through Blackhill, Pitcalnie and Nigg to the end of the road at Nigg Ferry. It is here, during the summer months, that a small ferryboat crosses to Cromarty and provides a link between the Tarbat Peninsula and the Black Isle. The area immediately adjacent to the ferry landing has also changed out of all recognition. Face north from the jetty, and the land to the left was once dominated by the magnificent Dunskaith House, destroyed by fire in 1960. To the right is the collection of buildings that once formed the Nigg Ferry Hotel and, behind that, the rough ground that served as the golf links, variously known as Castlecraig, Nigg and at one time Cromarty Golf Club. The course has all but disappeared, except for imagined traces of tee boxes, fairways and bunkers—all that remains of the groundsman’s pains for the rest of time and a day.
The club was originally founded as a private 9-hole course in 1890. Storm-blown sand created what was thought by some to be the finest natural course in the world. A description is included in a 1904 edition of Golf Illustrated magazine:
The course lies along the beach, a magnificent stretch of sand, and is of great variety. There are many natural hazards. The turf is all that can be desired, being in the centre of a large stretch of bent. The greens remain much as they were formed by nature, only raking and rolling being necessary to keep them in excellent condition. Whin, broom and bent are the punishments of erratic players, but the good golfer can appreciate the exceedingly fine pieces of sandy turf. Large natural sand holes await the unwary on every hand.
The ten-minute ferry from Cromarty, encouraged golfers to cross the water from the Black Isle and visits by the Home Fleet to Invergordon every spring and autumn, meant the course was well patronised to the point of congestion. In October 1908 the proprietor, Colonel Ross, presided over a meeting to discuss possible course extension. Captain Evans of the Dreadnought had suggested that as it was probable the fleet would often be in the Cromarty Firth during the next few years, it would be a great convenience to the officers that the course be extended to eighteen holes. With the full weight of naval command behind the proposal, the motion was duly carried. The significant costs would be met by doubling annual subscriptions and it is expected that the golfing officers will heartily cooperate. Golf was a game for the senior ranks. There is no mention of access for naval ratings. Press images from the time show sailors in uniform, carrying bags for their superiors. They were known as ‘tar-caddies’.
The design of the extension was undertaken by Alexander MacHardy, Scotland’s forgotten, turn-of-the-century golf architect responsible for laying out a wide variety of Scottish courses across the Highlands (including Lochcarron4). The new layout totalled 5,055 yards and is described in detail by Alexander Polson, the Nigg schoolmaster, in his book, Easter Ross:
The holes provide plenty of variety, both with regard to length and difficulty. There are two splendid short holes surrounded by natural hazards, a ditch having to be crossed in each case. About eight of the holes may be reached by the long player with two strokes, but for the average player they mean three. Three of the holes are three-shot holes, the others being drive and iron or drive and pitch. The hazards throughout are natural, there being only one or two artificial bunkers.
Chapter 7: Edward Prince of Wales, as he was at the time, was reportedly introduced to golf in 1859 by his governor, General Robert Bruce, a member of The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews (R&A) since 1834. Inspired by an exhibition match at Musselburgh, in 1861 his military association with the Grenadier Guards would take him to Curragh, Ireland, where the recently opened golf course was immediately adjacent to the camp. It is not documented if the future king found time for golf during his ten-week visit, but his extramural activities became infamous. A sexual novice, his fellow guards arranged an introduction to Nellie Clifden, a local ‘actress’ and possibly a Wren of the Curragh* who knew her way round the camp in the dark. The resulting affair soon became public knowledge as the guards’ tongues wagged and Nellie became known as the ‘Princess of Wales’. The scandal enraged his parents—Queen Victoria and her husband, Prince Albert—and steps were immediately taken to end the liaison. Prince Albert would die a few months later, a demise that Victoria blamed entirely on the anguish caused by Edward’s indiscretions—“I never can or shall look at him (Edward) without a shudder.”** The older generation should never interfere with youthful passion; the ghosts of forbidden fruit can haunt an entire life. If anything is to be learned from this story, it is this: when tempted by sins of the flesh, play more golf.
* Wrens of the Curragh were an outcast community of nineteenth-century Irish women who lived rough, brutally hard lives on the plains of Kildare. The name comes from the shelters they lived in, hollowed out ‘nests’ in the ground which they covered with layers of furze. Their number included unmarried mothers, free-thinkers, alcoholics, prostitutes, vagrants, ex-convicts and harvest workers. All of them women who had, in one way or another, put themselves beyond the pale of respectable society. ‘Songbirds on society’s margins’, The Irish Times, 13 October 2001
** Victoria, as quoted in Jane Ridley’s Bertie: A Life of Edward VII.
Chapter 6: At first known as the ‘Music Hall Founded by Andrew Carnegie’, it was subsequently changed to the ‘Carnegie Hall’, as the term ‘Music Hall’ had different connotations in London. It was discovered that foreign performers were turning down invitations because they thought the hall was intended for cheap variety artists.
The Beatles’ first tour of the United States started on 7 February 1964. On the 9th they appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, on the 11th they played their first US concert at the Washington Coliseum and the following day they performed at the Carnegie Hall. They opened with a Chuck Berry song:
You know my temperature’s risin’
The jukebox’s blowin’ a fuse
My heart beatin’ rhythm
And my soul keep singing the blues
Roll over Beethoven
And tell Tchaikovsky the news
Music was one of Carnegie’s passions, along with golf and fishing. It is difficult to guess how he might have reacted to the popular music of the 1960s being played at a venue which bears his name.
Skibo Castle satisfied Carnegie’s sporting passions, and with the help of his wife Louise it also became a home for music. It was Louise who hired an organist to greet them with Beethoven’s Fifth as they stepped over the threshold of their new home. The organist became a permanent institution:
Every morning we come down to breakfast greeted by swelling tones, beginning with a hymn or chorale, and swelling into selections from the oratorios, etc. In the evening our musician plays for us on our fine Bechstein piano … *
It would seem that castle guests had no hope of lying abed. In addition to the swelling tones of the organ, a lone piper would circle the main house before sweeping through the downstairs hall, assuring that all were awake and primed for breakfast, and then returning at dusk to ‘pipe’ the guests to dinner. **
As well as revelling in her role as the sadistic host, Louise Whitfield Carnegie also played golf.
* Louise Whitfield Carnegie: The Life of Mrs Andrew Carnegie by Burton Hendrick and Daniel Henderson
** David Nasaw’s, Andrew Carnegie – Chapter 29 – We Now Want to Take Root 1897-1898.
The following article was printed (with some edits) in Golf Quarterly #47 – it is reproduced here for those who don’t subscribe, but I recommend you do – a fine magazine with not a single advert for the next, or any, golf club capable of launching your over-priced golf ball into orbit:
The golf course is approached by rough single-track road about a mile from the main A888 which circles the island, also single track. There is no clubhouse, just a shipping container with an honesty box attached. My playing partners opted for an exciting arrival by plane, splashing down on Traigh Mohr beach in a scheduled flight from Glasgow. I arrived by the equally exciting combination of ferry and motorcycle, so none of us had clubs. These were available for hire in Castlebay at the very reasonable price of £5 for 24 hours. A mixed bag, they proved no less successful than my own set which I had imagined my game was dependent on.
After posting the £10 green fee in the slot, the first challenge is finding the right tee and choosing the correct target. There appears to be several possibilities – a choice of square greens, they are all protected by solar-powered electric fencing, with access gained through distinctly agricultural, galvanised kissing gates. It is evident from the start that this is a quite different golf course. Golf, but not as we know it.
Closer examination of the scorecard map revealed the intended destination. An opening par 3, where coming up short, as we all did, is ill-advised, but it does give some hint of what lies in store. In short, there is nothing but semi-rough or very rough, combined with water filled gullies and turf so receptive, it can swallow balls whole. Nobody scored better than a six.
Amy Liptrop describes the Orkney farm she was raised on, in her book, The Outrun: … historical agricultural records list farmland in two parts: the ‘in-bye’ arable land close to the farm steading; and the ‘out-bye’ or ‘outrun’, uncultivated rough grazing further away, often on hillsides. The Isle of Barra Golf Club has been built on the out-bye. It is not suitable for the plough and even less so the mower, instead, the course relies on grazing cattle who lack the necessary close-cutting skills of sheep. Unlike the ovine, the bovine are untidy eaters. They also take relief across the course, forcing the golfer to do similar. At least, when we played, they kept to the high ground where they surveyed our every move from atop Cnoc an Fhithich.
The second, a par 5 running along the coastline, is tough. With nothing but semi-rough and cowpats, my best drive of the day flew straight and true but was never seen again. Another feature of the course is scattered, rocky outcrops which provide an element of randomness akin to a pin-ball machine – one of the many possibilities for my disappearing golf ball. Despite these travails, I avoided despondency by simply raising my head, if not my game – the views in all directions, from every part of the course are simply stunning. The third and fourth, both par 4s, ascend Cnoc an Fhithich where the rain of eons has carved deep gullies into both fairways – hazards abound. The fifth tee is another steep climb from the fourth green where the course finally reaches its summit, a suitable location to draw breath and take in the scenery. The skies were blue, the weather benign so we should have counted ourselves lucky – quite what the course must be like in more traditional Outer Hebridean conditions, it is hard to imagine.
A hard course to master, the locals must be made of sterner stuff than me, but under all golfing circumstances, the trick is to remain level-headed and fully focussed. I belong to that rare tribe who are passionate about both golf and motorcycles. There should be more of us as both demand exactly the same frame of mind – living in the moment, 100% concentration and no letting your mind drift. If you do, you are likely to end up in the undergrowth – hunting for golf balls or retrieving a bent motorcycle and/or rider.
The drive from the par 4, 5th is between rocky outcrops. Successfully negotiate this blind drive and you have a sharp right dogleg, downhill to a partially concealed green – my ball found the green from a bounce off the kissing gate. I think it is called good course management. Survive as far as the 5th green with a semi-decent card and, in my experience, the final four holes provide the opportunity to make amends. The elevated 6th tee delivers a glorious high-flying drive and the opportunity for a similar 2nd shot into the heart of the green. Two par 3s and a finishing par 4 make for a much less demanding finish than the opening holes and my sixteen shots over four holes turned an untidy card into something more respectable.
Would I honestly recommend going to Barra to play golf, maybe not. Instead, go to Barra for Barra, it is a wonderful destination with scenery as remarkable as anywhere else in the world … oh, and while you are there, don’t miss the opportunity to have a unique golfing experience.
And, in case you missed it, here is Steven Spielberg’s take on the adventure: