A good walk spoiled
When I first applied for the position of partner here, in what was then a sleepy rural spot, the mention of golf at lunchtimes sounded most attractive. My predecessors, now striding the perfect fairways elsewhere, described their typical working day- and how they managed to fit in a few patients as well! One, colleague, Dr Albie T. Ross, indeed lived for the game and some of his patients, when feeling under par, knew to catch him at the ninth green (remarkably close to the surgery) but only after he had putted out. If they missed him there or he was in a bad mood having three-putted, he could always be found in the clubhouse from 3 o'clock onwards.
Rather sadly, “working” days of such leisure are no longer on the (score)cards. Patients have different expectations and demands of their doctors and if we are not listening to chests or tales of woe, examining lumps or visiting folk in the community then there will be dozens of insurance or other forms waiting to be completed.
My love of golf started when I was in single-figures (age, not handicap, for I never quite realized that ambition!) I used to visit my great-uncle Fred in the west coast seaside town of Largs. He and his pal, another Fred as it happened, used to take me around the fine, but hilly, Routenburn course. I recall sheep wandering aimlessly before being sent packing with a topped or sliced 5-iron, driven into the wind.
I was often challenged by these two elderly gents to earn a shilling by driving over drystane dykes. When I see the yard-high walls now I wonder how I managed to hit them so consistently. I often could only watch the ball ricochet and land somewhere behind me or deep in the gorse. Such wagers brought out the best and the worst of tempers in this budding sportsman, many decades ago.
He never joined our golfing party but I believe it was the old wag himself, Mark Twain, who described the great game as “a good walk spoiled.” I don't know if he even ever hit a feathered ball with a hickory shafted club. He possibly did take up at least one invitation, only to find its mastery far harder than those of words. Given such an assessment, I think we should count ourselves fortunate he returned to his more famous pastime of musing about life on the Mississippi. Four miles is indeed a fine stroll but, as a beginner, you can often double that distance by double backing on yourself in search of wayward balls and taking the circuitous route to the green, 18 times over.
Many of my patients are at their happiest when pulling a cart with 14 sticks and chasing the dream of a perfect round. I admire players who play week in, week out and head for the sandier, coastal courses during the winter. More serious types turn up their noses at our local course and sometimes invite me to the challenges of their own which, naturally, is the finest and toughest in the county. I sometimes accept these kind offers, unless I suspect it is an excuse to pin me down at the 19th hole with a barrage of questions, best asked in the surgery.
Scotland is generally considered to be where a shepherd first struck a stone with his crook and proceeded to get it down the nearest rabbit hole: thus creating the game of “gowf.” Detractors have pointed to earlier references in writings from ancient Egypt and China but it's obviously in the blood when our small nation can boast players of the calibre of Colin Montgomerie, Bernard Gallacher, Sam Torrance, Sandy Lyle, Ben Sayers, Jock Hutchison, Young and Old Tom Morris, “Gentleman” John Panton, his daughter Cathy and of course young Janice Moodie (probably no relation!)
Even though the United States has about half of the world's golf courses, Scotland has the highest proportion for its physical size and that of our population. We watch the US Masters each April on our televisions and marvel at the array of colours of the azaleas, but American golf is not how the game was conceived to be, all these years ago. Here, we do not play in predictably calm, warm and fair conditions but accept that three-and-a-half hours in waterproofs in windswept, drizzly, cold conditions on a links course in mid-July is how the glorious game was meant to be played!
When we come to expect bad weather it is all the more rewarding to be blessed with the opposite. One of my favourite working days is to finish afternoon surgery promptly and manage to meet my three golfing buddies on the first tee. There, we exchange pleasantries and anecdotes, playing down our excitement at the prospect of competitive matchplay-played in the very best of spirits, of course. We only rendezvous a dozen or so times each year but, when the wind dies and the setting sun is still warm enough to beat on our weathered faces, we too could be in heaven.