THE thing had been planned in detail throughout a period of nearly one week Elaborate time tables had been typed out; scientific allowances made for possible disasters; and golf club secretaries and hotel proprietors warned of what was in store for them. And these preparations could be valid only if I left Dublin at 10 a.m. on a certain Monday. Well, I knew that, if anything delayed my departure, time tables and all the other preliminaries would become as nothing, because a long journey which begins in chaos never straightens itself out.
Tis, at least, was the view I held, contemplating with pride and confidence the entirely watertight bulwarks I had built up against the intrusion of chaos. It was not often that you saw a nationwide tour of such complexity pigeonholed so beautifully. Looking at a map, I could have told you offhand just in what portion of Ireland I would be at any time you cared to name.
On the Sunday before the departure I drove to Greystones, giving the Fire engine a few bursts of speed just to see how she was going. (When it has been washed, and the all red body polished, small and revolting boys climb on the running boards in traffic jams, inquiring about the location of the fire. I can see how they feel, but it's very rude.) The Fire engine, anyway, seemed at the top of her form - and then casually I looked at the ammeter. The needle drooped over the figure 0. But I had no real fears yet, thinking comfortably of an easily replaced fuse.
While I played golf on the Greystones course I left the fire engine in the local garage with a carefree "Blown fuse or something - I'll be back in a few hours." In a few hours I was back - and I was told that there was a fine case on the dynamo, but everything inside it was pretty well finished. Now it was that the blind, helpless, cursing fury began to burn that was to be my sole emotion for the next 24 hours. Sunday afternoon, and every dynamo expert in the Irish Free State off at Glendalough or the Meeting of the Waters, or half a hundred other places, fooling round with his children, making sand castles at a time when gold would have been showered upon him at the usual rates in exchange for his services. I went and played more golf, because I find that if you sit back in crises somebody usually turns up to do the work.
Having finished the round I started the car, expecting really quite confidently that everything now was all right. The ammeter needle remained rigidly at the figure 0. My system seemed to have broken down. I seized a telephone, and, at tenpence a time, rang up every garage in Dublin. Could they repair a dynamo overnight? Everyone of them said: "I'm afraid we couldn't do that, sir", but if you leave it in early in the morning you will be sure to have - it by six o'clock." I was polite enough with the first 14, but gradually the realisation was coming that the whole tour had collapsed into a horrible hopeless mess. Then, as the telephone began to bend and crack in my epileptic grasp, I found a man who said he could have the car by eleven in the morning. He had to say it four times - I could have listened to him for ever. I gave him the fire engine.
At 10 am. on Monday I appeared at the garage - and briefly I shall say that I left it shortly before 1 p.m. That morning was a bitter experience which may have left its mark for ever upon my soul. I sent hundreds, it seemed, of wires to Baltray, warning the secretary that I might be slightly late. In agony I read and re read the A.A. instructions that I must be over the North of Ireland border by 5 p.m. In a frenzy I rushed between garage and the dynamo repair shop. When the dynamo, did come the man who put it back on the car seemed half paralysed, and glorying in his disability. He did the job in seven minutes flat. Amid the fearful squeals of the populace I cut a swathe down Grafton street, across College Green, through O'Connell street and up to the Drogheda road.
I arrived broadside at Baltray one hour later - and in ten minutes all the storm and stress raging within me were stilled. They are a hospitable lot at Baltray. The sun was shining, and the sand hills were really yellow, and at the border surely somebody would be able to fix something.
While we lunched they told me how an American golf architect had described Baltray as the best natural course that he had ever seen. This was by far the most modest testimonial I heard that day. The members of Baltray seem to admit that other golf courses exist, and they are all right for mucking about on with a couple of iron clubs; but they will not go further than that.
A fourball had been arranged which included Miss Clarrie Tiernan, whom Baltray regards as the Lenglen of Irish ladies golf. It is less a matter of when she will win the championship as of the length of time during which she will hold the title; and I admit that, Miss Tiernan was a bit of a surprise to me. My picture of the female golf expert is a dour figure in serviceable tweeds who pushes the ball down the fairway dead straight until she can use a putter. The hole automatically then is completed. Miss Tiernan, however, gives a delighted little cry whenever she hits it 230 yards," down the middle. This happens; ten out of every ten times. Do not get the impression, however, that it is all gesticulation and giggles. Miss Tiernan, enjoying herself audibly and hugely, went round the course, not trying very hard, in 76 strokes.
Though my attention was distracted by this miracle nevertheless I could see that Baltray does to a large extent justify the vehement enthusiasm of its members. The holes are inclined to be blind, and thus, if you miss your drive, several ranges of mountains come between you and your j. but a good long straight one; causes the green to burst upon, your view with pleasing unexpectedness. The turf was equalled in, its resiliency only by two other clubs I visited on the tour. (Members will think two is a rather generous estimate.) The fact that the ball is teed up for every second, shot lessens the disadvantage of the blind holes; for, if the caddy gives you the line, you have only direction to think of, and a grand, free and easy skelp at the thing surprisingly often will finish up within a few feet of the hole.
Particularly I remember the tenth hole, a long five. It is doglegged to the right, with an out of bounds on the same side.
On the right hand side of the green, however, is a row of bunkers, so you are faced with a real problem. As a matter of fact, I hit a long, pushed drive, which finished on the edge of the out of bounds, topped violently with a brassie, hit the bunkers fifth, bounce, and settled on the green. Miss Tiernan was rapt with admiration.
At Baltray the opening blow at each hole settles the whole issue. If you are straight, the next usually is a fairly simple pitch, but retire into the sandhills, and you will find the run of the greens is against you, every bunker on the course is against you, and the wiry, powerful rough breaks your arm. You could make a championship course of it with more length, more bunkers and less blind holes; but you would destroy its attraction by removing the sudden vista of inviting green that is the reward of a long drive. I left Baltray, after suitable ceremony with real regret, particularly as the border by now appeared an insurmountable obstacle.
