Tomorrow we will land on a Heathrow runway that promises to be basking in a balmy 28’C lower than what we’ve got used to over the past month here in Kenya. And maybe we’ll see rain for the first time in a month too. A teeny bit of us will even look forward to that!

The heat and humidity of Malindi does take its toll. It’s not all beaches and beers you know, campers! It’s also sweat, and mozzies, and every energy-sapping step around Malindi Golf Course with a bunch of acclimatised Africans and Italians making you wish you were home in Blighty belting a ball around some muddy track with your mates, all wrapped up in layers of thermals, with the prospect of a cup of tea and a bacon buttie at the end of it all.

We’re ready for that now. Bring it on!

We’ve got enough stories to bore you with. We’ve seen enough wildlife for now. We’ve downed enough Tusker Beers till next time. We’ve belted enough balls into the bush (OK well I certainly have).

We’ve travelled up to the highest points without requiring oxygen; driven enough miles on sometimes-mental roads, now thinking - statistically, we should maybe venture on something no more risky than the M4, for a while.

Can we just say how glorious it all was to pull this one off. The whole madcap concept went without much of a hitch, thanks to the invaluable assistance and companionship from a few friends and family.

But also thanks to the hospitality, support and good humour of the Kenyan people. And, also Grazie! to more than a few Italians too!

Whilst the rest of the world seemed to be being less than helpful to each other, we have experienced nothing but human kindness from the people of this country - indigenous or otherwise.

We’re coming home to regroup. Kiss our loved ones - sorely missed. Check the ‘leccy bill. Replace tiles and rebuild fences wrecked by storm Éowyn, or Darragh or whichever wind wreaked its damage before that.

And sort out any ongoing medical dramas. We’re at that age when there’s always a few. Oh, and lose a few pounds (kilos, kids).

And then…plan our next adventure. If, of course, our funds permit.

Will you join us again? We certainly hope so.

Where will it be next? Well, a plan is in the hatchery but it’s too early to get excited.

However, there’s a good chance we’ll need more than shorts and t-shirt next time……

Ciao for now, friends!

Memories of each stage all here if you feel inclined to catch up!

Or here’s a few more photo highlights…

AND FRIENDS, IF YOU’VE ENJOYED READING, DON’T FORGET TO LEAVE A SMALL DONATION WITH OUR CHOSEN CHARITY FOREVER ANGELS HERE!!

<A respectful note for all of our UK readers smitten with snow, ice and floods: before we consider moaning about the relentless equatorial heat from the noonday sun, please be reassured we do remind ourselves of the suffering of those we left at home. Although, there are times when we would be grateful for a wallow in some icy snow. Honestly! >

DON’T SIGN OFF WITHOUT WATCHING VAL’S VID AT THE END!

So, it’s Friday; we’re only a hundred miles from our starting point Nairobi, but in very different terrain and already four very distinct, all enjoyable and testing golf courses into the marathon circuit.

We leave our overnight digs at the venerable old Rift Valley Sports Club in Nakuru, for the long drive back up to the ridge en route to the Aberdare Country Club.

Such a hoot that place was! Yet another old colonial club complete with cricket oval and tennis club in the middle of the bustling county town of Nakuru with its stunning lake of flamingos.

David and I just had to try the ‘Men Only’ bar for nightcaps, greeted warmly by the half dozen guys lining the bar, watching Jimmy Carter’s funeral on TV. Then the old chap next to me says “Ah, England! My brother is Archbishop in Coventry!” Before I know it he’s calling his bro on his mobile, and I find myself having a chat with the ‘Archbishop’! Bonkers.

Golf report: After an exhausting round of golf yesterday at the awesome Nakuru Golf Club (founded 1928) we’re taking a welcome break from golf today.

A note for those interested: Nakuru GC probably ranks up there with Sigona in terms of overall experience. Lush turf again, lung-busting climbs on this hilly, long championship-style course. Tiny greens, protected by mischievous bunkers - some superfast some slow, just to exasperate us newbies even more!

Once again the staff can’t do enough for you. Even though formality around rules of dress and general behaviour are a match for even the most old fashioned (snootiest) clubs at home, everything else is so relaxed. Best caddies we’ve had so far and so much fun to be with.

Anyone thinking of following in our footsteps on a Kenyan golf safari should consider this time of year: Xmas congestion over, dirt cheap fees and lovely climate lends itself to a golfers’ paradise - provided you have robust transport, a super-competent driver (like David) and a super-efficient coordinator (like Fi). And that you also are a fairly robust traveller not in need of 5-start accommodation at every stop!

As we climb out of the rift valley the hills turn even greener as we enter the lush fertile uplands. Orange groves alongside tea and coffee plantations; cavernous greenhouses growing tomatoes and other salad items destined for Waitrose at home: Kenya at its productive best.

At 7,300 feet we cross back into the Northern Hemisphere, pausing briefly at the ‘equator’ sign for the compulsory photo straddling the line. No washrooms so we didn’t bother experimenting to see which way the water swirled. Does it just not swirl?

Skirting along the edge of the rift valley we then continue towards Thompson Falls, snaking back and forth across the equator as we reach the summit of the Aberdare range - quite a view from up here!

Small (big) differences of note in this country, over the years we’ve travelled to Kenya:

It’s so tidy! In the main, the roadsides are free from litter - particularly plastic. Plastic bags and other single-use plastics are banned here now.

It’s so much more accessible! Compared to even 10 years ago, the roads, albeit with some busy, competitive, white-knuckle rides in places, are smooth and well-tended. Hence, long distances can now be covered more easily (and more comfortably for travellers!), opening up the economy for tourism and cross-border import/export business.

It’s so connected! Like so many countries that didn’t have landline networks, mobile connection and good broadband is everywhere. Indeed in places it might be better than the UK!

Just when all that is said and done, we hit a roadblock - first hiccup in an otherwise ‘smooth’ journey. The natives are revolting, so we hang a quick left across the plain to avoid the protest.

Our destination, still some miles anway across the savannah, requires us to find a detour, which turns out to be a bonus! We find zebra and rhino on our circuitous route. And behold..lightning and rain!…cooling the air but obscuring any chance of our first glimpse of Mount Kenya to the east of us.

Our longest day’s drive between destinations and four hours later we arrive at the gates of the Aberdare Country Club - a short drive from Nyeri, embedded on an idyllic hillside overlooking Mount Kenya (Kirinyaga) around 25m to the north east. I say ‘overlooking’ but it can be elusive. The Mount makes an appearance later on…

Gorgeous, glorious setting, founded by Englishman Dr Doolittle* and his wife, creating a haven for themselves and their baboons, warthogs, impala, dik dik, bush buck, squirrels, peacocks…all fully integrated with and unperturbed by a privileged few human guests passing through their neighbourhood.

They have a little golf course at the bottom of the hill - our project for tomorrow. Right now I’m being called onto the terrace for cocktails. Three-line whip by Fi, so I must bid you bye-bye for now dear readers!

*Fact-checking the Doolittle connection

Sitting on the terrace of our rented ‘cottage’, early, balmy, evening, looking over the Rift Valley towards the Aberdares- two long dusky overlapping silhouettes of hills: blues, greys, pink lilacs …and bush. Bush full of wildlife. Happy days!

I say ‘cottage’ but it’d be a pretty wonderful villa anywhere else. A villa of a type that might have accommodated a swingers’ party here in Happy Valley during the ‘20’s - that’s the 1920’s for our younger readers. If you’re from England you probably think we mean some dramatic bit of Lancashire. If you’re a bit older and well-read you’ll maybe recall this version, summed up nicely by Wikipedia:

“The Happy Valley set was a group of mostly British and Anglo-Irisharistocrats and adventurers who settled in the "Happy Valley" region of the Wanjohi Valley, near the Aberdare mountain range, in colonial Kenyabetween the 1920s and the 1940s. During the 1930s, the group became infamous for its hedonistic, decadent lifestyles and exploits amid reports of drug use and sexual promiscuity.”

We’re overlooking that little valley of sin right now. I do still get a bit sweaty remembering Greta Scacchi in White Mischief…

More importantly my cherished Merlin birdsong app that was a go-to item in the UK is malfunctioning and driving me mad. We are surrounded by a cacophony, an orchestra of whoops, hoots, jakajakas, chirrups, and I want to know who they all are! (particularly the one that sounds like ZCars- which will mean nothing at all to yet another subset of readers).

Look! A bushbuck wanders through our garden, until it sees us and then it scarpers into the..bush.

A variety of colourful, characterful, nerveless chatty birds pop in to join our cocktail hour on the terrace (sadly not Greta and her wayward mates). Clearly they think we’re just like the last lot of AirBnB’ers and we’ll feed them our nibbles. We don’t. Party poopers.

Anyway it’s all wonderful wilderness on the edge of an equally wonderful golf course, which we try out the next morning, with a shower break before a further 9 holes in the afternoon. Reason.. being it’s feckin hot!

Compared to yesterday’s floral-themed trek around Sigona, this is wide fairway golf with wildlife in abundance. Warthog, zebra, antelope…not even on the horizon - on the 17th fairway! And not only that, for some reason (post Xmas?) we have the place to ourselves: millionaire golf - hard to believe, all these lovely willing staff…they’re all here for us! (Yes we give thanks at evening prayers).

This is a glorious part of the planet. It’s changed a lot since I first ventured here in the early 90’s. Mrs H not long after. Now you drive from Nairobi to here, along smooth tarmac motorways, past shopping malls and housing developments as good as any European ones, albeit dropped into sparse open country for miles, still looking much as it did back then. But with no shortage of the same posh SUV’s as you’ll see in any London street. Kenyans have money too!

Who’s winning the golf? …some might ask. In short, not I. Same old elegant furrow being ploughed down the middle of most fairways by my wife. Valerie skipped joyfully along the lush turf with Mrs warthog and her family of scuttling little warthogs by her side, crying “my life is complete!” (Valerie, not Mrs Warthog).

Fi and David doing very well too. Whereas right now, I couldn’t hit a buffalo’s arse with a banjo.

Tomorrow is another day, another course, another gasp for oxygen….

So Day 2 on our marathon golf safari tour takes us to Sigona Golf Club, near the town of Kikuyu, north west of Nairobi, on the road to Naivasha and the Kenyan uplands.

Sigona golf club is on a different level to our last course The Railway Club - at 6,600 feet above sea level (2000m) that’s around 1,600 feet different!

And that did make a difference to your two newly-arrived tourists. We were knackered after 9 holes!

Altitude-wise, that’s up there with the highest course in Europe (Soldeu, Andorra). Difference there is, Sigona is open all year round and is very, very lovely.

Indeed if we have the privilege to play a nicer course than this on the rest of our tour, we’ll be buying a lottery ticket that evening.

What’s the deal?…

For those of you interested in the cost of playing golf here, it’s attractive by any comparison.

For example, standard-wise, Sigona is up there with any decent Spanish/Portuguese course, where an average green fee..£80 upwards? 18 holes here today at peak time would be less than half that.

Then of course you’ve got your add-ons: the norm in these parts is to hire caddies (real, nice people) and walk the course, as opposed to driving buggies. The cost of a caddy (more ladies than men so far) is about 6 times cheaper than a buggy costs in, say Turkey where we were in November.

What’s not to like?

Champion for the day by a clear margin was Mrs H. Despite gasping for breath at the end, she dealt with the conditions with skill and dexterity, staying bafflingly in the middle of the fairway.

Me? …too busy exploring the outlying bush resplendent with the colours and fragrances of all those lovely flowers that we’re still trying to remember the names of…

Jambo!

(‘Hi there!’ In Swahili)

Nairobi: bustling, evolving at pace, posh new office blocks cheek and jowl with still-obvious poverty, along dusty, uneven streets, like every other African capital.

Yet still, you’ll find the little oases of calm, greenery, and elegant old edifices built by past colonial invaders; now the social watering holes of clubbable Kenyans and their multinational guests, like us.

Our hosts David and Fi arranged for their ‘man’ John - allegedly ex-Kenyan Army General now private driver - to rescue us from the airport melee and deposit us in the Nairobi Club - one typical edifice of latter day gentry these days just offering pleasantly barrack-room accommodation (officer standard) - to put one’s head down and get an English breakfast on the terrace.

Founded in 1901, the Nairobi Club adjoins an equally ancient cricket club, in the past graced by Grace himself, and many other touring greats aside. An international tennis match is in play next door, just beyond the pristine bowling greens - all essential in every erstwhile colonial outpost. Stick-like female eastern European tennis players wander the old building in their gaudy tennis garb, all with very serious faces, presumably mentally prepping for their next match. If only they could look as if they enjoyed their good fortune to be here at all.

Before checking out we have a chance to wander these hallowed halls, soaking up the history hanging on their walls. Fading old photographs of those who built Nairobi - looking just as glum as those tennis players, but with their bushy moustaches and sideburns.

Just up the road, our course today was The Kenya Railway Club - founded 1921 and another piece of colonial real estate smack dab in the middle of a city that is expanding at a pace around it. With the original railway running alongside it, needless to add - the reason Nairobi existed in the first place.

The course provided us with a relatively gentle start to our grand tour: mostly flat with the odd undulation, tree-lined fairways with that scrubby, innocent-looking light rough waiting to devour any wayward shot - of which there were, in truth, quite a lot on this our first foray into Kenya golf this trip. Small, spartan greens that surprised the two visitors in this friendly four-ball, slick as you like and impossible to land on from a height and stay there.

So scoring today - again needless to say after a stiff nine hours in Premium Economy - was not of the highest standard but still, with the assistance of our chasing pack of not-very-attentive caddies, only one ball lost between us.

The Local Handicap Allowances:

There was some ‘discussion’ around handicaps for the tour, with one of our party demonstrating the ‘generosity’ of the African handicapping system’ akin to every other system of measurement in this continent. The ‘tourists’ were already lobbying for extra strokes to be given for three key factors:

Altitude: at around 1,600m (5,250’) we were already playing 3,800’ higher than any course in England. Surely that justifies a ‘puff allowance’ we argued, or maybe 2 shots per round?

Temperature: The tourists left the UK basking in around -2’ on a snowy day and now they expect us to handle 26’? We reckoned that justifies another 1 shot at least?

Local knowledge: Always worth a couple of shots surely - we had no clue about what lay around each corner…and our caddies seemed a bit vague too!

Humidity: Our hosts are used to cruising round in 95% humidity down in Malindi, so we will negotiate for that when we get there.

All in all, we are presenting a case for a minimum 4 shots on top of handicap at this early stage in proceedings. Adjustments will be made accordingly. It has to be said the hosts are already submitting a counter-argument based on ‘historic reparations’?. Something tenuously associated with slavery and theft of land. The case continues…

After a very pleasant afternoon lazing on David’s terrace in downtown Nairobi, on we will go tomorrow to our next destination: Sigona Golf Club, 40 miles up the road towards our next stopover at Naivasha…..

Usiku mwema!

(‘Good night!’ In Swahili)

Fellow adventurers,

Woohoo! In January ‘25 we’re off to Kenya again. Blessed as we are, to have friends and family who can help find us both accommodation and transport…and provide us inspiration for this trip…not to mention essential logistical support.

They also have the contacts and common sense useful for navigating this beautiful but oft-challenging country, thus reducing time we could waste, money we almost certainly would, risk we would dearly like to avoid. And a couple of them are also coming with us on our adventure, which is guaranteed to be fun!

Previous visits to Kenya have involved doing the fun stuff that most other tourists go there to do: go on safari, bask on beautiful beaches, fish for marlin, climb mountains…and we love all that too! But this January, we are focussing on one theme: finding great golf courses in some pretty wild places.

We’ve played a little golf on previous visits - mainly just hacking around the quaint little Malindi course down on the coast - fun, but..a tad ‘basic’, now that we’re almost pro-golfers of course (pauses for laughter). This time golf is our core purpose: we’re going to spend a whole month, playing a range of courses across the country, from the Rift Valley to the Indian Ocean. And we’re not just looking to lounge around in the best country clubs or be ferried in luxury between the few championship courses the country has to offer; we are looking to mix it up a little. Rough and smooth, overland in a ‘Landy, from the mountains to the ocean.

Kenya may not be everyone’s immediate choice of golfing destination and it will certainly be different! This is not going to be Pebble Beach, Augusta, Sawgrass, Ballybunnion, Birkdale…yeh those courses might have teeth, but not this kind of teeth.

Those plush courses might all have sand, but generally not too much sand actually on the tee. They might also be warm, but not this warm. They might all even have a bit of rough, but nothing you need a guide to get through - if you choose to go hunting for our own ball at all, which we probably won’t. Not because we’re so good we never miss a fairway, but because…well you’ve have to wait and find out!….

Our Itinerary is almost finalised..

The route plan is somewhat circuitous, taking in Nairobi, around where the cream of the courses tend to revolve; then up country to the highlands of Mount Kenya, Naivasha, Nanyuki, The Rift Valley, back to Nairobi again, and Malindi - our much-loved little piece of paradise on the Indian Ocean coast, between Mombasa and Lamu - then hopefully heading down to Vipingo Ridge for a quick foray on their plush fairways.

Here’s the current shortlist of golf clubs. Remember, we’re not necessarily targeting the plushest venues! There’s a reason beyond the golf for visiting each location…

Kenya Railway Club, Nairobi

<Limuru Country Club, Nairobi> Breaking News - whoops! Limuru just burnt down! Plan B soon..

Green Park, Naivasha

Rift Valley

Nakuru

Aberdare Country Club

Nanyuki

Thika

Karen, Nairobi

Malindi

Vipingo Ridge

NOW THE IMPORTANT PART:

We’re not just indulging ourselves for our own pleasure here; we would be grateful for your donation to our chosen charity!…

In the past, Valerie spent 3 months of her life working in an orphanage - Forever Angels - not in Kenya but next door in Tanzania. Over the years we’ve begged your money to help this cause, still close to our hearts. We try to put more back into Africa than we take out of it, and we don’t want to stop now.

THIS TIME, PLEASE ENJOY READING FUTURE POSTS - FOR FREE! - AS WE TRAVEL AROUND THIS WONDERFUL COUNTRY, BUT HELP US IF YOU CAN, BY CONTRIBUTING DIRECTLY TO:

Forever Angels - https://www.foreverangels.org/donate.html

THANK YOU, FRIENDS!

Part 2 coming soon….

Day 1: (best said in a Geordie accent)

Alan performs a bibliographical malfunction.

Surrounded by Russians, he realises he’s made an inappropriate choice of poolside reading…

Geordievsky…

Lying here on my sunbed

Gazing sleepily out

at a glassy Med

Dipping in and out of the sea,

In and out of ‘Gordievsky’

Sipping beer, dropping off, dreaming lazily..

I do that thing you do when the blissness of it all

takes you to that ‘halfway house’ - that imaginary land, somewhere between your book, your dreams, and your delusions…

I’m a spy! Surrounded by the enemy!

I must maintain my cover!

I’m Geordie-evsky!

Day 2 - Geordievski update…

PGA National Club, Belek, Turkey

‘We met our contacts on the first tee at Pasha - an appropriately Russian-named golf course a couple of miles from our hotel. We had been paired up with Patrik and Merke - Austrians, but living in exile in Lichtenstein. That didn’t fool us of course. They were clearly spies.

Patrick ran his own ‘tax consultancy’ business from the Principality. Merke - the quiet one - was his ‘brother’. Flimsy covers, if you ask me.

Anyway, Patrick could hit a mean ball, so we got off to a tidy start. Small-talk mainly. Merke spent a lot of time in the woods, presumably passing information to his…what do you call them?.. his ‘handler’? He smoked a lot too. Another giveaway. Tricky in all those tinder-dry pine needles, if you ask me. No smoke without fire..etc.

Patrik was a more of a cigar man. Big fat buggers - ‘Cohibas’ he said. I mean, we’re only playing a round of golf, not buying your feckin knock-off hypersonic missiles!

Despite all of this, we all got on like a house on fire. Awesome round - immaculately manicured course. Kind enough for our first day of golf, albeit meanly-sculpted greens.

And guess what?! Lo and beyond we are paired with them again tomorrow! I assume that’s when they try and get down to serious business….

Beer, swim, dinner, and then to bed…

Over and out.

V&A’

Day 3: The Sultan - Geordievski goes off-piste…

Mrs H hits yet another boring ball straight down the middle, sigh…

‘Today was a different challenge. Whereas the Pasha lures you gently into the delights of Turkish golf, it’s sister course - The Sultan - sucks you into the darker reaches: undergrowth, undulating, endless stretches of lush, cunning second-cut grass that eats your irons; and worst of all, water torture…

Patrik and Merko had also changed their approach. Delighted as we were to see them again after a convivial Day 1, ‘going through the motions’, we expected this to be a ‘moving day’ and we weren’t mistaken..

I have to say, my front 9 holes were…majestic. Mrs H backed me up with her usual understated number, as she does so reliably. Merko had changed his tactics: yesterday having spent so much time in the woods, he’d shifted tack, wrong-footing me completely, so I was on my own, rearranging pine needles.

I was - of course - deliberately hooking or slicing into the forest, expecting to find him there, ready to ‘exchange information’, but there he was, smacking yet another mid-iron between the relentless bunkers, oblivious to my ‘signals’.

We all however bonded well again, despite the dodging and weaving between the eucalypti. Mrs H had ensnared Patrik. Putty in her hands. But were we closer to anything other than a fleeting golfing friendship? It transpired not.

However! They’ve invited us to a June golfing week in Kitsbul! Sounds worth a shot. Who else has done an off-season golfing tour of our early Austrian ski resorts? That’s global warming for you folks. A new addition hopefully to the V&A 2025 Seniors Tour.

The thing with these international espionagey jobs - most of it can be very, very routine…

Until it clicks…

Auf Wiedersehen possums! xx’

Footnote… “I ‘canna lie captain”

Scene 3: The Karaoke Room

“What the world, needs, now…is: more karaoke rooms“

Our solution to global warmongering is right here in Turkey…

It took us a couple of nights to build up our courage. All it needed was a little more wine, a few large beers, followed by several g&ts….

The room was largely filled with rosy-faced, balding, slightly overweight middle-aged men in gaudy shirts, talking with post-golf bollocks. But in one alcove, looking on with the sort of fascination people display at the ‘Meet the Monkeys Experience’ in Regents Park Zoo, was a small coterie of Russians.

You could spot the Russian women easily here. They were the painfully thin ones, carrying a small child, looking just too old to be the daughter of the tanned bloke with a very large wristwatch.

Then they made their move - akin to a ‘limited military exercise’ - they took to the karaoke floor with an almost combative enthusiasm, determined to do justice to some Russian pop anthem. Then (uncharacteristically)  retreating to their corner, like good Russians.

Towards the end of the evening, just before dragging Valerie to bed before she tried another rendition of ‘Suspicious Minds’, I decided to extend a hand of friendship to the Russians. I can’t quite recall my exact messaging, but they didn’t try to attack me. So all in all, I’ll assume they are willing to open discussions with me later tonight.

I must take minutes this time.

Today is a rest-day. The ocean beckons…

Mission Report

I feel obliged to terminate this report here. We had a further two rounds, with a German chap from Stuttgart and couple of lovely Belgians called Pierre and Denise respectively.

It became apparent that in most cases, we were not being followed by anyone other than a bunch of jovial English blokes realising - like us - their luck in having access to some sumptuous golf courses in shorts and sun hats at a time of year when our compatriots were freezing their tits off back in Blighty.

As for The Russians, you’d think they would also be deliriously happy to be anywhere other than their own country right now, but their general demeanour suggested they were intent on being miserable in whichever country they were still allowed to visit. But you know, they did no other harm, from what our cursory inspections of our luggage seem to suggest.

But Vlad, if you’re reading, chill out bro - maybe invite the Zelensky’s round for a sing-song?

And finally….advice to anyone thinking of playing around Pasha:

Take a fishing rod!…

As I no longer write for the Times Travel Section*, I can be much more creative. Let’s see..

How about ‘Bugger the Budget, let’s exchequer out Belek!’

…Maybe more of a Sun header, that one. (The Sun is a British news rag, foreign readers)

Or, as we’re leaving our Cookham hillside retreat littered with the depressing detritus of Halloween, how about ‘Escape from Witch Mountain’?. But hang on, the witch is coming with me…ouch!

Hey I’ve got it!…

‘If you’re wafting away to paradise, what better place to start than Luton Airport..’

That’s one for the Daily Mail/Express contingent amongst you, although I suspect there are precious few of those. It’s an old joke, folks.

Enough already. More importantly, the golf bags are safely checked in and on their way to the hold of Flight EZY2555 to Antalya, hopefully: last time they flew abroad, they went somewhere else and it took us two feckin’ days of a four-day break to be reunited with them. C’mon EasyJet, d’you want a great review or not? 🙏

The weather forecast in Belek promises seven days of 🌞 🌞 🌞 🌞 🌞 🌞 🌞 at around 25’ so guess what? …We’ve left our woollies at home, packed the Factor 50, brought the bikinis down from the loft, and loaded up with a big bag of balls to hit into the multitude of water hazards sprinkling the sweeping courses around this Turkish version of golfing heaven.

Reporting back soon folks, so keep posted!

Love

V&A on their last legs…of the 2024 Seniors Tour.

😎 😎

*Alan doesn’t write for The Times, despite numerous submissions.

CONISTON

We got off the boat,

climbed up the path,

to the home of John Ruskin - the polymath.

To the pedants amongst you, for what it’s worth

That only rhymes, if you’re from The North.

UNDER LOUGH RIGG

More ramble than scramble

More amble than ramble

More dale than hill

No sweat, but still

A brill walk, however…

If you’ve got the time you really ought ‘a

Stride over the Fell to Rydal Water

SCAFELL

For a proper hike

There’s Scafell Pike

We might have tried again

But were saved by rain

And as both V and me have a dodgy knee

We thought, ‘let’s not throw this whole trip into jeopardy’

So we left. Happily.

There’s no question God was essentially good. He rewarded the people who got their hands dirty the most in our glorious island with priority access to the best beaches...

Whether you were slaving in the mines, mills and shipyards of Cornwall, Wales, or here in the North East, He gave those people some of the finest stretches of coastline, right on their doorsteps.

Nowadays, Newcastle reverberates. Most of the industrial landscape in the city has been transformed into wine bars and eateries for revellers on party weekends from far and wide. Lucky locals - mostly millionaires these days (even if only in a socio-sporting-cultural senses) - along with thousands of savvy tourists, now just jump in their 4x4s and decamp of a weekend, to their cute seaside cottages all the way up the coast, from Tynemouth, to Alnmouth, to Bamburgh to Berwick.

As, on occasion, do we!

A few times every year we still try to trek back to God’s favourite county - Northumberland. When we do, the sun invariable comes with us. The wind even subsides to somewhere below Force 4 and, like today, we get to walk around in just shorts and tee-shirts!

Mind you, they normally wear little else down Newcastle’s Quayside on whichever Friday night you might choose to be here, much to the amazement of softie visitors ogling at the lads ‘n lasses in their year-round scanty party gear.

Smug cynic commentators of course might sniff at how downmarket this all appears, but they clearly need to spend more time exploring behind the throngs to the fine restaurants, bars, theatres and galleries that line the vibrant Tyne.

Not to forget the Cathedral on The Hill of course! The beating heart of the city: the source of much of its energy, noise, pride, hope, song and positivity, is St James’s Park - home of Newcastle United FC - the Mighty (sometimes) Magpies, where every fortnight at least, 52,000 fans will head up the hill to shout, sing, cry and generally expend more emotion than is logical for such an occasion.

Getting a ticket these days as a visitor either requires cashing in one of your ISA’s or nurturing your network of local contacts lucky enough to have either a season ticket or compromising pics of a club executive.

Happily I succeeded! So the additional buzz of merely being in Newcastle at the start of a new season was boosted considerably by my good fortune at knowing at least one person of influence to avail me of said ticket.

Less of a buzz for Mrs H, who on this occasion was deprived of the pleasure, but as she will attest, that pleasure generally only lasts until the kickoff whistle blows, then it all goes downhill rapidly. She’s clearly ill-equipped for being a die-hard Toon fan, expecting entertainment every time.

‘Happily’ (as you would be if you’d just survived, drowning, say) we scraped a win this time, so the town was jumping again on the Saturday night.  That euphoria will prevail across the region for at least a week, before everyone gets put through the same old emotional washing machine again.

These days, our joyous visits north are also often accompanied by moments of sobriety. An ageing family generally means hospital wards - and even cemeteries -  can be on our itineraries and this visit was no different. But even then, it presents an opportunity for reflection, renewing associations and reviving old memories with an albeit diminishing circle of friends and family. Soul food. Reminders of who we are, and reasons to be thankful for it all.

But then we’re off again!..further North still, into deepest Northumberland, taking in some of the greenest, lushest golf courses on our route to the coast. And a few tasty restaurants en route as well of course. So the calories lost on the fairways and beaches do tend to get replaced pretty pronto, on the delicacies of the region, mostly involving seafood, but all too often chips as well. Keep the steps up pet.

Come with us if you will! More nonsense to follow soon, as we set off for the seaside, so we’ll see you again soon!

V&A

XX

Last week we took a ten-hour trip to Troon to watch a titanic tournament. Ten hours in total anyway, taking two days to travel…Plenty more for many of our fellow tourists - most of us lovers of hitting a tiny white ball badly, over some torturous terrain…

Ok enough of the annoying alliteration?…Although, most our fellow fans will attest, it was indeed all of those Things!

What we watched in Troon was golf, but not as most of us know it…

First, the Terrain: for the last 146 years, Royal Troon has occupied this windswept, rolling strip of links in a field along the Firth of Clyde looking westward towards the Americas, from whence many of the greatest golfers found their way to this ancient field of dreams.

This piece of Bonnie Scotland is basically acres of long grass, gorse and sand, with what you could call ‘Brazilian strips’ of narrow, manicured green turf, threading through the inhospitable undergrowth, with 36 tiny tables of beautifully-tended undulating lawn at the ends of each strip…except that those ‘strips’ don’t actually stretch to the end of each piece of flat stuff - there’s terrifying stretches of undergrowth in between.

So, most of us mortals would be bricking it just standing on the tee (that’s the short platform in front of the tiny strip of short grass, looking out over a sea of longer grass, gorse and deep sandy hollows). All we then have to do is hit a very small ball anything up to 200-odd yards and try to find an area where we might not lose said ball. If we can achieve this, we’re in the game!

And by the way, us mortals wouldn’t have a few thousand spectators helping to find our wee beastie ball if it did indeed disappear into the undergrowth. In fact it’s fair to say even with all those onlookers, quite a few balls were still never found.

Then, you have the Weather. Over the four days of this tournament (yes, if you are lucky enough not to get sent home after the first 2 days, you have to conquer this course four days on the trot) you will generally experience everything the elements can throw at you. If you’re lucky - as we were - we wandered around in bright clear sunshine during the practice days prior. But that’s almost never the story here in Scotland, or in the other coastal courses of England which get their turn to host The Open on alternate years.

True to type, by the time Troon got to Day 4, the best golfers in the world, the hardiest fans and the long suffering helpers and media folk got hit by the most horrendous horizontal rain and gusting gales you can imagine. Without doubt, the early winners were the Gortex vendors in the ‘Aladdin’s caves of golf’ lining the course.

Then there’s the question of ..

Temperament…

This course - indeed this oldest of all competitions - can clearly drive the most mild-mannered professional to throw clubs, rather than swing them elegantly. Even the most evangelical Christians among them can be heard shouting “Fuuuuuuck!” across the course and across the airwaves. Sky and BBC might just as well have had a permanent banner saying ‘in case anyone is offended, we apologise for that language’. And that’s not a criticism. When you hit the most wonderful shot only to see your ball roll nonchalantly into a bunker designed to devour your ball forever, for the third hole in succession, who can blame them? So the winner here is the one who can keep their game together through it all and retain their focus, determination, resilience and humour without their game falling apart.

But, by Sunday afternoon, the winner is almost always the golfer who can resist all of the above and still find a way of playing beautiful golf. They will also have been a tad lucky…because Timing is also a key factor. The winner will probably have got lucky with their tee times at the beginning of the tournament, coinciding with clement weather for at least one round. Then they will have prevailed when another great contender just inexplicably fell apart. By the time these titans of our beloved game have fought through to the final hole, the cards will have fallen just right for the ultimate victor.

We felt lucky just to be there to witness some of this; to be part of the whole Troon experience.

We had already trekked the 400 miles back to the comfort of our own sofa by the time Xander Schauffele sank his winning put and kissed the old Claret Jug. And when all around him were falling short, this man was a worthy winner.