Under the Seaton Sun: A Links Course Revelation
So we weren’t exactly bleary-eyed pilgrims arriving at the crack of dawn. More like sun-chasing sinners rolling up to Seaton Carew as the day got going, enough time for a hearty breakfast. The Links stretched out before us, a tapestry of windswept fairways and unforgiving bunkers. But forget some kind of golfing purgatory – Seaton Carew’s a legend, a course revered by players for its challenge. No fancy pro shops or country club fairways here, lads. This was about battling the elements, calloused hands gripping the clubs, and the hard-earned satisfaction of a well-struck shot against a backdrop that wouldn’t know a manicured flower bed if it tripped over one.
Truth be told, the sight of familiar faces was a welcome relief amidst the wind and sand. There was Martyn, the old pro at Rockliffe, his face etched with the wisdom of countless rounds on unforgiving courses. Beside him stood Andy, his dad, a man whose easy smile could calm even the most jittery golfer. And then there was James, the pro who’d endured my flailing swing through countless lessons – a patient saint if there ever was one. Seeing these great souls manning the fort at Seaton Carew was a comfort, a reminder of the camaraderie that transcends even the most brutal golf course.
The clubhouse, thick with the musk of coffee and freshly cut grass, felt like a trip into a forgotten golf flick. Handshakes were firm, the banter laced with the easy cynicism of old friends who knew each other’s demons all too well. Teams were chosen with the gravitas of a Roman coin toss – a shower of balls arcing into the sky, a silent plea to the golf gods for mercy. I found myself yoked with Jeff, a links Obi-Wan Kenobi, and a couple of newbies, including myself, about to be baptised by the unforgiving turf.
The first hole was a love letter to self-doubt. A decent drive, then my nerves turned my wedge shot into a pathetic little dribbler. This course, it scoffed at our parkland-honed skills, a sadistic bastard child of the sea and a particularly cruel sand fairy. But hey, redemption’s a fickle mistress, and on the second hole, a putt with the grace of a drunken crow somehow snagged my first birdie of the year. A fleeting victory, a whispered promise in a howling wind.
Seaton Carew played us like a cheap fiddle. Its fairways, baked by the sun, swallowed anything less than a surgical strike. The bunkers? Those weren’t hazards mate, they were carnivorous sand traps designed by some twisted golf course architect with a penchant for schadenfreude. We limped in after the front nine, scores a testament to the course’s sadistic brilliance. Not a disaster, but a firm kick in the shins from the old-school golf gods.
The back nine was a blur of fatigue and questionable decisions. My attempts to chase Alex, a fellow golfer whose drives were a thing of terrifying beauty, cost me dearly. The final holes were a gauntlet of humiliation, culminating in a drive on the 18th that resembled a desperate flailing more than a golf shot. An offering to the beach gods, perhaps.
We shuffled back to the clubhouse, weary but wired. Post-mortems were delivered over lukewarm beer and the requisite settling of scores. Some buggered off north, chasing the Geordie nightlife. Me? I faced a shorter journey home, the day’s battles etched on my skin like a golfer’s dubious badge of honour – a sunburn that screamed of both triumph and foolishness.
That night, replays of the day flickered through my mind – a glorious, frustrating tapestry of swings, putts, near misses, and the ever-present North Sea wind. Tomorrow brought Goswick and another chapter in this ongoing battle. But tonight, there was only the quiet hum of reflection, the sting of sunburnt skin and bruised ego, and the simmering resolve for redemption under another, hopefully less sadistic, sun.
Battle Lines Drawn: Sunburn and Redemption at Goswick
So, there I was, slathering yesterday’s sunburn with enough sunscreen to wallpaper a bunker. Back at Goswick for another crack at the Scots in this never-ending Battle of the Bastards with the rest of the RACDG company.
Redemption wasn’t just on the menu, mate, it was the damn special. The air crackled with tension, thicker than the fog that rolls off the North Sea. Arrived fashionably early, hoping to calm the pre-game jitters. Familiar faces – good to see them, the bastards. Then there was Rob, my teammate for the day. A good bloke, this Rob, hopefully with a swing smoother than a single malt. Our Scottish adversaries? Kevin and Neil, looking about as chummy as a vicar at a stag do. Their confident strides and smirks said it all: “These greens are our turf, lads.”
Warm-ups were less about stretching and more about coiling that competitive spirit tighter than a driver. Even the golden retriever in the pro shop seemed keyed up, unlike the electric atmosphere that crackled between us. This wasn’t just golf, this was war.
A glorious, frustrating, golf-soaked war.
The format? Pure torture designed to wring every last drop of sweat and dignity from us. Three points up for grabs, a mix of four-ball and singles. From the first tee shot, the stakes were bloody high. Every swing felt weighty, like a word etched in a story I was determined to rewrite.
Early wins on the green were like a shot of good scotch – intoxicating, confidence-boosting.
Between holes, I tried to capture the scenery with my camera, some semblance of beauty amongst the carnage. The crashing waves and windswept dunes were a photographer’s dream, a stark contrast to the carnage on the scorecard. Suddenly, Kevin materialised beside me, his camera a pro-level beast compared to my trusty point-and-shoot. There’s always a bigger fish, a flashier drive, I guess. But Kevin, ever the competitor, surprised me. Instead of a smug grin, he offered a tip on composition, his seasoned eye spotting a way to frame the dramatic coastline. It wasn’t just about winning on the course, it seemed, as he shared some of his photographic knowledge, a reminder that sometimes the best rivalries foster unexpected camaraderie.
Back to the golf and the ninth hole. A disaster. My swing exploded like a bad divot, leaving me reeling. With a double bogey, my birdie dreams vanished faster than a puff of smoke to leave me 4 over par on the front nine. The back nine? An exercise in frustration management. Double bogeys piled up like bodies on a battlefield, leaving my score and spirit in tatters. Meanwhile, Rob’s a goddamn hero, sinking birdies like a champ, keeping our hopes alive in the doubles match.
The singles match? Slipped away on the 17th. Neil, the cunning sod, clinched it with a par. An 84 for the day for me and we headed bac to the clubhouse. The place transformed into a war room. Rehashing battles over greasy pies and lukewarm mash. Each story a shared war wound, a badge of honour or a bitter reminder of defeat.
As the shadows stretched and the sun dipped towards the horizon, the whole crew – still buzzing from the day’s fight – gathered around the 18th green. We were a ragged bunch of warriors, each clutching a beer like a trophy. This wasn’t some fancy ceremony, mind you. It was a primal ritual, a shared experience that bonded us deeper than any scorecard.
Cheers erupted with every putt, the clinking glasses a symphony of respect and camaraderie. In these moments, the true spirit of the Battle of the Bastards shone through. The rivalry simmered, the banter flowed freely, and every golfer, champion or chump, was a brother in arms.
The final scores rolled in – a narrow debut victory for England, but the celebrating was muted by exhaustion.
The setting sun cast long shadows that whispered a silent promise: “Next year, we meet again.”
Driving home, the road was empty, just me and the silence. Reflecting on shots made and missed. The sting of defeat was a dull ache, but so was the simmering resolve. Because in this game, like life itself, every loss is just a warm-up for the next battle. And every sunset is the promise of another glorious, frustrating, beer-soaked dawn.