Norway '09

Having been a caddy for a year I had managed to befriend a number of caddies on the tour and when the prospect of going to Norway arose we hatched a plan to find cheaper accommodation.

Norway is renowned for its ridiculous prices and mid summer in the beautiful town of Sandefjord was likely to be no exception. There is a guy on tour – Pete’s his name, bags his game - whose job it is to transport the girl’s golf bags and suitcases across the continent to the various events thus saving the girls and caddies the hassle and most of all the extortionate charges most budget airlines add on for any bags that weigh more than a postage stamp. It was Pete the bag-man’s idea for us all to save a few sheckles and camp whilst in Norway. It was only a midweek, 3-day event so we all figured why not?

Thinking I had a rough time leaving Dublin, he drove non-stop from Dublin to Torp in southern Norway taking in nine countries along the way and four ferries. Thirty-eight hours later he arrived a little jaded and with a touch of elephantiasis of the right foot.

My journey to Torp had been relatively seamless apart from the mess leaving Dublin the night before and I arrived at the course unscathed and fairly fresh. After walking the beautiful course I got a lift back to the campsite we were staying at for the week. Pete had bought four huge tents, sleeping bags; roll mats, pillows, beer, food for the week and a large portion of humour to be dished out amongst us all.

We had a real giggle too. The site was in a beautiful spot, right on the edge of its own fjord and with a beach and everything. The dock was where dinner was served one evening but for the remaining nights we cobbled together a curry, a spag bol and a barbecue. All washed down with copious amounts of slightly tepid beer it was an experience not to be missed and something we’re likely to do again sometime.

I did my job well that week with Christel and we finished 11^th.

In my eagerness to save a few sheckles I had booked a return flight the day after the tournament finished but with the event finishing at 4pm on the Sunday afternoon I had 24hours to kill before my flight. I could have stayed at the campsite another night on my own but I didn’t really fancy it.

My flight was with Ryan Bloody Air as they were the only airline that flew to Torp so I knew it was going to take my very best negotiation to change to an earlier flight without having to re-mortgage the house.

Delivered to the airport by the courtesy transfer bus I rolled straight up to the Ryanair desk. I was informed in no uncertain terms that whilst there was ample space on the 8pm flight out that evening that there was a fee to pay. Furry muff – how much? The stroppy little cow searched through her online ‘how to rip off the customer manual’ and told me that in order to change my flight I would have to pay an ‘administration charge’ - whatever the hell that is - of €75.00 but the cost of the flight now had rocketed up to a staggering €379.00. I know I’m lucky enough not to be paying for my flights but I do have principles.

I fluttered my lengthy eyelashes and faked as sincere a smile as I could muster at the miserable cow but received nothing further than a “Do you want to proceed then, Sir?”

Letting out a sigh of frustration I shook my bowed head and walked away before I said anything I oughtn’t and wondered what I should do for the next twenty odd hours in southern Norway.

It was beer o’clock in my book (you noticing a pattern yet?) so I wandered around the airport and found, as you do in Norway, a Seamus O’Shaunessey’s bar by the exit. Poifect.

I ordered a ‘point’ and took it outside to savour the evening sun. Many players and caddies were milling around outside who’d been shrewd enough to have booked themselves on the Ryanair flight that night not the one leaving the following day. A few even expressed murmurs of pity and I recall one of them even saying there there before charging off towards her awaiting silver bird.

I had quite a few beers that afternoon and then thought I’d have a crack at the barmaid. She was a tidy sort – a damn sight tidier now that I’d had a relative skin-full - and so with confidence oozing through me I began waffling in my best non-existent Norwegian only to be interrupted by the Liverpudlian tart saying she was married to Dave.

Changing tack I asked what there was to do and whether she knew of anywhere I could go where I might be privileged enough to meet some genuine Norwegian folk to which she mentioned the town of Sandefjord that was a relatively easy train journey away. Job done. There were supposed to be lockers at the station (not the airport strangely enough) so I wandered down to the railway to store my rather too large suitcase.

I managed to find a locker and was midway through wedging my suitcase in there when the station-master approached. He informed me I could leave it in there but that the station would be locked until the following lunch time. Great. So I lagged the thing on to the approaching train and wondered what I would do with it.

Twenty minutes later I was in a very sleepy fishing town wrapping itself around a fairly impressive marina. I was still wheeling this bloody heavy suitcase around and with one wheel within minutes of running off I had to get rid of it. I studied the marina and found an imposing hotel overlooking the bay and marched up to the reception. Using my best Eddie Murphy confidence I asked the receptionist to store my case until I returned – whenever that might be. Being a five star establishment my arrogance and presumption that she would obey my every word seemed to be appreciated and he took my case to a secure room out the back. Sweet.

A gentleman’s wash downstairs in the rather creepy marble bathrooms later and I was ready for a night out in Sandefjord.

I’d had a relative crack at getting peshed by this time but found myself wandering down the marina in search of more lager. Before long I found a cracking bar suspended on stilts above the crystal clear water below. I can’t tell you how beautiful a spot it was to be having a cold beer. With a healthy contingent of Norwegian beauties to gape at I was in my element.

I hadn’t however seen a cashpoint on my travels thus far and so approached the barman once my available Kroner had run dry. He said I could run a tab and so sensing a good deal when I saw it I handed over my MBNA Platinum card and feeling generous bought myself and a lovely looking MILF next to me a drink.

She was rather taken aback but I thought nothing of it. We started chatting – thankfully in English as my Norwegian hadn’t really come that far in five days – and that was it. She was up for it. Rubbing my leg was where it started but by the time I’d been bought my fourth beer by her she had raised her wandering hand to my nether regions.

Her family were all around us and all seemed absolutely fascinated in this rather drunk Brit who was being groped rather ferociously by their mother. It was a bizarre situation to be in can I tell you. She was all over me and whilst suggesting I go back to her hotel for an evening of mad passionate rampant intercourse her husband and father of her several fully-grown children came over. He was nice as pie and didn’t seem too perturbed by the actions of his randy wife.

I threw some uncomfortable small talk his way and then he bought me a beer. And another. And another. I was proper bladdered by this point and she was still rubbing her lovely legs up and down my inner thigh whilst her hubby watched on intently without batting an eyelid. I was no doubt making no sense to anyone at this point let alone this strangely incestuous family led by Mr and Mrs Robinson.

Sensing an unpleasant finale to this bizarre charade I decided it was probably best to bid them all a pleasant evening and disappear before Mrs R started got down on her knees whilst her sizeable family rated her technique or whatever.

Through groans of disappointment I staggered out of the bar wondering where to go next. Sandefjord is a small village with only a handful of places to go out and I had just left the only bar still open. I had no idea where to go and not a bean to my name. In my haste to leave O’Shaunessey’s several hours before I had inadvertently left my bank card behind the bar. In my haste to leave Mr and Mrs Weirdo I had also left my only other form of payment behind the bar too leaving me proper screwed.

I also had no idea what time it was either. Norway in the summer doesn’t get dark as we know it and at whatever time it was now I hadn’t a clue as it was still quite light. It had to be sometime after midnight but having been so gripped (and groped) by the proceedings earlier it could have been four in the morning for all I knew.

The hotel was still storing my case and with its gentle orange glow emanating from its windows seemed an inviting place to head for. Knowing I had no funds to pay for anything I tried the old Murphy special again and bold as brash I approached the receptionist and asked for the key to room 219. They didn’t have a room 219.

The failsafe free room trick had fallen at the first hurdle but trying desperately hard to focus on the key board behind him I noticed that all the keys were out. Sensing the game was up I asked for my suitcase and trampled back into the morning light once more.

I was exhausted by this point and in dire need of a lie down. All I could do was walk about. I looked in the park for a suitable bench to call my home for the night but none looked remotely suitable and in my inebriated state I didn’t fancy leaving my worldly possessions out in the open whilst I passed out.

The marina looked like a friendly place and an old wives’ tale that boats not being the securest places in the world occurred to me. So I approached the yachts and catamarans hoping one of them would have a neon sign in the shape of a hand with index finger ushering me in. Visions of a luxurious cabin with a round bed in the hull wrapped in white silk sheets encouraged me to keep looking until I found one but this isn’t Hollywood and I found myself getting ratty and desperate. Every yacht and floating palace looked as secure as the Bank of England so I discarded that as a possibility and started looking for a less salubrious home for the night.

Then I saw her. In all her shimmering glory. A vision of hedonistic heaven afore me. There a few feet away in the calm marina waters lay my bed. A little blue and white wooden rowboat no longer than 12feet in length was bobbing up and down beckoning me to board and set up camp. I pulled the rope and hither she came. I threw the suitcase aboard and hopped on after it.

I still had my roll matt I’d been sleeping on all week with me and rolled it out in the bottom of the hull for a bed. It didn’t quite fit as the benches running laterally across the vessel kinda got in the way but five out of six feet made it to the floor and on I climbed.

It wasn't quite the apparition of hedonistic slumber I had visions of earlier but it was sort of flat and for the time being it was perfect. I plucked a hoodie out of the suitcase and made a pillow and with the Norwegian summer keeping the air pleasantly clement I closed my eyes and Betty the boat and I bobbed our way to sleep.

Six hours later I awoke to the sounds of life on the water all around me and figured it was my morning alarm call. I popped my little hungover sleepy head out of the top of the side to see a bustling hive of activity all around me. Fisherman, sailors, cleaners, deck hands all milling around on the planks of the jetties around me.

Felling a touch trampish I gathered my things with minimal fuss and contemplated the return exit from the confines of my little boat. How I’d had managed to negotiate my way into this little thing was probably one of the reasons no one had yet asked me to vacate it. The height difference between the stern of the bateau and the jetty was about five feet and I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get out of this thing without causing too much of a fuss. Surely someone around me would know whose boat I had squatted in all night and would more than likely have a word.

I pulled the rope towards me thus bringing the boat nearer the dock and then planned my escape. I thought about the possibility that the tide might have gone out leaving me somewhat lower than the previous night but I couldn’t remember being remotely concerned about boarding this thing some hours before so why now did it look like a guaranteed slam-dunk?

Getting me out was one thing but the heavy suitcase was going to need some clever negotiating. I weighed up the options in my weary hazy state and concluded that brute force was the way forward. Having been a reasonable discus thrower in my school days I adopted the required Adonis pose and with all my might spun on my heels and tried to launch the case on to the dock. The advantage real discus throwers have is a relatively steady footing to plant their feet on. A wooden rowboat weighing no more than a couple of kilos doesn’t compare. Betty was determined to throw me overboard but some miraculous footing Ginger Rodgers would be proud of kept me upright as the little boat bobbed and bashed its way against the jetty.

The case fell onto the dock with an alarming bang and I fell backwards into the hull of the boat – thankfully I hadn’t rolled up my roll matt by this point or I’d have had a sore bottom.

With Betty swaying side to side like a recently vacated swing I did well to avoid capsizing the little bugger. So then it was my turn. I had to pull the boat ashore once more to give me half a chance to climb up to the dock. My drunken haziness let me down here – embarrassingly too. The boat was pretty much resting on the struts of the dock and so I made a run and jump for it. My calculations let me down big time though; as I leapt for safety the boat went in the opposite direction throwing me towards the drink below. Grasping for anything I could I grabbed the rope with both hands and immediately swung underneath it. The sound of creaking Norwegian wood above me suggested I was putting the ancient Viking carpentry to the test big time. Like something out of Cliffhanger there I was holding onto this bit of rope for dear life whilst Betty was trying to make a break for it the other way. With my bum dangling in the water, hands welded to the rope and both feet clinging on the boat whilst it shot off towards Denmark at a rate of knots, I was in a serious predicament. If my feet fall off the boat I’m in - wet. Really wet. I tighten the old quads and pull with all my might hoping my bed for the night doesn’t abandon me altogether into the watery grave below.

Betty’s ABS kicks in and she grinds to a halt with me at this stage at full stretch parallel to the chilly soup below. Physics plays its part at last and Betty comes my way to lend a hand to her ailing skipper.

I somehow manage to pull myself on board once more and contemplate the whole process again. I was panting and out of breath by this stage and my beery head throbbing but as the marina buzzed around me I knew I had to get out of this sodding boat before Lars came back hoping for a little row.

I try the gentle approach and manage to get a decent finger hold on the dock above. Now where to put my feet… the supports of the jetty are too far underneath to reach and probably a bit too slippery and slimy to get a foothold on so I try the rope again. Needless to say there’s a physics issue once again and as I try and put 12stone on to it the boat moves my way and the taught rope gets too slack to stand on. So it’s time to put all those press-ups to the test (ahem) and pull myself up. I reach a point of no return when Betty starts to drift away and I’m left dangling there with my deltoids at full contraction but knowing what option b might be I find a touch more strength from somewhere and haul myself onto the slimy jetty above.

I’m absolutely exhausted; panting; sweating; arms shaking; head throbbing but just as I think I have avoided any humiliation I receive a gentle applause from a small gallery of onlookers on the jetty behind me.

People say this job is all glamour… at times like this I beg to differ.

CK

Foggy Dubbers

Dublin '09

My first weekend with Christel Boeljon was at the notoriously difficult but beautifully manicured Portmarnoch Links a few miles north of Dublin. We had a good tournament together and played some good golf. The final day however was a bit of a mess.

As we walked off the fifth green, the fog swept in off the sea engulfing us all in a cloud of sea mist that inhibited any further play. When you can’t see any further than 50 yards, golf becomes a bit of a health and safety issue and various men in hi-viz jackets holding clipboards and de-misting their coke-bottle glasses appear halting any further hazards from occurring.

So we were stranded in this milky soup for half an hour. Six of us all parked up on the 6^th tee and sat chatting away until the hi-viz men decreed the course totally unplayable and forced us all to walk back to the clubhouse to await further instructions.

From the 6^th tee, the walk back was the length of the previous five holes. Three par fours, a par 3 and a long par five are a long walk back with a 40lb bag on your shoulder. When caddying in normal play a drive of 250 yards is fine to walk with a bag full of waterproofs and whatever else was in there but 2000 yards in one go doesn’t ‘alf kill your shoulder I can tell you.

So 130 girls and their caddies packed themselves into the clubhouse awaiting the all-clear – or not - from the tournament officials. Speculation was rife. Rumours of cancellation were everywhere and calls were flooding in from coastguards and weathermen to everyone with a phone causing further speculation – as if required.

Every hour the tournament director would appear in front of however many girls could squeeze into the clubhouse to say that play was still suspended and please reconvene in a further half an hour for an update. An hour and a half later we were told that play would recommence in another half an hour and we were told to head out to where we had stopped. Thankfully we were yet to begin a hole – others had knee-trembling four-foot putts to make. When you’ve had two hours to think about a putt, the chances of actually making it are slim. Some didn’t make them. 

Another long walk out again meant we restarted two and a half hours behind schedule. This now brought the transfer and flight scenario into play and as the three girls and their caddies wandered down the par 4 sixth hole we contemplated the possibility that we may miss our flights home.

Portmarnoch is 15 minutes away from Dublin International Airport and standing on the tee of the 11^th hole, Germany's number one, Martina Eberl turned to us all and pointing at the plane soaring above, announced with some dismay, “I think that’s mine…"

Another half an hour later Christel spotted hers and then at 7pm sharp a Ryanair plane jetted off the runway and I realised I was in for another nightmare journey home.

We completed our final round in level par and finished 25^th overall making our first event together a good start. As soon as we’d all thanked each other on the 18^th it was time to go.

I ran all the way back down the first and second holes to the bed and breakfast we’d stayed in all week and whilst in the shower I called a cab to the airport. Multi-tasking you say…? The last bus to the airport from Portmarnoch was at 7pm. It was now 8.30pm and I had not only missed my bus but with no internet access to hand or time to crank the computer up if there was, I had no idea if there was even a plane getting me home or not.

My original flight was one of the few travel plans that seemed too good to be true. I had booked a return flight to Dublin from Gatwick for £12.00. The times were perfect too making it easily my least stressful journey to date. That was until the fog came in.

The cab arrived before I’d even finished drying myself off but having packed in the morning I wasn’t going to keep him waiting too long. Sliding in the car a little damp and bedraggled we sped off to the airport around the backstreets to avoid the masses of spectators heading away from Portmarnoch links.

I threw the cabbie a few Euros and ran to the Ryanair ticket desk only to find, naturally a bit of a queue. Everyone in front of me had been either playing or caddying this week and were all looking for an alternative flight than that which they had missed while playing that afternoon.

Arriving at the front, Olenka – that well-known Irish name – informed me I had missed my 7pm flight. I informed her that I hadn’t really missed it I just wasn’t on the thing as it flew over my head some hours earlier. Humour was wasted on our Polish friend so I moved on to the options available to me. After my catastrophe getting home from Stansted the year before I was never going to fly there again but it was that or Manchester tonight and having checked out of my humble B’n’B I was left with few alternatives.

Buying a fresh ticket at the cost of €100 - my commission that week - I passed through security without a hitch and headed for a local food and beverage emporium to fuel up for the night ahead. Whilst enjoying a cold beer and a burger I glanced at the monitor and to my horror I saw my flight had been delayed by at least an hour. My girlfriend at home has involuntarily taken the role of travel coordinator for my trips away and at the touch of a couple of buttons could inform me of an itinerary to get me home safely to her in the easiest possible way. I called her immediately only to be reassured that I was screwed.

The 22:05 flight to Stansted would have got me back at 23:00 enabling me to hop on the 23:30 easyBus to London Victoria for the 01:05 to Brighton. The delay was to scupper this seemingly seamless itinerary completely. She recommended I get the flight anyway and whilst I was in the air she would sort out some way of getting me home from Stansted.

Landing an hour and a half late I flew through security and passport control and called my PA. Sadly she hadn’t progressed very far. She was none-the-wiser.

She mentioned that the Stansted Express to Liverpool Street had long since parked up for the night and that easyBus couldn’t get me to London Victoria for the five past one train. Even if I could get there I wouldn’t have a train home until 05:45 so that wasn’t an option.

I approached the National Express desk whose representative said I could get to Gatwick Airport on the 01:05 bus arriving at 04:20. Three hours to Gatwick? Had it moved? I could walk there in that time couldn’t I? Anyway it seemed a bit extreme to me but at least I could sleep on board.

Whilst buying a ticket from Helga I was approached by what could only be described as a Nazi. Nigel - or whatever his name was - had so many armouries at the disposal of his right finger that I was a little wary, to say the least. Imposingly he asked where my suitcase was to which I turned and pointed to my red case that was no further than six feet away from me. In a patronising tone, he asked why it wasn’t about my person to which I returned the tone informing him that I had placed it there to assist access to the unnecessarily complicated cattle grid queuing system in place and figured it well within my sight.

Questioning my tone, Nigel must have assumed I was an Al Qaeda founder member and within a blink of an eye had me up against the wall before I could say Bin Laden.

Fearing I was responsible for a scene, I apologised profusely and chose wisely to alter my tone. Citing logistics issues I explained my short temper to Nigel who, by my posh Surrey accent realised I wasn’t Osama’s best mate and a slightly over-friendly frisk later I was free to go about my business and complete my transaction with Helga. You can take the boy out of Surrey…

Several quid lighter I thought I’d hit the boozer. I don’t really drink during a tournament unless there’s a welcoming party or corporate hob-nobbing affair to go to and enjoy a free meal and free bar, so once the final putt drops and the pleasantries are completed, I feel well deserved to hit the bar and knock back a few well-earned beers.

I headed straight for the local Wetherspoons only to be told it was last orders. My plan of getting the one in morning bus was specifically based around me enjoying a few Britneys at the bar of the only boozer at Stansted I was aware of and it was closing? I couldn’t believe it.

The last beer was bought and I thought I’d call my girlfriend/PA. Realising I was running out of phone power I found a socket outside the ladies toilet and thinking nothing of it stood there on the blower whilst I moaned tirelessly to my tolerant other half who by this time was hoping to be asleep.

I was in mid-flow about my S.W.A.T. experience to her when along came Nigel again and stood by my suitcase that was over by my beer on the table some twenty feet further from me than I suspect he would have liked. Sensing another scene I let Debs go to sleep and a little too casually wandered back to my case that was, at this point seconds away from being destroyed.

Nigel didn’t seem to recognise the case or me at first and had the look of someone about to go into meltdown. I continued my reticent manner and reassured the trembling fool that it was my case and all was going to be just fine. Holding his weapon high to his chest and waving it around like Colin Farrell in his first action role, Nigel was in his element and taking no prisoners.

Feeling the necessity to comply with the director’s wishes I raised my hands slightly and put on a face of bemused innocence hoping to diffuse the situation. Nigel still hadn’t realised this was a case of déjà vu and that my suitcase and my person had been freshly frisked by his good self not 20 minutes earlier. I glanced in the direction of his colleague for some kind of halt to this ridiculous charade to which ‘Dave’ hinted this wasn't his party.

Deciding to go along with the farce I raised my hands further in the air and continued the face of home counties innocence. Nige was shouting now and sweating rather a lot. Thankfully the airport was quiet and the pub was closed so the crowds were limited. What would my mother think…?

This was taking up valuable drinking time so I delicately moseyed on over towards the only pint I was going to get that night which was by this time going a little warm and flat - nightmare. I managed to grab an opportunity to get a word in and offered up the notion that I was actually a limited threat and that he had already done this some minutes earlier outside the National Express desk. This seemed to stir something in his inner memory and then CLUNK the penny dropped. Looking at me quizzically as if the mice in his head were waking from a deep slumber, he suddenly dropped his weapon and realised that I was actually a fairly decent bloke just having a pint whilst chatting to his girlfriend.

The poor bugger looked devastated. His whole life had led to this point and now it turned out I was just a regular guy and not a member of the IRA or the Taliban. He wasn’t able to cuff me, arrest me, detain me or anything. I suspect he had visions of waterboarding and having me hanging by my wrists in a dark warehouse whilst he beat me for days on end. 

He could only force a reluctant smile and bid me a good night.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief mixed with a modicum of confusion and bemusement and enjoyed the rest of my beer in relative peace.

That lasted a matter of minutes and I went on the prowl for more beer. My fears dissolved when I managed to find an all-night alcohol emporium at the other end of the airport. Joy. I supped a few overpriced beers until my bus departed at 01:05. This was one of the few parts of any journey I have ever endured that was seamless - long but seamless. I arrived at Gatwick Airport slightly ahead of schedule and awaited my connecting train to swing by from London Victoria and take me home to my bed.

I finally got home at a quarter to six in the morning. From Dublin to Brighton had taken me nearly eleven hours – the outward journey had taken an hour and a half. I’d also shelled out over £250 for the change of itinerary too.

Unfortunately, this completely buggered my plans for the next week, which was to be my first visit to Norway. Originally I had booked a flight from Stansted to Oslo’s second airport, Torp departing on the Monday afternoon at one o’clock but the two-hour fog delay in Dublin had set me back some seven hours rendering my plans null and void.

I could have stayed at Stansted for the night and waited for my connecting flight to Norway the following afternoon but I have a real thing about grabbing the opportunity to get home for at least a few hours just to, primarily see my tolerant girlfriend and just to be at home and in my bed for a bit. I had planned to get home the Sunday evening and enjoy a romantic evening with Debs from 8 o’clock onwards but staggering in at 6am somehow shelved that idea.

In hindsight, I could and probably should have stayed in Stansted for the night but we were going to camp in Norway and I didn’t fancy any more nights sleeping rough than I had to. A shower, shit and shave later I was back on the road to Stansted to go to Norway for the first time.

Caddying for Lisa Maguire

AIB Ladies Masters Dublin 2010

As one of the best events on the Ladies European Tour, I was determined to get a bag for the Dublin Masters  With only a few days to go, I was running out of ideas and losing the motivation to continue this crazy caddying lark. 

On the Friday evening of the RICOH British Open however, I received a message from the head of our Caddy Association asking if I had anything lined up for the event on the Emerald Isle.

Lying isn’t my thing – I’m a non-fiction writer after all – so I said I had no job for the week. He kindly gave me the number of a friend of his in Ireland. I didn’t know who he was or whom he managed but after a brief but pleasant chat we agreed monies and all things logistical and administrative and on Tuesday morning I met my new player.

Having been told who I was to work for I did my research online and it didn’t take me long to realise I was getting involved with a girl who is more than just a little bit special. I say girl but when dealing with the Maguire twins it’s hard to talk about one without mentioning the other. Lisa and Leona are delightful twins who, without suggesting they have nothing unique about them individually, look identical.

So having done my research I headed down to the beautiful Killeen Castle Golf Club and down to the range. Summer in County Meath is like April in the south east of England – rain and shine with imminent change at any given, unannounced minute. So with all the girls fearing the worst and clad in wet weather gear, my quest to find Lisa was going to be a little tough. Thankfully the two siblings were dressed in exactly the same gear; blue waterproof jackets and white pants; accompanying white PING hat finished the look and made my search a little easier.

From County Cavan, north west of Dublin the twins are blessed with dark hair, blue eyes and a fair Irish complexion making them typically colloquial. They look the same; dress the same; talk the same; in the individual and selfish world of professional golf, this makes them quite unique.

A brief but charming introduction later and I had the chance to watch them hit a ball and see what all the fuss is about. I wasn't disappointed either. Their beautifully balanced, quick swings return to the ball with timing Breitling would be happy with. During my homework I had read various articles suggesting that one might be better than the other but after a few minutes of divot watching I deduced that there really isn’t much between them.

After witnessing them smash their way through a bucket of balls each, we then ventured out into the balmy (ahem…) Irish summer elements for a practice round.

Set in 200 acres of fine rural Irish countryside surrounding the formidable Killeen Castle, the Jack NIcklaus designed golf course is one of his masterpieces. Wide rolling fairways, deep bunkers and heavily sloping greens are amongst Jack’s trademarks and Killeen Castle is no exception.

Standing on the first tee I ask Lisa for her rough carries and looking at the yardage book I see we have a 205yard carry over the protruding bunker covering over half of the fairway. Having had a brief sprint around the course the evening before, I’m thinking we lay up short and leave a sizeable approach to the green ahead but whilst I wallow in this negativity she plucks out the driver and in the blink of an eye smashes her poor little Pro V straight over the top of the bunker down to the 150yard marker. She’s about 5’ 4” and probably a size four and hits it over 250yards - I’m suitably impressed.

Left with a reasonable approach for the young 15 year old – 177 to the pin – she grabs her 5-iron and pops it over a high bunker to the raised green and it rolls up to six feet. In the words of the PGA Tour Advertisement - She’s good. Really good.

We spent a delightful morning plotting our way around this long open, windswept American style course with the guidance of Shane O’Grady, the girls’ coach and their parents Declan and Breda. Leona and Lisa are desperately competitive and want the earth out of this game. Their long game is awesome, short game seamless, putting exemplary but above all for a players of such tender years their mental strength is their strongest attribute.

We’re teeing off on Friday morning with Laura Davies and the runner up from last week’s British Open Katherine Hull. They might be nervous but Lisa Maguire isn’t.

I asked Lisa whether she was feeling a touch of the old nerves over lunch on Friday before we were due to tee off in an hour or so. Lisa doesn’t necessarily talk unless spoken to and occasionally will limit her answers to only a few words and this was no exception. “Not really.” was all I got.

Laura Davies quite rightly draws the biggest crowds whenever and wherever she plays. With Katherine Hull, runner up of last week’s British Open and world number seven playing alongside us not to mention one half of the most naturally gifted twins Ireland has produced, I knew the first tee at 1.40pm was going to be a popular spot.

I calculated around 300 spectators surrounding the first tee box and a couple of hundred more lining the first fairway. This would normally be routine for a glimpse of Laura smashing a driver down the opening hole but something told me the majority were there to see my player.

When it came to introductions on the tee, civility ruled the roost and pleasantries were exchanged without too much fuss or celebrity. Laura was up first and it gave Lisa the chance to see for herself the routine she would have heard about from her sister who played with Europe’s number one the previous year. If driver is the club of choice then a tee just won’t suffice for Laura Davies. Lining up on the right side of the tee she plucks the lob wedge from the clutches of Jonny Scott, her caddy and friend and goes about building herself a platform upon which to rest her yellow Srixon.

She then slams the wedge quite vivaciously into the turf and constructs a ridge rather like a crimped piece of paper and then hurls the dirty club back at Jonny with such nonchalance and ambiguity it always makes me smile. She then rests the ball on the precarious ledge and begins her pre-shot routine. This little charade actually serves a purpose for LD – if she puts the ball on a tee her tendency is to block it right so by putting the ball on this divot she can then hit down on it thus playing a 'cutty' fade down the left side. It guarantees (to an extent) a better strike and forces a level of commitment to a shot that a tee doesn’t – according to Laura. Should Jonny give the all clear to play a high draw down a wide fairway, however you’ll see a glimmer of the excited child in Laura as she prepares to give everything she has to one of her favourite aspects of the game.

So Davies duly launches a monster off her homemade tee down the first to rapturous applause and Miss Hull follows suit. Lisa’s turn. She must be nervous isn’t she? Not a chance. She’s chomping at the bit to get this round underway and after a brief celebration of her presence from the masses and a line to aim for from yours truly, she smashes her Pro V 25 yards over the aforementioned bunker running down the off ramp to within a couple of yards of Laura’s ball. Welcome to the professional game, young lady.

I, for one have never played in front of crowds like the snake of spectators weaving their way down the peripheries of the fairway that day and after a short but sweet conversation, it turns out Lisa hasn’t either. You wouldn’t know it though.

Left with a decent hit to the first she nuts her approach right at the pin and it rolls just into the fringe behind the flag. An inch less and she’d have been tapping in for an opening birdie. Short game can often let you down when you’re nervous but not this girl. A delicate flop out of the thick rough would have Mickelson tipping his hat to the crowd and a tap in secures a rock solid start for Lisa Maguire.

Miraculously the pint-sized Irish star manages to out-drive Hull and Davies on the par five second hole and a after a quality lay up and a pin-point pitch, a birdie ensues sending the crowd into a frenzy.

It wasn't a great day on the links for Laura and Katherine but that takes nothing away from a stellar performance from rising superstar Lisa Maguire. With four birdies, one bogey and one unfortunate triple bogey on the tough par three sixth, she walked off the course four better than Davies and two better than Hull.

Dealing with the largest crowds she’s ever seen and playing alongside the biggest names in the world of women’s golf, she handled the pressure with consummate ease. After a gutsy 15 footer on the 18^th for a round of level par, a hero’s welcome awaited her. Throngs of fans and well wishers created an avenue from the green to the scorer’s hut desperate for a glimpse of Ireland’s most anticipated talent. She must have signed over fifty autographs and by the time she made it to the scorer’s hut Lisa knew she’d really stamped her name on the world of golf.

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An early start on Saturday morning meant a slightly less rapturous audience but the golf no less impressive. With windy conditions Lisa managed a more than respectable two over par 74 thus affording her playing rights for the Sunday’s play. This was her first professional tournament where she made the cut. Her parents were understandably thrilled and her coach Shane delighted with her and dare I say my performance.

My remit from Shane was to get Lisa through to the weekend and we’d done it – easily. Shane and Lisa’s parent’s were thrilled to bits and emphatic embraces were exchanged between us all. I was proud of Lisa and in a special way proud of what I had achieved with her and the attention surrounding this child protégé.

Her twin Leona was in no way overshadowed by her sister either. With rounds of 72 and 74 she also made the cut quite comfortably. 

These two girls are incredible; when asked to drive to a specific target they complete the task without batting an eyelid. However small the target I gave Lisa she hit it from any distance. Swing a high drive up in to the wind and draw it back off the far tree into the middle of the fairway please... done. Every club in the bag is a weapon – a deadly one. There isn’t a weakness in their game at all.

Sunday morning we drew the crowds once more and after a frustrating but solid performance from the young Irish star we finished the round level par and +2 for the tournament thus winning the Best Amateur Award. Watching Lisa accepting a large cut crystal vase in front of Sophie Gustafson the eventual professional winner, the masses of spectators and press gifted me a level of satisfaction I hadn’t experienced before.

It was a privilege to be asked to work for Lisa this week and an even bigger honour to be able to be inside the ropes alongside one of two up and coming global superstars.

You may not know the names Lisa and Leona Maguire yet but believe me, you will.

CK