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 6th 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 6th 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 11th 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 25th overall making our first event together a good start. As soon as we’d all thanked each other on the 18th 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.
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