On Day 2, I woke up after a solid 12 hours of sleep, fully
clothed, and feeling much more like myself. Rita (the proprieter of the Berry Lodge B&B) and I had agreed that I’d have
my breakfast at 8:15 a.m., so I showered, got changed, and hung out in the sun room,
which was now freezing cold, so I could connect to wifi. Almost 30 minutes
passed, and breakfast was now late, so I knocked on what appeared to be the
kitchen door and found Rita inside. Apparently, she’d been knocking on my
bedroom door, thinking I was still asleep. Now I was running late for the most
elusive tee time on my whole trip. I returned to the “sun room,” collected my
electronics, and took a seat in the dining room, which was now the “warm room”
in the house. The couple from the night before was now seated and eating
breakfast. They had “relationship our parents don’t approve of” written all
over them. She was from Switzerland and he was from Germany. They looked like
they met in a hostel somewhere and decided to flee to Ireland together before
all that organ harvesting stuff that goes on at hostels got to them.
After a lengthy discussion with a
not-concerned-enough-about-how-late-I-was Rita, and a wonderful full Irish
breakfast, wolfed down at record speed, I headed out in the direction of the
Shannon Ferry. With images of the Long Island to mid-town Ferry (or any other
Ferry just about in the US), I was nervous about getting there early enough. I
was also skeptical that Rita thought I could get to Ballybunion “close” to my
10:30 a.m. tee time if I took the later, 10 a.m. ferry. Once I arrived there, I
was reminded that I was in Ireland, and that New York is an exceptionally
populous place. There was one lonely car waiting in the “queue” and I pulled in
behind him. The only other sign of life at the dock was a rather brash crow who
went “door to door” sort of begging for scraps, loudly cawing at each car
hopefully. All he needed to complete the look was a “will work for food” sign
around him. From the look of him, he was successful at his trade.
Upon getting to the other side of the inlet in just 20
minutes, I was disheartened to see that I had a 27 minute drive ahead of me to
get to Ballybunion Golf Course. In New York, and most other big golf markets in
the US, this kind of lateness would get you berated, belittled and shunned from
the course. I stomped on the gas of my Nissan Micra, feeling far more alert and
in command behind the wheel than the day before, and did my best to shave some
minutes off the Sat Nav’s grave prediction. I arrived at Ballybunion Golf
Course to the site of a large (10 or more people) group of members in matching
maroon sweaters preparing to tee off at the first tee. I dropped my bag at the
bag drop, stuffed the Micra into a parking space and raced inside to the pro
shop. I could barely talk when I got to the desk, and I was immediately
redirected to see Nora out in the lobby. Nora was a life saver, and while she
had surely heard every excuse in the book working at that desk, she knew an
honest to goodness lunatic when she saw one, and she knew I wasn’t leaving there
without playing the course. She asked me to go upstairs and get a coffee and
she would see what she could do to squeeze me in after the maroon sweater club
had gone off the first tee.
Up in the bar/restaurant, I was immediately knocked
back by the views in front of me through the panoramic floor to ceiling
windows. The dimension and pitching of this course was unlike anything I’d ever
seen before. Not to mention that not 500 yards away was the Atlantic Ocean,
crashing to shore along the course. After a coffee and hastily consumed scone
(a rather dry scone that looked as though I had pounded it with a gavel rather
than having eaten it), I could be patient no longer. I returned downstairs to
the lobby and inquired with Nora, who had already hatched a plan to get me a
tee time. Sure enough, by noon, I was at the starter’s booth waiting to tee off
at what was the most visually striking golf course I had ever seen. I was
paired with an older gentleman named Mr. Werner. I vas sure he vas German by
his accent, but actually he was from Switzerland. Werner was a 22 handicap who
played many of the best courses around the world, all while his loyal and
no-doubt patient wife waited for him back at the hotel. Werner had hired a
caddy—something I had decided against to preserve my Euros. Rather than try to
sell me on a caddy, PJ, the starter, had very honestly told me he thought I’d
be fine without one. As it turned out, I would have been fine with no help on
the course, but William, (Werner's caddy) made the experience many times better than it would
have been. And in truth, there were a few tee box inquiries of “ok, where am I supposed to hit the ball?”
My tee shot sliced right, as my first ball at Doonbeg had. I
think the wind coming off the ocean helped it, but a slice is a rarity for me
(my miss being left) so it was a bummer to slice my tee shot two days in a row.
Fortunately I managed to clear the famed graveyard, avoiding a lost ball, and salvaging
what was a respectable first shot of the day. And so the round had begun. The
sun was out (for the time being), my bag felt light on my back, and it was
already a great day. There were too many awe-inspiring sights (a particular
type of bird that hovered motionlessly in the air just above us, riding upward
air streams along the cliffs), sounds (the surf crashing on the beach below us
on what seemed like countless cliff-hanging coastal holes) and memories (my
first experience playing in full raingear in a downpour, only to be followed by
rainbows afterward) of the round to name them all. Of note, William had some
great one-liners and kept both Werner and I in great spirits whenever we
faltered. I putted well all day, and at one point, after rolling a 15-footer on
the perfect line only for it to stop short about a foot from the hole, William declared
“that one was all line and no Tiger, eh?” It was a priceless and clever rib,
and one that I’d never heard before—a souvenir from Ballybunion.
Following the round, I tipped William 10 Euros and offered
to buy him lunch. I had the best fish and chips of my life and shared golf and
music industry stories back and forth with William. He informed me that he was
possibly going to be coming to the states to caddy at Pine Valley and that he
would connect with me if he could get me on. Here’s to hoping the Irish
hospitality indeed stretches to the exclusive private courses of the United
States!
After our late lunch, I hit the road, headed for Tralee,
where I would stay the night at the Denton Lodge B&B on the eve of my round
at Dooks the next day. I was relieved to find roads of American width on my
drive south to Tralee, which made for a leisurely and less mentally challenging
journey. Denton was not listed in my GPS, nor did their website provide an
actual street address. So after getting lost, and calling home to Ginny for
some “GinnyStar” roadside assistance, I found my way and pulled of a
surprisingly busy road and into the parking lot of the Denton Lodge. Tralee was
the largest town (dare I say, it might technically be a city) I would encounter
on this trip. Again, though, I was spent. I got settled into my quarters,
organized my belongings, wrote this post, and went to bed.
Tomorrow…Dooks.
(Pictured below: Panoramic shot of Ballybunion , "a real man's Par 3" -- the 15th at 206 yards into a stiff wind, and a view from the first tee, and me on one of the many water view holes)
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