Chapter 6. The International
Golfer
In 1933, the year that prohibition came to an end in America, GB won
the Ryder Cup back in the second ‘home’ match and Jack Hobbs scored
his 100th century, I entered my first (and only) European
tournament-the French Open. I travelled with several players of
national fame, including my friend Charlie Ward and George Duncan,
the 1920 Open Champion. George, a winner of two French Opens, had
been one of the closest challengers to the ‘Great Triumvirate’ and
was now approaching an age when he would qualify as a ‘senior’
today. Like my brothers he went to North Wales early in his career,
to Rhos-on-Sea and then the Caernarvonshire club at Conwy, where he
played for the town’s football club and attracted the attention of
Liverpool, who offered him terms. He turned them down, but his
enthusiasm for football eventually cost him his job and he returned
to his native Aberdeen, before coming south of the border again to
the old clubs at Timperley (Manchester) and Hanger Hill, near Ealing.
He had a three-year stint as pro at Wentworth before going
‘freelance’ in 1929 and securing a very lucrative appointment as
private coach to the Aga Khan, with whom he often played at
Roehampton. He was one of the great characters of golf and had a
very simple approach to the game. “The right way to play golf”, he
said, “is to go up and hit the bloody thing”. No one ever played the
game quicker than George did, whether he was playing brilliantly or
direly. His friend James Braid said of him: “I cannot make him out.
He plays so fast that he looks as if he doesn’t care…he’s the most
extraordinary golfer I’ve ever seen”. George called his book ‘Golf
at the Gallop’ and, having played with him, I can confirm that the
title was very apt. [Bert played for a Midland team that year in a
match at Stoke Poges and beat Duncan 5&4]. Nor was this irascible
yet loveable Scot slow in expressing his opinions. His other famous
saying was “If you are going to miss it, miss it quick” and that was
most evident on the greens, where he did not seem to give his putts
due attention. When he was Open champion, a spectator mocked him for
missing a three-footer, saying he could have holed it with his eyes
closed. George rounded on him and shouted “Aye Sir, the balls no in
the hole, but the hole’s four and a quarter inches across and the
whole bloody world is around it”. When teaching he could be caustic
and sarcastic; I was soon to feel the rough edge of his tongue, as
you will see later on.
Neither Charlie nor I had been to France before, so we were both
looking forward to the experience. The fun started at Boulogne where
we boarded a train for Paris. The day was hot and, when the train
started, I immediately got up and opened a window. Just as quickly a
Frenchman sitting opposite got up and closed it. He received some
black looks from our party but the window remained shut for a few
minutes; then up got Charlie and opened it. Up got the Frenchman and
shut it again. The French farce continued as the window was opened
and shut several times, until eventually the Frenchman remained
seated. Feeling smug we now settled down to a game of solo. Inside
five minutes we were picking pieces of coal out of our eyes and
hair, while the Frenchman had a good laugh at our expense. We shut
the window and sweated for the rest of the journey.
We stayed one night in Paris before going on to Chantilly (of lace
fame), where the championship was to be played. Before getting down
to business we enjoyed a day out at the French Derby on the town’s
famous racecourse with Dick Penfold of the Penfold company, whose
golf balls I played and whose company was sponsoring me on that
trip. He was the son of Albert E. Penfold, who played an important
part in the development of the golf ball. In 1927 he founded Golf
Ball Developments, makers of the Bromford ball. Sadly Albert was to
be killed when a Trans-Atlantic liner was torpedoed in 1942. I did
not have much success on the racecourse and Dick’s tip did not make
anyone rich when it came in - at 10 to 1 on!
Set in one of the great forests of the Ile de France, the
picturesque Tom Simpson designed course at Chantilly, since
modified, is still widely regarded as the best course in France and
is among the toughest in Europe. Here the agent who was handling our
trip fixed us up with caddies and I found myself with a girl caddie
(many female caddies were employed on French courses). I viewed this
with some trepidation as the only French I knew was un to neuf and
she didn’t have any English. However it turned out to be a good
partnership. She called out the number of the club she thought I
needed – and she was seldom wrong, other than that we did not
communicate, but she let me know what she thought of my bad shots.
“Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu”, she said in a tragic voice, much to my
amusement.
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