“The first thing a writer should be is excited…what are the best things and worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting about them?…everywhere you look in the literary cosmos, the great ones are busy loving and hating”
Ray Bradbury - “The Joy of Writing”
I knew I’d love “Zen in the Art of Writing”, Ray Bradbury’s collected essays on his own study of this particular form of witchcraft. The title appealed to me; the strange photo inside of his broad smile beneath thick spectacles, and the startled look of the black cat he cuddled, amused me, as would his words shortly afterwards.
There were other books in that charity shop that might have held interest for me, too, but I knew deep down, in my soul, that this one would somehow speak to me, change me. In the second chapter, “The Joy of Writing”, he starts talking about excitement, and the power of love and hate in stirring our spirit, and of “zest and gusto”, and in the weeks and months that follow my discovery of this master of the craft, I seem to spot these twin harbingers of passion at every step.
In a similar way, I always knew I’d love Aberdovey. It had come on my radar back in the late ‘80’s, when golf first caught me in its vice-like grip. The light would eventually fade over the flags of the local pitch & putt, and I’d return home to our house in Cardiff, and pore over Golf Illustrated, to learn more of the players and courses that mattered. Wales has a great many fine layouts, but this remote beauty on its west coast seemed to hold a certain poetry even in its name, and it exerted a pull that I couldn’t explain, or ignore.
As the days turned into weeks and suddenly decades, this longing of the heart to step upon Aberdovey’s sandy shores got smothered somehow, occasionally unearthed by a random mention somewhere or other. It’s the sort of place people whisper or shout about, to paraphrase Bradbury, and the focused energy that a stalwart of Aberdovey seems to possess when they speak of it hints at there being more to it than just another good golf course.
Then I became familiar with the writing of Bernard Darwin, whose prose on golf courses vibrates with the same zest and gusto Bradbury used, and this buried dream of playing at Aberdovey could remain underground no longer. With the train out of action, I couldn’t arrive in the way Darwin used to, slamming the carriage door to stroll into the crisp sea air of the links and “tee up within the shortest possible stone’s throw of the platform”. So instead my alarm rings at four instead of five, and with a coffee in my hand, I head west along the M4, on another peculiar pilgrimage.
Driving over the Severn is always wonderful for me, a thousand sharp memories of a blissful childhood on Welsh soil flooding my mind. The sun emerges behind me, and as I drift through the rolling hills of the Elan Valley, whose lush green fields blush with a heavy dew, I am elated by this latest mission.
Somehow this effort to re-discover my passion for the game in the last few months has reached far beyond just golf, and today feels like another blessed chance to reconnect with so much of what I loved back then, when this elusive Aberdovey first caught my attention. I delight in the dual language signage by the road, and fragments of the obligatory lessons in the local dialect drift back to me from another century, another lifetime.
I line up a few albums that were central to this person I used to be, and far from helping to simply pass the time - my time seems to pass far too swiftly as it is - they seem to obliterate the notion of time altogether, casting me back a few decades into the early nineties, before the doubts and duties of adulthood diluted my soul. I’m stunned to discover how easily the lyrics of these old, forgotten friends flow through my lips after all this time, and the hopeful, romantic innocence of Nick Drake and Joni, Kurt and Marvin all speak of the same old themes - of pain, of loss, of growing old. But most of all, of love. These moments seem alive to me, eternal, and the miles of sweeping roads and timeless views are the exact tonic my spirit needed.
Just as the playlist ends, I reach the road that winds round the headland into Aberdovey itself, and here and there I spot the railway tracks, weaving through the steep hillside that drops away to my left. Across the estuary - Aberdyfi means the mouth of the river Dyfi - the dunes of Borth & Ynyslas are drenched in golden sun, and as the road swings right and the pastel tones of the high street houses appear, so too do the distinctive contours of the distant Llyn Peninsula, and I feel a fresh batch of childhood recollection and emotion rising in my chest.
I stop for a few moments beside the harbour, savouring the salty tang of the air and the rhythmic jangling of the boats’ rigging as they bob in the dark, cold water. All around me the locals seem to wear the slightest hint of a smirk, as if they know something the rest of us don’t, and as I look around at the coffee shops and ice-cream parlours, at the buildings and the lapping waves, I think I recognise this look. Aberdovey is bathed in sunshine, and those of us lucky enough to be here are simply happy.
I take the opportunity to sample a local latte, and in the soft, almost musical lilt of the barista with whom I chat, there is just a hint of a slowness, or perhaps deliberateness, that seems alien to me. I linger in our exchange, and cherish every sip of the beverage, and it dawns on me that nothing is hurried here. And as I look around at the passing faces, there’s a contentedness that seems connected to this pace. Life is just about perfect here, suggest the twinkling eyes of every resident, so why rush to the next bit?
Eventually, after what seems like such an indulgent pause, I move on and spot “Clwb Golff Aberdyfi” on an old sleeper half a mile further on. I park carefully, and, with my half-set of old Maruman blades on one shoulder, walk through the gated arch of this tiny entrance enchanted. I pause at the railway line, not to look for the trains that will not pass today, but just to be present for this moment of arrival, finally. On the far side of these rusty tracks lies the course that held Darwin’s heart, and I can’t bear to hurtle through my own initiation, or to miss a single detail.
I find a perch for my sticks and head upstairs to the bar, from which the huge glass windows permit a spell-binding view of the course - flags fluttering in the steady breeze, golfers disappearing into the duneland out to the right, towards the distant Pyllheli. I said earlier I always knew I’d love Aberdovey, and in this first, breath-taking view of the links itself, I feel all the chemistry of love at work through my body, and a smile builds across my mouth and in my eyes.
Bernard Darwin was the first Captain here, from 1897, and twice the President. Above the bar sits his famous quote that Aberdovey “is the course that my soul loves best of all the courses in the world”, and while it is tempting to gaze at these words - even more extraordinary given his close connections elsewhere - the view behind me, the one that made him feel this way about the course I am about to step onto, is too powerful to be ignored.
My hosts and I share a few minutes talking, and while the chat has the same natural tempo of that I found in the coffee shop, we are all quietly aware that our round will commence shortly. In between topics, all four of us are subject to the same magnetic pull to gaze out across the turf of this celestial playground, and soon, when I push my peg effortlessly into the sandy carpet of the opening tee box, I am as excited as I have been on any course these last thirty-five years.
From the opening drive to the final putt, the course provides a test equal in splendour to the surroundings, and while each hole has its own distinct charm, it seems too simplistic to concentrate on the individual tests, as Aberdovey seems to be far more than the sum of its parts. I have an unusual degree of clarity in picturing each drive and approach, perhaps as a result of my fascination with this architectural marvel, but it is more the overall impression of its unique quality that leaves such a mark on me.
I smile at the contours through which the fairways weave, and gaze in admiration at the green complexes and wicked run-offs. The marram grass tufts that sit on the revetted walls of the magnificent bunkers add to their charming style, and in the ever-present background rumble of the sea, and the wind that whips sand from the dunes across this narrow dogleg of land, there’s a constant reminder of the wildness of this landscape, a true link between the land and the sea.
The routing takes us almost due west until land runs out, and from there north towards the next station at Tywyn. The short ninth somehow faces the same way as the first, though it seems impossible, and much of the excellent tenth and eleventh are spent peering over at the treacherous green site of the rebuilt twelfth, whose original green disappeared overnight along with the giant dune that formerly lay beside it, swallowed by a wild storm. From a battered old bench perched above the hole - dedicated to Richard Darlington, a gentleman whose impact on Aberdovey’s legacy rivals that of old Bernardo himself - we feel the last of September’s sun on our faces and catch the course’s only clear sight of the Irish Sea over the sleeper wall.
From there we hug the dunes for another two holes then cross the fifth to weave our way home alongside the rusting railway tracks, hoping that it won’t finish too soon, this voyage into the bubble of all that is great about links golf. I stand for what seems like an eternity staring at the genial sixteenth, and am reminded of the translation my hosts provide of the Club’s motto. “Os nad wyt gryf bydd gyfrwys” translates as “If you can’t be strong, be cunning”, and in this dangerous, driveable par-4, I imagine a million golfers from Darwin himself until today pitting their wits against the simple brilliance of this cunning, bunkerless dogleg, whose tee shot he described as “capable of ruining any score”...
And then, what seems like only a matter of minutes after we started, it is all over - far too soon - and we shake hands and reluctantly exit this windswept stage and head once again for the bar. In the eyes of my playing partners - with several decades of playing here between them - there seems to live the same satisfied feeling that inhabits me, and I feel elated, as if all of the natural beauty and golfing excellence of this place has intoxicated me.
The time comes to untie myself from the alchemy of this place, and on the short journey that takes me around the estuary and to Borth, I have time to dissect this immersion in Aberdovey’s delights. Darwin’s use of “…my soul loves best…” interests me, as if his logical mind might contest the relative merits of his many other haunts - Rye, of course, and Woking, to name just two of his spiritual homes - but his soul won’t enter the debate, for there is no debate to be had.
I later find him write “Aberdovey is my ‘favourite’ because it is nearest to my heart”, and this cements this feeling that perhaps he didn’t need to think too hard about this fondness for the course, the club, the place, because it came from deep within. It was a non-thinking attachment, this - the mysterious workings of love shining through his writing just as clearly as they pour out of “What’s Going On”, or “Clair de Lune”.
This connection of his - and now mine - to Aberdovey is built of the simplicity of emotion, way beyond all yardages and rankings. It is unconditional love, for Aberdovey is as fine as a place could possibly be in the late September sunlight, and after all this waiting, all these years, perhaps its also the golf my own soul loves best, too. It is love at first sight - not across a crowded room, but under a spacious, gorgeous sky - and as the road winds up and away towards the deliciously named Machynlleth, I know a part of my own soul remains back there in the waving fescues and the flapping silks, on the other side of those famous tracks.
I love Aberdovey the way I love “Blue”, or “Revolver”. The way I love “Shawshank Redemption”, or “Life is Beautiful”. The way I love Wales itself. It’s the same way I now love Ray Bradbury, and of course Darwin himself. With zest and gusto. And with my soul, every last part of it. I hope it won’t be another three decades before I step through that gate again, but even if it is, it would still feel a little like coming home. It’s that fine.
“Eiddot ti yw fy nghalon am byth”, Aberdovey. It means “my heart is forever yours”…
Sincere thanks to my hosts for the chance to share in Aberdovey’s glory for a day. I’m more grateful than words could every convey; a round I shall never forget.
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Lovey-Dovey
It certainly has a good deal of competition, but I think this is your finest writing yet, Richard. I don't think I've ever read such a convincing, satisfying and captivating ode to a golf course as this. Brilliant and beautiful. Thank you
A wonderful article that I wholeheartedly agree with. Aberdovey is a splendid golfing experience in every respect and your description of it is equally stunning. Genuinely and immediately taken back to the smells and sounds of that wonderful day of my first visit. It is too long since my return. Appetite once again whetted. thank you.