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Memory Lane

Mon, 06 Feb 2012 11:18:48 -0800

The Golf Club Stewards Association is about to celebrate becoming one hundred years old this year and, as a former committee member, I was tracked down and invited to contribute a record of my own experiences for a book which is being compiled to mark the occasion.

Here they are - n.b. some smaller photos can be enlarged by 'clicking' on them.

A GOLF CLUB STEWARD'S TALE

In many respects, the golf industry has changed almost beyond recognition since I became a steward in the seventies. In particular, it has become more professional than it used to be and, whilst many clubs are still owned and administered by the members, an increasing number are being acquired or constructed by commercial enterprises who employ graduates in, for example, business or sports management to look after the investment of their shareholders. As a consequence, some golf club members have been reduced little more than customers.

Forty years ago, however, things were different.

Enthusiastic amateurs ran most clubs and the only qualification required to be a member of a greens committee was a passing relationship with a lawn-mower and, apart from retired businessmen who offered to 'look after the books' or an hotelier who 'knew a thing or two' about the licensed trade, very few committee members had the faintest idea of the responsibilities they assumed upon being elected.

Having said that, however, it wasn't just committee members whose suitability might be open to question because few golf club stewards, in those days, had previous experience in catering and, in that respect, I plead guilty as charged. Quite frankly, there was nothing in my background which had prepared me to become a steward. In a nutshell, for the best part of fifteen years since completing National Service, I had earned a living as a self-employed driving instructor and taxi proprietor. Mind you, the former taught me the rudiments of patience and, some might say, that would be a definite advantage for the task in hand.

Anyway, by the early seventies, I had been toying with the notion of becoming a pub landlord. At around the same time, for health reasons, I joined a golf club and, subsequently, become friendly with the professional at another club in The Peak District. Knowing that his club were looking for a new steward, he suggested that taking the position might be a sensible way for my wife and me to learn about the licensed trade at no expense to ourselves.

In those days, it was common in golf for the husband to be employed and paid by the club and for his wife to provide the catering on a self-employed basis and, very much to our surprise - bearing in mind our combined experience amounted to little more than part-time bar jobs - we were appointed to the position.

Here we are (left) on the 'wrong' side of the bar just after I had removed my wife's hands from around my throat - and, although it might not have seemed so at the time, a definite advantage of the situation in which we found ourselves was that we very quickly learned how to cope with every imaginable aspect of golf club stewardship. Over the next couple of years, since we were the only members of staff, my wife and I found ourselves attending to just about everything from unblocking overflowing urinals to serving lords of the realm.

To be perfectly honest, one would have to be pretty stupid not to be able to grasp the rudiments of what was required to run a bar; so, from my own point of view, the new environment presented few problems.

For my wife, however, the challenges were enormous. Although perfectly capable of laying on a few sandwiches and cakes for functions for the church or The Women's Institute, she had never actually prepared a dinner for more than three or four couples. However, within weeks of moving to the golf club, there were occasions when (in a kitchen little larger than a bus shelter) she would cater for over three hundred people at a time and - incredibly, she relied on simple mathematics to address the problem. In other words, she knew what was required to feed eight or ten people; so, she used straightforward multiplication to work out what was required for any more.

Fortunately, although the hours are long, the life of a steward doesn't have to be all work and no play. Traditionally, golf club employees are granted what is known as 'courtesy of the course' - which means that they can play golf without having to pay green fees. Furthermore, in much the same way that a visiting golf club captain, for example, might be offered this courtesy, stewards and greens staff might expect similar concessions at other golf courses.

Intriguingly, however, for a club whose membership was mainly what might be described as blue-collar, there were some who weren't at all happy that their steward was playing on their golf course. Even more intriguing was the fact that the most vehement objections emanated from what - in golfing vernacular - was an artisan element. Fortunately, they were in a minority and my family and I were allowed to play so long as the running of the clubhouse wasn't compromised.

A few months after moving to the club, a steward of a neighbouring club enquired if I would be interested in joining The Golf Club Stewards Association; a non profit-making organisation whose original purpose had been to provide benevolence for stewards and their dependants who may have suffered ill-health or fallen on hard times. Funds were accumulated by holding golf competitions and, although there were some national tournaments, the majority were organised and played on a regional basis.

These tournaments were played on Mondays (traditionally, the steward's day off) and were held throughout the summer months. Apart from an annual Individual Stroke-play competition, they were usually played to a four-ball Stableford format with each steward inviting a guest. Prizes were often donated by sponsors from the licensed trade (see below) and the host club captain was usually invited to play and be the guest-of-honour at a prize-presentation dinner in the evening. Not surprisingly, the host stewards and stewardesses were anxious to impress their peers; so, the meals were to a very high standard.

A couple of years after joining the association, I was asked to host one of the competitions at my club. By that time, my wife's cooking had gained a very good reputation and the big day seemed to go down quite well. Probably because of this, a few months later - when the steward of a much larger club in Lancashire was about to leave, one of their committee members (who had attended the competition at our club) asked if we would be interested in applying for the position.

Known as 'poaching', this was common practice by committee members in those days. From their point of view, it was a sensible method of employing people with a proven track-record and, for the stewards, it was quite appealing because the only way to gain 'promotion' within the industry was to move to a larger club and, putting aside a subconscious desire to be rid of the aforementioned artisan element, it seemed a sensible time to move. Apart from the attraction of managing a much larger club, the opportunity of an increased income couldn't be ignored. Furthermore, we had come to realise the prospect of remaining within golf offered a more attractive environment in which to raise our two sons than by the earlier ambition of owning a pub. So, we applied for and were accepted for the position.

The new environment (which has since become a country club) afforded myself the opportunity to learn more about the licensed trade; especially insofar as wines and spirits were concerned and the more sophisticated catering requirements - coupled with better facilities and the means to employ more staff - enabled my wife to broaden her skills considerably.

In addition to a fine course which attracted major competitions, a significantly larger clubhouse allowed the club to hold frequent social functions - morris dancing, for example - and during one of them, having allowed my beard to grow a little longer than usual, a sponsored shave raised quite a lot of money for charity (see below).

Paradoxically, although most members at the new club were from a slightly more prosperous section of the community than the old club, I was rather surprised to find that there were still some who seemed obsessed with inverted-snobbery; however, courtesy of the course was never an issue. Both my sons were able to join the junior section and the elder one went on to become Junior Captain whilst the younger one won an important stroke-play competition (see below).

Coincidentally, my own golf was improving as well and I managed to win the previously mentioned stroke-play trophy with the Stewards Association - with whom I was becoming more involved. So much so, that I became a committee member and, soon afterwards, was elected Honorary Secretary for The North West section and, for the best part of two years, I thoroughly enjoyed arranging golf competitions and various social functions throughout the region.

From the golfing point of view, this meant establishing which stewards were willing to host a tournament and then seeking permission to play their course. This rarely caused a problem because the steward will usually have 'sounded-out' his Club Secretary. However, there was still a lot of correspondence involved and, at the tournaments themselves, collecting entry-fees and issuing cards kept me busy and, after playing in the competition, acting as Master of Ceremonies during the evening was also pretty time-consuming - but rewarding. In addition to the regional responsibilities, I also attended meetings of the national association, became a regular contributor to the association's magazine, and was involved with the administration of the association's marquee during The Open.

It was a couple of resourceful members of the national committee who concocted the idea of a Golf Club Steward's Association marquee at The Open and they had approached the R & A who seemed quite enthusiastic. In 1976, at Royal Birkdale, the concept was put into practice and it has progressed to become a prominent feature of the tented village since then. Although I didn't contribute towards the operation of that opening venture, my parents lived in Southport, so my younger son stayed with then for the week and walked to the golf course each day to help out as much as a thirteen-year-old could.

Conveniently, for almost all of the time I was a steward, I owned VW camper vans (see right with elder son and myself outside the rather unimposing golf clubhouse at our first club) and, for the three years from 1977 to 1979 - along with my sons (and friends) - we parked alongside the marquee during The Open and acted as caretakers at night and general dogsbodies during the day.

It's difficult to remember exactly how many well-known golfers and personalities we met during those exciting times; however, my younger son collected the autographs of several - including Seve Ballesteros, Nick Faldo, Johnny Miller, Gary Player and Jack Nicklaus. For my part, I met the likes of Arnold Palmer, Henry Cotton, Harry Carpenter, and Henry Cooper - in addition to serving drinks to many other equally fascinating characters.

Returning to ordinary mortals, in addition to our regional competitions, the North West section held what was billed as an 'International' match against The Scottish Clubmasters Association (a north-of-the-border version of The Golf Club Stewards Association). The event was sponsored by major companies such as Piccadilly Cigarettes and Harp Lager and the venues alternated between the two countries.

The earliest one I attended was at Glenbervie Golf Club and, from a personal point of view, was memorable because it was the first time I had experienced Scottish hospitality. As a consequence of that, there's very little about it that I can remember. Suffice to say, I must have enjoyed the occasion because when asked if the event could be held at my club, I was happy to accept the challenge.

Here is the north west team at one of the matches..........

Once again, it seems we (especially my wife's catering skills) made a pretty good impression because, a few weeks later, I was invited to apply for a much-coveted (although I didn't know it, at the time) position at the ninth oldest golf club in the world. So, after a process which involved two lengthy journeys and two equally lengthy interviews, almost exactly two years after moving from The Peak District to Lancashire, we moved even further north. Although the contract said "Clubhouse Manager of The Glasgow Golf Club", I was happy to be known as Clubmaster. My wife, on the other hand, was rather less impressed and was anxious for it to be made quite clear that Clubmistress was only one word.

We stayed in Glasgow for eight very happy years - enjoying an environment which, having been established in 1787, maintained standards based on centuries of tradition. The respect shown towards the staff was a marked contrast to our earlier experiences; however, it was an extremely demanding position and when, once again, we were invited to consider another move, we had to put sentiment aside. The prospect of running an almost as prestigious but significantly less busy club was beguiling and a 'promotion' to Manager was also an inducement and we moved to the Ayrshire coast and, to some extent, reached the pinnacle of our career by hosting a Final Qualifying Round of The Open in 1986.

Sadly (in many ways) during the following year, I was persuaded to leave the golf industry; paradoxically (bearing in mind the reason we joined the game in the first place) to become a pub landlord in The Peak District. Even more intriguing, was the fact that the man who invited us to move back to England was the former golf club captain who had been the very first to employ me as a golf club steward fourteen years previously.

EPILOGUE

Although I can't deny feeling occasionally aggrieved by certain experiences during my early years as a golf club steward, it was only whilst doing some research before putting this record together that I realised how much I may have been affected by them. I had forgotten that I had written articles in the stewards' magazine which suggested, for example, that some members looked upon (and treated) stewards as little more than glorified bartenders.

Certainly, my own experience (particularly in the first club) was testimony to the fact that there were definitely members of golf clubs who resent members of staff being afforded courtesy of the course and, at the second club, there were elements who imagined they were the employer and the member of staff was the employee.

However, having made these observations, my own feelings - believe it or not - were to feel a certain amount of sympathy towards the individuals concerned because, in almost all cases, there seemed to be an explanation for their behaviour. Put bluntly, they were, at best, under-achievers and, at worst, failures. Furthermore, I suspect that many of those who seek to become members of a golf club committee do so to compensate for a failure to make the grade at work. This could go some way towards explaining the employer/employee scenario.

Whatever the reasons, I never experienced these issues again after moving north of the border.

At the time, I presumed this was a consequence of the gulf between the social and economic status of the memberships of the particular clubs with which I had been involved. In football terms, the English clubs came from the lower divisions whereas the Scottish ones were Premier League.

Interestingly, I've recently discussed the subject with another former steward who moved from the north west (to the southern counties, in his case) and his experience had been very similar to my own. So - and I say this as someone who was born in the north west - perhaps the problem (if there is a problem and not a figment of my imagination) might be a regional one.

Thoughts

Mon, 06 Feb 2012 09:14:38 -0800

Although there may be signs that I'm becoming more mellow as time takes it's toll, it has never been in my nature to show - or, even, in some cases, experience - emotion or a reaction to what might be considered to be significant events in my life. I don't, for instance, recall being concerned when abandoned (in effect) at boarding school at the age of four and, since then, I've pretty much accepted whatever life has presented me with a pinch of salt; "Qué será, será", as they say.

For some reason or another, however, I've been quite affected by a recent trip down Memory Lane. It all started when, I was asked to put together an account of my own experiences as a golf club steward for a book which is being compiled to celebrate the centenary of The Golf Club Stewards Association. I was sorting out some photographs which were taken the best part of forty years ago; and, for the very first time in my life, I felt a twinge of regret that I wasn't as young as I used to be.

Now, for many, this might not seem such a big deal. For me, however, it's significant because - although I have often shown signs of immaturity - I've always felt a certain degree of contempt for those who cling to their youth (in particular, those who try to conceal the ageing process). So, it came as something of a shock to feel affected in this manner.

What makes it even more difficult to accept is the recognition that, although I might be ruing the passage of time, imagine how much more galling it must be for my wife. To illustrate the point, here is a series of photographs showing us at the start of our life together, framed by how we look now, and (below that) at a time considered to be the prime of our lives - i.e. when we went 'into' golf. (some photos can be enlarged by 'clicking' on the photo).

It isn't too difficult to work out who drew the short straw and easy to understand that, although she's a little more opinionated nowadays, in my eyes, she's hardly changed at all since the day we met.

Rambling

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 03:41:40 -0800

The first snow of 2012.

It started on Saturday night (top left) and, by Sunday morning, it had become quite deep. (photos can be enlarged by 'clicking' on them).

Trixie

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 07:32:47 -0800

Having clocked-up the best part of three thousand miles since Trixie arrived ten months ago, my wife is now sufficiently confident in my riding skills to allow me to have a go on her scooter.

Happy days!

Trixie

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 13:11:18 -0800

Who would have believed, having put my trike away for the winter in November, that I would be taking Trixie out for a spin as early as January? Furthermore, although I've commented on it in the past, it's also difficult to believe how much can be fitted into her assorted storage spaces. Here, for example (below) is what I had collected by the time we arrived back home........

The waterproofs and spare gloves and cap were already in the 'boot compartment'. However, I also managed to squeeze in a hundred grease balls (for the birds) and a dozen tins of food (for the feral cat) in the rest of the area under the seat. The biscuit stuff for the cat, the bread and milk for the rest of us, and about a hundred golf balls a friend had bought (for a quid!!) at a boot sale all fitted into the top box. Even then, there was a little bit of room remaining had I needed it.

Amazing space (as they say - or should that be sing?).

Miscellaneous

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 14:48:06 -0800

A recent blog about ancestors on the male side of my family reminded me that there was an interesting story to tell about the distaff side, too..........

My elder son met and married a lovely girl in the USA and, in time, I learned that (like many in America) her family has far more detailed records of their ancestors than most people on this side of the pond have of theirs. For example, insofar as my own ancestry is concerned, without delving into the various web-sites available on the internet these days, I would be hard-pressed to identify anyone on my father's side from anytime earlier than the latter part of the nineteenth century.

Fortunately, my mother's ancestors in north Wales were much easier to trace; not least because they remained in the same region. Furthermore, they had occupied the same property (and an earlier building on the same site) since the eighteenth century.

Now, it's not particularly unusual for a dwelling to remain in the same family for several generations because the generally accepted rules of inheritance meant that ownership passes from father to eldest son and heir. For over two hundred years, however, my mother's ancestors adopted a rather unusual system where the youngest daughter inherited the property. Instead of her leaving home when she got married, her new husband moved into the property and they continued to care for her parents for as long as they lived - at which time the new family became the owners.

This is rather well demonstrated in this photograph which was taken around 1885 and shows three generations of the family. The smallest of the little girls is my grandmother - and, with the passage of time, as the youngest daughter, she would become the matriarch. She's standing next to her father. Her mother is the lone figure to the left of the house and the elderly man in the foreground is her father. I suspect the man on the horse may be an employee of my great, great, grandfather who I believe may have been a carter. Over the years, other ancestors have included a farrier, a carpenter, and a bespoke tailor (my own grandfather).

When I lived there, as a small child during WW2, I had been under the impression that the property was a farm. It was, after all, self-sufficient with a cow, a pig, several hens, some sheep and a large vegetable garden. However, although the grounds covered about the same area as two or three football pitches, it would be more accurate to call it a smallholding.

Sadly, for a variety of reasons - not least the fact that the final youngest daughter (my aunt) didn't marry - the tradition came to an end a few years ago.

Thoughts

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 07:35:32 -0800

A little more than twenty years ago, I started to speculate about how attitudes could be influenced by ancestors. At the time, my elder son was about to get married and I had been toying with the notion of offering some fatherly advice and, in so doing, it occurred to me that all of the most recent ancestors on the paternal side of my family had - quite deliberately, it would seem - adopted a policy of parenting almost the complete opposite to that which they had received themselves.

My own father's life, for example, had been very much influenced by decisions made by his mother and, although he was very successful in the career into which he had been guided, he harboured a lingering and life-long resentment for the fact that he had been prevented from doing something of his own choice.

Interestingly, the fact that my grandmother was the dominant parent might suggest that my grandfather may also have had a manipulative parent and might explain why, as a consequence, he seemed less inclined to push his own son one way or another.

What is certain, however, is that my father seemed determined not to make (in his opinion) the same mistake with me. So much so that, even though there were times when I asked for guidance, he refused to give it; insisting that it was entirely up to each individual to decide what they did with their own life. Paradoxically, this has had the effect of me becoming almost as resentful for not receiving guidance as my father had been for receiving too much.

Now, it probably won't come as a surprise to learn that I was anxious not to make (in my opinion) the same mistakes when I became a father myself. However, I have been fortunate enough to understand that - in much the same way that my father and I had different personalities and needs - the same applied to my own two sons. So, one might need advice whilst the other might not; however, although I have always been ready and willing to offer advice (when asked), it won't be pushed down their throats.

Speaking of throats, what has prompted this blog was a situation a young mother of my acquaintance mentioned on facebook, recently. Evidently, her three-year-old son had expressed a desire for, "A banana dipped in raw porridge oats and it has to be in the white bowl!" and this caused the young mother to ponder, "For a fussy eater ****** you really do have some bizarre tastes!"

Subsequently, someone else commented that their mother bemoaned the fact that the younger generation seemed to be given far more latitude than used to be the case in 'the old days'. In other words, they should eat what's put in front of them (a sentiment to which I subscribe, by the way) and my young friend wondered whether, by being too lenient, she might have made a rod for her own back.

The point I'm making is that - although this might not be so in this particular case - there is a tendency for a second generation to be too lenient towards a third if (in their opinion) the first generation had been too strict.

Rambling

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 09:22:20 -0800

Earlier this year, I posted a few photographs taken during a visit my sister and I made to north Wales in order to visit our aunt in a residential care home. At the time, I wasn't sure into which category that particular blog should have been placed. It would, for example, not have been out of place as a trip down "Memory Lane". However, I decided that "Trixie" (see right) was more suitable because I had ridden there on my trike. On this occasion, however, I thought "Rambling" would be appropriate.

Over the past couple of days - alone and driving my car as a mark of respect to the weather - I've repeated the journey to deliver Christmas presents to my aunt and others who have been helpful to her - and, in so doing, followed a procedure with which I've become extremely familiar.

This usually involves a hasty drive north using the motorway system, an overnight stay at a convenient hostelry, followed - after visiting my aunt and the aforementioned 'helpful others' - by a more leisurely journey back south. The route I usually take (certainly whilst still in north Wales) avoids major roads and, in some cases, involves single-track roads and steep ravines which can be dangerous and quite frightening during inclement weather. Indeed, when I paid a flying to my aunt, a month ago, I encountered the worst fog/hill mist I've ever driven through in over fifty years of driving in the region.

So, yesterday, fearful of a repeat performance, I took a route which I had never taken before - and in so doing visited somewhere I had been intending to have a look at for several years (bearing in mind I come from Liverpool) a major source of the city's water supply - Lake Vyrnwy.

Interestingly, yesterday was the shortest day of the year and I only just managed to take some photographs before it became too dark. Even then, I've had to resort to taking advantage of some of the gizmos available on iPhoto. Smaller photos can be enlarged by 'clicking' on them..........

The first two photos (above) show a couple of the numerous waterfalls which supply the water to the lake (below).........

Possibly enhanced by the fading light, the darkness of the water (below) in this quiet corner of the lake looked rather forbidding......

Evidently, the tower (below) contains the main part of the extraction process from where the water is pumped over sixty miles through underground pipes to Liverpool........

Finally (below) is the dam which created the lake......

Having spent years with little option other than to stay at motorway service stations when I used to deliver buses around the country, one of the advantages of A and B roads is the variety of alternatives which are available. I visited this roadside pub/hotel just south of Shrewsbury during the earlier visit to Wales on Trixie and have stayed there a couple of times since - including last night - because it's very welcoming and very reasonable.

Crafty

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 11:47:02 -0800

For the eagle-eyed who wondered what the 'black bird' in a photo in a previous blog might be, it was an entry in an earlier village scarecrow competition. Here's a video...........

Thoughts

Mon, 21 Nov 2011 11:53:51 -0800

I don't actually know the reason - but, for as long as I can remember, although not overtly so, my father seemed to have had an enduring fascination with money. Not, I should explain, in the sense that he was a miserly or mean man - but that he had an uncanny awareness of his own financial position at any given time. For example, at the end of each day, he had a pretty good idea of how much he had spent. Furthermore, he could recall what he may have paid for something many years previously; as well, I might add, as being able to remember if anyone had failed to repay a loan (however small) for a long as he lived.

Now, perhaps as a subconscious reaction to this environment, I have a rather more laissez-faire attitude towards wealth - to the extent that there were times when I might have been accused of not caring about it at all. I'm not sure that's entirely accurate - but it is true that I have rarely scrutinised a wage-slip or salary statement in the somewhat naive expectation that, should there have been an administrative error, it would be resolved at a later date. Furthermore, I've tended to view avarice and those who practice it with a fair degree of contempt.

Recently, however, I have started to pay a little more attention to financial issues than has been the case in the past - and a fundamental reason for this new attitude has been a growing realisation that there are elements within the world of commerce who are quite happy to take advantage of people like me; and, in some cases, using quite underhand - if subtle - methods.

My car insurers, for example. Instead of requiring me to telephone them to accept the terms and conditions outlined in their renewal notice documents (as has been the case for the past thirty years, or so), they have been good enough to offer to save me all that trouble by generously going ahead and altering the amount I have been paying on direct debit for the past year. I only need to telephone them if that's not my intention.

At first sight, this is an appealing proposition to someone like me who 'can't really be bothered' with all that rigmarole. However, on this occasion, I decided to read beyond the enticing offer - and it's just a well that I did - because I might not have noticed that the new premium is about £150.00p more than the previous one. Furthermore, taking advantage of comparison sites, I have found identical cover for about £250.00p less!

Now, it's not just insurance companies who seem happy to take advantage of existing (and, often, long-standing, customers). In recent weeks, I've discovered that the cost of satelite TV coverage has increased considerably since I first became a subscriber. Furthermore, the ability to pick and choose what I watch has been removed - leaving no option that to have 'packages' containing a hell of a lot of channels which don't interest my in the slightest. Interestingly, when I started to show some annoyance about the situation, it was decided that as 'a valued customer', I would be entitled to a significant reduction for the next six months. A*******s!

Anyway, having developed a taste for 'negotiating', I then set about researching what alternatives might be available on the telephone and broadband front and, although, I hadn't any complaints about my previous suppliers, I have decided to make some significant savings by signing-up with different companies.

On a more optimistic note, a recent drive to the north of England revealed that - whereas, two or three years ago, I found that many (if not most) hotel chains and motorway service stations charged ridiculous amounts to provide wi/fi - an increasing number seem to have reacted (I suspect) to customer demand by providing it free; and quite right, too.