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Memory Lane

6/2/2012

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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 it is - 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.

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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.

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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.


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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 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.........
.

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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.

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Memory Lane

17/2/2011

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My wife bought a couple of coconuts, recently, and I was reminded of my time in the south Pacific region during the UK nuclear testing programme in the fifties. It might not be obvious to those who have only seen coconuts as they are presented in greengrocers or at fairgrounds (above) - but the rough-skinned item in which the milk is contained is actually cultivated (or grown) inside a smoother outer shell about the same size and shape as a rugby ball - as shown in the picture (below).........

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......and, what is especially interesting about them is that some of us on Christmas Island used to paint the name and address of a loved one onto the outer skin, attach a postage stamp, and take the coconut to the British Forces Post Office in the same way one would in order to send a parcel and, in a couple of weeks time, a rather intrigued postman in the UK would deliver it to the aforementioned friend or relative.


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Memory Lane

23/1/2011

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I remember thinking - when my father died in 1995 - that his generation must  have been the most priviledged since time began because of the progress which had been made during their lifetime. He was born in 1912. So, insofar as military matters were concerned, for example, servicemen and women, in more recent times, had gone from hand-to-hand combat in the trenches to a situation where someone sitting in an office in Washington DC (or somewhere similar) could direct a missile through any particular window in any particular building on the other side of the world. Similarly, in another example - the world of transport - they had witnessed man's progress from the horse and cart to rockets to the moon and beyond.

Without a shadow of doubt, no other generation before them had lived through such an range of advancements. However, I've recently got around to thinking that almost all of the more significant changes which my father's generation saw actually occurred during my own lifetime - and none more than in the world of communication. In an earlier blog, I alluded to the fact that, as a young schoolchild during WW2, I used to write on a slate. Who could have imagined that, sixty-five later, I would be writing onto a device almost identical in dimensions to the aforementioned piece of stone hewn from a neighbouring quarry - and, furthermore, that my message could be sent around the world in nanoseconds?

******* I suppose, with all due modesty, it's quite impressive to be able to recall events which happened well over half a century ago. Unfortunately, however, remembering what happened rather more recently isn't quite as easy because I've just discovered that I've already attempted to follow this particular line of thought almost a year ago (scroll down to 2/27/2010). *******



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Memory Lane

8/11/2010

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Evidently, it's exactly fifty-five years since I took the young lady who became my wife on our first 'date'. I'm not going to pretend that I didn't need to be reminded that this was the anniversary. However, I'm proud to record that I do recall that the film we went to see was, "The Cruel Sea"  ..........Although, on second thoughts, it might have been, "Above Us The Waves".

n.b. (on the following day).
I've just checked with Wiki-wotsit - and "The Cruel Sea" was premiered in 1953 and "Above Us The Waves" in 1955. So, it must have been the latter which we went to see.


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Memory lane

29/10/2010

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The more observant (assuming there is anyone) reading this may have noticed that I've been spending quite a lot of time, recently, attempting to compile videos and creating a new lay-out for this web-site than writing blogs. So, what follows might be considered more 'History' than 'News'.

Earlier blogs about the visit to north Devon seem to have concentrated on the 'reunion' part of the occasion. However, another important aspect of the exercise had been to become reacquainted with the area where our training had taken place. In that respect, the most obvious difference my former tent-mate from Christmas Island, Barry Hands, and I noticed was the width of the roads - and not just the roads; this bridge at Bideford (below), for example, seems to have been widened since we were there in the fifties.....


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BIDEFORD BRIDGE

Speaking of bridges, some hadn't even been built in those days (see below).
So far as I can remember, I took the photograph of the new bridge, whilst standing on the old one and, despite the fact I believe the original bridge has been widened, it isn't nearly as wide (nor as high) as the new one.


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NEW BRIDGE AT BIDEFORD

Another interesting factor was the width of the roads within the town. It seemed to me that those on the east of the bridge (to the right in the first photo) remained as narrow as we recall them to have been - whereas, on the other side of the river, I suspect the wharf may have been extended into the river since we were last there. In any event, after a walk around the town centre, there was plenty of room for a pleasant stroll along the riverside.

Barry and I spent about an hour wandering around Bideford. However, although we used to drive our DUKWs across the bridge and through the town quite often during our training, it wasn't somewhere many of us would go during our free time.........


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BARNSTAPLE


............That dubious honour belonged to Barnstaple (a town which claims a more worthy distinction of being the oldest borough in the United Kingdom). The photograph (above) was taken from a spot very close to where the old bus station used to be and I was happy to see that what used to be the cinema (the white building) remains where I imagined it was. We also established that the building next to it had been a dance-hall. However, Barry (who led a far more active social life than I did) had recollections of another dance-hall in the town and, after a stroll around the very busy town centre (it was a Saturday), we found it. It's a theatre now.

And so ended a pleasant wander - or, in Barry's case, a waltz - down Memory Lane and we returned to our hotel - where, before the formal dinner, Barry and I presented a slide-show of our Christmas Island experiences to three or four dozen former DUKW drivers and their friends.


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Memory Lane

26/10/2010

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Compiling the video of the recent reunion in north Devon has given me the incentive to set about sorting out all the other videos I've filmed over the past few years. An earlier reunion seemed as good as anywhere to start the exercise..


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Memory lane

24/10/2010

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It's now a week since I drove home after spending a wonderful few days in north Devon attending a reunion of former RASC Amphibious DUKW drivers and it's taken me most of that time to try to familiarise myself with the iMovie feature on my MacBook.

Since replacing my previous MacBook, I've been meaning to look into the matter because the guy who 'set up' the computer for me said that my videos were taking more memory space that almost anything else. Unfortunately, however, I needed something to 'kick-start' me and filming the visit we made to the training unit proved to be just what was needed.

I'm sure there is a lot more for me to learn - and I've certainly got enough to work on (for example, three weeks-worth of video from when I visited Patagonia and Peru a couple of years ago) - but, for the time being, I'm quietly pleased with my first effort. Furthermore, I've just discovered how to download it onto this blog - and here it is...



Although the plans hadn't been set in stone at the time I decided to attend the reunion, one of the reasons I travelled down on the Thursday had been the prospect of a Friday visit to the camps where I had been trained before going out to Christmas Island. As the video demonstrates (I hope) I wasn't disappointed.


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Memory lane

18/10/2010

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Following on from the previous blog, I should explain that towards the end of last year, I was contacted by someone who was involved with the RASC Company where I attended an amphibious training course before going out to Christmas Island in 1958. Evidently, he had heard that my web-site contained  photos of DUKWs and wondered if I would mind if he 'linked' it to their own.

At the same time, he mentioned that our 'old' barracks was in the process of being sold-off by the MOD and that a final reunion of their 'association' was being planned to enable those who were interested to have the opportunity to see the camp before it was turned into a housing estate.

That 'Final Fling' - as it was called - took place last weekend and, along with several other former DUKW drivers, I enjoyed four most enjoyable days which combined some extremely well-organised visits to where we did our training together with two informal and one formal dinners at an hotel which had been 'commandeered' for the occasion (click to enlarge - below).




In addition to the actual visits, as I mentioned in the previous blog, a highlight of the weekend was being invited to drive a DUKW in and around the estuary where we had trained all those years ago. However, a more lasting testimonial might be the establishment of new friendships.


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Memory Lane

16/10/2010

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More later - but, I'm experiencing a most enjoyable few days at a reunion of the RASC Company where I did my amphibious training before going out to Christmas Island over fifty years ago. Incredibly, we were all given the opportunity to drive one whilst in and around the stretch of water where the Taw and Torridge estuaries meet in North Devon.

This is the one I drove.......


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DUKW AT INSTOW
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Memory Lane

23/9/2010

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Not the average birthday blog......

It's four-o-clock in the morning and, as is often the case when I'm troubled by a trapped nerve, I can't sleep. Fortunately, since retiring (from work - not to bed), I don't need to worry so much about the side-effects (i.e. preventing me from driving); so, I've taken a couple
of strong pain-killers.

More often than not, these have a 'knock-out' effect and I doze off quite quickly. Tonight/this morning, however, for a variety of reasons which, although
disparate, do have a common thread, my mind seems to be hyper-active and I'm being taken back exactly fifty-two years. So, I might as well share the experience with you.

The common thread, by the way, is that it's my birthday and the significance of fifty-two years ago is that it was on this very date that the last bomb was exploded during the UK's nuclear testing programme at Christmas Island. Although it wasn't the largest in the series (here's a  video of that one) the fact that it occurred on my birthday has ensured that, along with the largest one, of the five I witnessed, this one is etched quite firmly in my memory.


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CHRISTMAS ISLAND

Interestingly, another reason my mind seems to be taken back to those times (and here's where the disparate aspect of this trip down memory lane comes into effect) is that a few days before that particular detonation, our DUKW unit had visited another island in the south Pacific and, as usual, when visiting neighbouring islands, we travelled on board HMS Narvik.


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HMS NARVIK

As this photo demonstrates, the Narvik is an LST (Landing Ship Tank) and the significance of that from the point of view of this story is that she is flat-bottomed. As a consequence, when we encountered rough weather - south Pacific storms can be really rough, by the way, and waves in excess of twenty feet high were quite common - the absence of a keel meant that she could be tossed about quite a bit.

Now - and I hope you're keeping up with all this disparate stuff - another factor which might be exercising my mind is that, over the past couple of weeks, I've had some dental work done and the last treatment was yesterday. Coincidentally (pun not intended) at the height of a particularly violent storm during the aforementioned voyage, I had a raging toothache and, in order to establish a firm base, the Royal Navy medical officer strapped me into a chair which he had strapped to a pillar. Having done that, he strapped himself to the same pillar - thus ensuring that we were all moving in 'unison' whilst, with one arm on either side of the pillar, he carried out the extraction procedure.

It is said that crucial moments in one's life flash through the brain as your time runs out. So, I wouldn't be surprised,
when my time arrives, if that voyage and seeing the outline of the bones in my hands as they were pressed into my eye-sockets whilst the nuclear bomb exploded will probably feature quite strongly. I'm not ready for that day yet, however, and hopefully writing this little tale might have tired me enough to contemplate sleep again.


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