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Discovering my addiction to golf as a teenager on Dornoch beach

My Dad taught me to play the game on family holidays in Scotland

I SUSPECT there aren't many ladies my age who can say they got hooked on playing golf as a teenager in Britain in the Seventies.

But I can - and here's a photo of me, above, resplendent in Bay City Rollers trousers (or Trews in brawn Scots) as evidence.

I reckon I look rather whimsical - despite my questionable 1970s "boyband" attire - chipping a ball on the beach with a golf club on one of our annual family caravanning holidays to Dornoch.

This must have been the one and only time my elder sister - who you can see in the background of the photo - played golf or even attempted to hit a ball at all.

People who are close, or were close, to our family know full well that my sibling and I are like chalk and cheese. I love the game of golf but my sister is very much in the Oscar Wilde camp, insisting - as the Victorian playwright did - that it is "a good walk spoilt".

Of course, I had my outdoorsy and sporty Dad to thank for my golf addiction in my early teens and it all began in the tiny town of Dornoch in Sutherland, Scotland.

My late Dad would sign up to play in the annual Men's Open Championship at the prestigious links golf course every year and my late Mum, sister and I would tag along with him.

We all spent quality time on the beach at Dornoch, even if it was too nippy for us to swim in the sea. Mum would sit on a blanket on the sand, breathing in the bracing Scots' air, whilst my sister went searching for sea shells to sketch and Dad perfected his golf swing.

I'm not sure how old I was when I watched my father hitting a golf ball along this stretch of sand, but it wasn't too long before I begged him: "Dad, can I have a go?"

"Of course," he replied, handing me his short iron. "Here you are."

I'm not blowing my own trumpet by saying I have inherited my sporting ability from my late Dad. Saying that, even I have no idea how I managed to hit my first golf shot up in the air, and quite some distance too, on that memorable day.

My father's face was a picture as he followed the ball's lofty flight and then looked at me quizzically staring at him for his approval as I held his oversized men's nine iron or sand wedge in my hands.

I'm sure my Dad must have taught me the basics of how to hold the golf club and address the ball before I took my swing, but I don't recall him doing so on that day.

And I don't remember him repeating these instructions as he hastily threw another golf ball down on the sand, saying: "Do that again."

To this day, I still recall feeling as proud as punch after taking my second golf shot and watching the ball soaring in the air possibly even further than my first one.

That was it, as far as my golf fanatic Dad was concerned, because he didn't waste any time buying me a set of second-hand ladies' golf clubs once we'd returned home to Chichester in West Sussex.

If I'm honest my golfing prowess on that glorious day on Dornoch beach was either beginner's luck - or I had found it easy playing with my Dad's lengthy clubs.

Try as I might I couldn't replicate my form that day with my new girls' clubs as I began hitting the ball too hard on the old Goodwood golf course on the South Downs and repeatedly topped it.

Saying that, I did manage to win a juniors' competition - and a golf bag complete with a set of Jessie Valentine clubs - at the upmarket Rowlands Castle Golf Club soon after taking the game up.

There was no stopping me then, and I'm sure some old members of Goodwood Golf Club, who are still around today, remember seeing both my late father and myself braving all weathers on the course.

We'd hop in the car after Dad got home from work to play a few holes of twilight golf and compete in separate weekend men's and ladies golf competitions or together in mixed foursomes.

At the time, I lost count of the numerous golf courses Dad and I visited on our annual holidays to Scotland, the Home of Golf.

And, if my late father were still with us today, I'm sure he'd agree that we had just as much fun playing out-of-the-way courses, where you posted green fees in honesty boxes, as the celebrated ones.

I don't remember hitting a sheep or a cow with stray golf balls as they grazed on windswept courses at Scotland's remote outposts. But I think I got a mild electric shock or two clambering over knee or thigh-high livestock fences carrying my cumbersome golf bag.

Still, some outstanding Scottish golf courses, such as Dornoch, Carnoustie and St Andrew's in Fife, are in a different league.

It's a pity I only played the Old Course at the Royal & Ancient Club once as a teenager when it was truly a municipal course.

I'm not sure how much it costs to play a round there today, or how long any waiting list might be, but I suspect both are prohibitive for me.

My round with Dad at the British Open course at St Andrew's has lingered in my memory not only because being there was a unique event for us but because our playing partners were such characters.

One was a trim, dapper Japanese gent, who couldn't speak English but seemed to communicate telepathically with his Scottish caddie. The other was a rich, brash Texan oil baron.

Now, I've only had my Dad's word for it because I wasn't on the men's first tee with him, the Japanese golfer and the US tycoon - but apparently the Texan rolled his eyes, nodded his head and gestured towards me ahead on the ladies' tee.

"Oh Hell," my Dad chuckled as he caught up with me and began mimicking the larger-than-life oil magnate: "Just our luck, we're playing with a woman!"

Still both Dad and I had the last laugh out on the course that day as I, a mere slip of a British girl, repeatedly outdrove the Texan on the tees.

If only we'd placed bets on that day's winner - because I reckon I would have been quids in.

By Hilary Gavin, Copyright 24th March, 2025

BATTLE OF THE SEXES: My late father, above, and me, pictured behind, had the last laugh at St Andrew's golf course even if we did have to carry our own clubs

If you enjoyed this post, why not check out my archives to discover how a bumblebee scuppered my chances at the British Girls' Open at Edgbaston Golf Club in 1979?

Hilarygavin.blog

Grumpywoman@hilarygavin.blog

Hunston, Chichester, West Sussex

Source: Discovering my addiction to golf as a teenager on Dornoch beach

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