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Roughing it on the isle of Gigha
Posted: Friday July 23, 1999 03:08 PM
Sports Illustrated senior writer John Garrity was a 42-year-old 8-handicapper when he suddenly lost his swing. Since December 1989 he has been looking for it -- a modern-day Odysseus adrift on the troubled waters of swing theory. As Garrity travels the world reporting on golf, he visits as many driving ranges as he can, avoiding the dreaded "mats only" ranges that prevent him from teeing it up. Here is the second installment of his story. Tuesday, July 13, 1999 CARNOUSTIE, SCOTLAND -- The title of this series, "Mats Only," requires no translation for those of you who visit practice ranges frequently. In its short form, or in the unexpurgated version -- "No Grass Today, Hit from Mats Only" -- it represents discouragement. A mats-only day at the range is worse than practicing blindfolded. Shots that are marginally fat look fine. The rubber tee invariably sticks up three inches above the mat, and that's a trick shot unless you're hitting a Biggest Big Bertha. Most damaging of all, you have no divot to study. A faulty swing path leaves no clues. For all these reasons, I am always searching for grass to practice on. And this past week, I hit the mother lode. On my way to the British Open, I detoured to the tiny Isle of Gigha, off the west coast of Scotland. The purpose of my visit will be explained in the Golf Plus section of Sports Illustrated, but it has something to do with the island's 9-hole golf course. This simple layout was built 13 years ago by a plumber and a gamekeeper, who transformed a sheep meadow into ... well, into a sheepless meadow. I find these homemade courses enchanting, so I played all three days of my stay. The clubhouse was an unlocked shed. You put your greens fee in an envelope and drop it in the honesty box. I wanted grass; I got grass. Acres of thick green turf covered the hill above the island's anchorage. And not just grass. Daisies, thousands of them. Buttercups. Clover blossoms in patches as big as ball diamonds. It turned out that the club's fairway mower was broken. Their only substitute was an old rough mower, which couldn't cut closer than three inches. Playing alone -- on an island of 120 people, you'd better get used to playing alone -- I lost four balls on the first four holes. No problem. I quit trying to play the course and turned the property into my personal practice ground. I hit 7-irons from the tees and then walked the ball to 9-iron or wedge distance to hit approaches into the greens. It was great fun, and over the weekend it only got better. Volunteers with tractors topped off the daisies on several holes, leaving me decent lies for middle-irons. The Hebridean day is long in July, so I could eat at the island's 13-room hotel at seven and be back on the course at eight. I can't tell you how beautiful it is at 9:30 on a summer evening on Gigha. The sun lingers and makes everything gold and green at the same time. The breeze is like a massage on your face. On my last night, I carried five balls in my pocket and hit maybe a hundred L-wedge shots back and forth between the 3rd and 9th greens. I felt totally serene. On Monday, while driving across Scotland to Carnoustie, I decided to put my latest swing changes to the test. I stopped outside Perth and played the 9-hole course at Comrie, a fairly challenging hills-and-forest track with modern greens and mowed fairways. It was warm and muggy, and swarms of aggressive, buzzing flies set upon me as I played my way uphill. But I hit the ball beautifully -- five-for-five with my new 3-wood -- and shot a 3-over par 38 with two birdies and an undeserved double bogey at the last hole. (Undeserved because my well-struck pitching wedge to a blind landing area rolled past the pin and off the back of the green onto a gravel road, which wouldn't have happened if I had benefited from "local knowledge.") The flies aside, I was quite happy with Comrie and recommend it to all weary strangers who have lost their way. Is my game restored? Hah! Nine years of this quest have taught me better. The players gathering at Carnoustie can dream tonight of birdies and eagles. I will dream of prawn cocktails and roast lamb. They can be trusted. Watch this space for another installment of Mats Only. To send John Garrity advice, share your experiences, or suggest a driving range, click here.
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