.png)
What you'll find inside No.12
In No.12, Richard Pennell discovers the joys of Rosapenna. Boris Lietzow shows us round his hickory shop in Gullane, and Jamie Darling plays Among Lofty Sandhills experiencing the original 12 holes of Prestwick. Seaton Carew prospers against all odds, and Tommy Twigley's 56 degree wedge, affectionately know as Uncle Phil, goes missing. The true face of golf is not Scottie Scheffler or Rory McIlroy, or some other factory-produced, absurdly wealthy, golf professional. It is 86 year old Sandy Watson of Southend, who lives 50 yards from the 1st tee at Dunaverty. All of this and more in The Links Diary No.12.
The Sex of Creativity
Words by Richard Pennell
Photography by Simon Pope
Colt was right, of course. He normally was. We do our best to find objectivity, and to observe each circumstance in isolation, on its merits, but the world doesn’t work that way, and so we hide our bias as best we can, and only pretend that we judge from the head, not the heart. But Rosapenna is steeped in “exceptional beauty”, so the heart takes over. It’s our hard-wiring, when faced with terrain as wild as this.
Beeswax and Bunnets
Words by Murray Bothwell
Photography by Stuart Currie
Opening the door is like stepping back in time, and I am immediately surrounded by a forest of colourful hickory clubs, stretching from floor to ceiling with the memorabilia of yesteryear lovingly displayed on any spare piece of wall. Becoming more aware of the space, I catch the sweet smell of spirit varnish and the mustiness of the leather. Pieces of suede lie across a desk, ready to be used on a grip. The smell of freshly-shaved wood pulls me further inside. There’s a hint of gas, used to melt the lead in a small bubbling cauldron, and there’s the beeswax, used to finish the whipping on the base of the hickory shafts.
Among Lofty Sandhills
Words by Jamie Darling
Photography by Stuart Currie
Beguiled by its uncanny charms, Bernard Darwin in 1913 famously wrote, “A man is less likely to be contradicted in lauding Prestwick than in singing the praises of any other course in Christendom.”
I have been lauding over Prestwick for years. Having grown up in a town just a few miles north, Prestwick had held this silent grandeur, almost stateliness in my perception. A museum on grass. Look but don’t touch. Partially hidden behind the gates lay a natural theatre in which the greats of golf had once performed their acts.
The World was a Mess, but The Links was Perfect
Words by James English
Photography by Isaac Paul
Since 1874, Seaton has seen it all. Things, promises, people have come and gone. The golf club has stayed there, defiantly. The same stretch of land, give or take. The same fierce test of links golf. The same sea gusts to blow you sideways. This course has a longevity and consistency that has been beautifully incongruous to its ever-changing backdrop. A place to help make some sense of the world for a few moments – even when everything around you might have stopped making sense anymore.
Wind, Sand and Pars
Words by Richard Pennell
Photography by Matt Williamson
It is a book that extends beyond the story of a miraculous ordeal, beyond even the mad life of its author. It is, for me at least, a small handbook for life, strewn with quotes that split me in two with their clarity, that implore me to follow my dreams as Antoine did his. And somehow, the messages in this sublime writing relate to my own path, and where he lived through flying, I often feel that elated charge when golfing. So, to relate to this treasured gift from my golfing friend, we’ll play foursomes, with Antoine striking the first of each pair of alternate swipes.
The Art of par
Words by Jim Hartsell
Photography by Graeme McCubbin
The hole has existed in its current form, more or less, since the course was laid out by the original members in 1889. It was originally the 10th hole. For many years in the early 1900’s members used a boat to ferry across the Conieglen Water to reach the fairway on the Brunerican side - a result of an ancient dispute over the location of a second bridge.
The Missing Wedge
Words by Reece Witters
Photography by Stuart Currie
Some clubs are just part of the set. Others carry after heroic shots from rounds gone by. Tommy Twigley’s 56-degree wedge, affectionately known as Uncle Phil, was the latter. Old-school vibes but built to perform when called upon the Lobfather of wedges. It could carve through rough like a scalpel, nip off tight lies without clipping a blade of grass, and spin a ball back onto the green when all logic said it should have run through. With Uncle Phil, Tommy was always in play. Never out of the hole. No one knew this better than Archibald Turner.
I'm Just Lucky to Be Here
Words by Jim Hartsell
Photography by Graeme McCubbin
Sandy Watson reckons that he first started playing golf at Dunaverty - where his father Duncan was the club steward and professional for 50 years - at around age 4. “I had a wee club my dad had cut down for me. We’d go out and hit balls around the first two or three holes like kids do,” he recalls with a remarkable clarity.