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What you'll find inside No.6

In No.6 we venture North to the Links of Brora as Jim Hartsell answers the question why do we love golf? We've all had that moment when we believe we can play this game. That lightbulb moment when everything aligns, when it all seems to flow so effortlessly. That was not the case for a crane operator, in the north of England, in the 1970's as he aimed to become the champion golfer of the year in The Ballad of Count von Hoffmanstel. Ollie Allison asked himself, is 12 the perfect number? as he explored a wonderous golf course on an island off the west coast of Scotland. Tempers flare on a round with a golf clubs most notorious aggravated member as Reece Witters delivers another highly amusing short story in The Whistly Nostril. All of this and more in No.6

Maurice Flitcroft the Phantom of the Open
The Ballad Of Count Von Haffmanstel

Words by Murray Bothwell

Alamy Stock Photography

The challenge was Maurice had never played golf at all, but to him that wasn't an issue. He went to the local library, borrowed a Peter Allis instruction book, and bought some Al Geiberger instruction tapes. He saved up enough money to buy a half-set of clubs from a mail-order company. On arrival he popped them into a red imitation-leather bag and headed to the local beach to practise.

Brora golf Club in the Scottish Highlands with Jim Hartsell
North To The Links Of Brora 

Words by Jim Hartsell

Photography by Ryan Gilbert

There is a precious and rare type of silence to be found in the early morning on a links in Scotland. The sound of the waves quietly breaking on the beach, the wind-not too strong at this early hour-blowing through the native grasses, the sound of clubs clicking together in a carried golf bag, and wandering sheep baying their constant refrain all work to create a natural symphony.

Shiskine Golf and Tennis Club on the Isle of Arran
Is 12 The Perfect Number?

Words by Ollie Allison

Photography by Ollie Allison & Oliver Lawson

The morning light skips over the jurassic clifftops of a rugged coastline seemingly lost in time. The ferry glides us over the glassy ripples of the firth of Clyde. Sailing to the Isle feels like a pilgrimage to a place of ancient wonder, a place where the burdens of every day life can be left behind.

Old Musselburgh Golf Links and the 4th hole named Mrs Forman's
The Art of Par - Mrs Forman's

Words by Jamie Darling

Photography by Stuart Currie

In the book British Golf links by Horace Hutchinson, he wrote that "Forman's is a good five. A good straight drive will 'lie' just short of a formidable array of bunkers which must be crossed. If the second is topped, several strokes, to say nothing of energy and temper, maybe lost before the balls extracted, but a good second brings one to within a wrist shot of the green."

Discovering the game of golf
A Game Rediscovered

Words by Murray Bothwell

Art by Robbie Spriddle

Remember the fun of arriving at your ball, gauging the distance to the flag by a most uncommon thing these days... your eyes... and then trying to work out how you were going to to get the ball there, when you also had no idea of how far you could hit any club straight. Conjuring up images of golfing superstars in similar situations, you'd attempt all manner of shots from the trickiest of lies and laugh hysterically when they actually came off.

Hitchhiking to golf courses in the Western Islands of Scotland
A Hitchhiker's Guide To Golf

Words by Murray Bothwell

Photography by Emil Weber

Once the tent is up, and the nights draws in, I spend some time under cover regenerating to the rhythm of the waves on the beach, the wind rippling over the canvas and going over the day's adventures in my mind. It's never the deepest sleep when you are so close to the noise of nature, but I always feel refreshed when I open the zip and take a look at the new day ahead.

grumpy members at golf clubs
The Whistly Nostril

Words by Reece Witters

Photography by Stuart Currie

The crackle of outlawed cleats on concrete announce the arrival of a lone man. He approaches the putting green and reaches into a sun-faded Powerbilt bag, tossing a couple of balls onto the dewy surface. That unmistakable audible entrance triggers an uncomfortable warning to the wary locals who bravely avoid catching his eye.

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