June 11. A view to Achill – if only!
Only the bottom quarter of the Isle of Achill’s beetling cliffs and rugged mountains is visible as I write. The weather is what the Irish call “soft”. In other words, it’s tipping down. Not that I should complain. This is only the third wet day in nearly three weeks.
Assuming the weather does eventually relent, I shall renew my acquaintance (I played there yesterday) with one of the most natural golf courses I have ever played. Achill Golf Club is laid out on linksland, behind a pebble ridge, surrounded on three sides by cliffs and mountains, and on the fourth by the Atlantic. The lie of the land is flat, but knobbly, - a bit like a supermodel on her back - providing all sorts of unexpected kicks and interesting lies – ditto, one presumes.
The scraggy sheep that roam the course appear to do most of the green-keeping. There is no watering and the equipment is distinctly Heath Robinson. I was fascinated by one tractor-drawn contraption which consisted of a heavy net, weighed down with four large tyres, which was being dragged across the fairways. It’s purpose appeared to be to break up and spread the sheep-shit: not so much a tine-harrow as a turd harrow!
But for all that, this is proper golf. The course measures 3,000 yards for the nine holes and the greens – un-watered though they may be – are some of the biggest I’ve every encountered; on a similar scale to Machrihanish. I paced the largest of them out at 44 yards by 22 – almost
1,000 square yards. It goes without saying that I three-putted it.
Only the bottom quarter of the Isle of Achill’s beetling cliffs and rugged mountains is visible as I write. The weather is what the Irish call “soft”. In other words, it’s tipping down. Not that I should complain. This is only the third wet day in nearly three weeks.
Assuming the weather does eventually relent, I shall renew my acquaintance (I played there yesterday) with one of the most natural golf courses I have ever played. Achill Golf Club is laid out on linksland, behind a pebble ridge, surrounded on three sides by cliffs and mountains, and on the fourth by the Atlantic. The lie of the land is flat, but knobbly, - a bit like a supermodel on her back - providing all sorts of unexpected kicks and interesting lies – ditto, one presumes.
The scraggy sheep that roam the course appear to do most of the green-keeping. There is no watering and the equipment is distinctly Heath Robinson. I was fascinated by one tractor-drawn contraption which consisted of a heavy net, weighed down with four large tyres, which was being dragged across the fairways. It’s purpose appeared to be to break up and spread the sheep-shit: not so much a tine-harrow as a turd harrow!
But for all that, this is proper golf. The course measures 3,000 yards for the nine holes and the greens – un-watered though they may be – are some of the biggest I’ve every encountered; on a similar scale to Machrihanish. I paced the largest of them out at 44 yards by 22 – almost
1,000 square yards. It goes without saying that I three-putted it. Gibbo in full swing at Achill GC - it was actually not a bad shot.
Yesterday morning, I got as close as I could to Yeats’ Lake Isle of Innisfree, which is a vantage point on the banks of Lough Gill, about 200 yards away. I tried hard to be impressed by its romantic beauty, but in all honesty it is a remarkably small and insignificant island to have inspired such memorable poetry. Quite where William Butler would have planted his nine rows of beans, or sited his hive of honey-bees, I am not quite sure, as the island appeared to be entirely covered in trees. But I have at least put a place to the words. Only one question remains: is it pronounced Innisfree, or Innishfree?
Yesterday morning, I got as close as I could to Yeats’ Lake Isle of Innisfree, which is a vantage point on the banks of Lough Gill, about 200 yards away. I tried hard to be impressed by its romantic beauty, but in all honesty it is a remarkably small and insignificant island to have inspired such memorable poetry. Quite where William Butler would have planted his nine rows of beans, or sited his hive of honey-bees, I am not quite sure, as the island appeared to be entirely covered in trees. But I have at least put a place to the words. Only one question remains: is it pronounced Innisfree, or Innishfree?
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I also stopped at the Irish Museum of Country Life. Unlike its English equivalent, which is buried in suburban Reading, this is set in glorious countryside near the town of Castlebar in County Mayo. No expense has been spared in bringing to life the harsh realities of rural existence (and it can’t have been much more than that) in Ireland as it used to be, and to some extent still is. One of the sections was on peat-cutting, showing the remarkable tool that the peat-cutters use to gouge the peat from the bogs. It is part knife, part spade and part scoop, and it is as much in use today as it ever was. On every moor I’ve driven through, the peat-diggers have been at work, piling up the sods for next winter’s fuel.
Deeply traditional and characteristic as it is, I’m still slightly surprised that the climate-change-PC brigade – which is every bit as strong here in Ireland as it is in the UK – aren’t trying to get peat cutting banned, given the huge amounts of CO2 that must be released (a) in digging it and (b) in burning it.
Tomorrow is the Irish referendum on the Lisbon Treaty. My money’s on a No vote – as a protest against fuel prices. That, in a nutshell, is why referendums are no way to run a country.
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