Several weeks ago I had the privilege of returning to Pine Valley, at the grace of a friend who belongs there, for a ‘second look’. Since then I’ve let my reflections sink in, subjected them to the process of attrition, and below you’ll find what’s left.
Pine Valley is a golfer’s Garden of Eden, matched only perhaps by the Home of Golf and, maybe, by Cypress Point, in terms of a marriage of class and sheer originality. Within the storied borough – yes, the club sits in a standalone borough, ringfenced from the outside world and, pertinently, I would hazard a guess, from all the prohibitions on discrimination that go with it – there are delights the hungry golfer will devour that he will find no place else. It is as unique a creation as it is an examining one; and despite the fact that many have tried since to imitate what George Crump and his consigliore achieved, none from what I have seen have come remotely close.
But anyone with a passing interest in the world’s great golfing institutions has heard this sort of rhetoric ad nauseum, of course. They want to know more: why, why, is it so great? What is it that distinguishes Pine Valley from all the others? What could possibly render one golf course supreme in any meaningful sense? Well, I’ll give you my two cents for what its worth. It’s the whole experience – from the few minutes on either side of one’s arrival at and departure from ‘the Valley’.
In this Part I of II I’m going to share with you the ‘other stuff’ at Pine Valley – that is, everything other than the golf course itself – which, in my opinion, do as much to make Pine Valley what it is as those eighteen diverse chapters. In Part II I’ll confine my reflections to the latter.
At the end of the road is a small dusty clearing; in it are a few cars; and through it, across the railroad track – an unlikely Pearly Gates – lies the borough of Pine Valley. Bordering the driveway are a short string of white bungalows and, after fifty yards or so, you reach a booth staffed by a man with a clipboard. The moment of truth. But rather than having to defend his invitation with an infallible story, the nervous visitor (unless it’s Sunday afternoon, he’ll be a “he”) is put at ease right away. I didn’t catch the chap’s name, but he, like all the staff at Pine Valley, “get’s it” - a consummate professional. With warmth and admirable efficiency I was welcomed and directed to the clubhouse, a two minute drive that takes you across the eighteenth hole, past the fourth green and, finally, into a turning circle one is rather excited to be stopping in.
Soon a gruff old chap will approach at a relaxed pace and ask for your host’s name – not so much in a pointed fashion as in a matter-of-fact-there-is-no-nonsense-or-pretense-for-that-matter-at-Pine-Valley fashion. He was like a Scot with an American accent, a curious beast. I’m not sure whether the interior of the clubhouse lobby reflects his demeanour, or whether he reflects its demeanour, but either way, the same functional aesthetic continues as you take your first steps inside. On your left are a series of spartan notice boards giving notice of fixtures past and future; straight ahead is an open plan sitting area with several sets of leather sofas, arranged in a manner conducive to social gathering, and copies of the day’s papers sitting crisply in anticipation (one of my fondest clubhouse moments of 2010 was reading a copy of the WSJ in the comfort of one of those leather armchairs, while waiting for Ed to arrive); and, to the right, are a restroom, fireplace, the pro shop (beyond) and the office – which, being separated only by a waist high counter rather than floor-to-ceiling structures of any sort, exudes an informal welcome that’s the very antithesis of (at least rumours of) the draconian club Secretary’s office, a la Muirfield & co.
A familiar face made it all the more welcoming. Padraic O’Rourke is a pal from Ballybunion, the former Assistant Pro there, now in his second year of life in the big time. In his day – certainly in 2010 – Paddy could put down a few pints, but – and I could see this right away from the energy coming off him – he’s a different man these days, and all the better for it. His musical lilt remains and, after he’d introduced me to everyone in sight, we compared notes for some time about our respective late experiences. Alan, the chap in the office, thought I’d just come to hang out with Padraic for a while; and in that misapprehension my impression of the place as a vacuum of pretense was cemented yet further – not in many elite clubs would one just drop in on a summer morning to ‘hang out’ with the Assistant Pro. (It was the same story when I asked the fella in the half-way house (on eight) whether there was a restroom nearby, and he replied, “it’s a men’s club – just find a bush...”).
My host Ed and his son Mark arrived soon after, looking like twins in white polo shirts and khaki shorts. There is also no doubt – if facial features are anything to go by – that Ed is Mark’s father, the only discernible difference being thirty years between vintages. See for yourself (Ed, far left; Mark, middle right; Mark’s long-time friend, Enrique, middle left - from the 18th tee) –
Mark was keen to hit a few balls and, uncharacteristically, I said I’d join him. Having watched the Alliss interview the night prior on Feherty (after Peter was inducted into the Golf Hall of Fame), Ed was quick to point out, as Peter did, that “I hit seven out of ten OK, and that’s enough for me...” He grabbed a mug of Joe and chewed the fat with a fellow member while Mark and I hopped into the car (the range is a three or four minute drive away, beyond the sixth and seventh holes). And what a practice facility. Practice being one facet of the game with which I’m entirely unfamiliar – not since I was twelve years old have I pitched around the garden, and no doubt my short game has suffered for it – I am invariably underwhelmed when people strike up a conversation along the lines of “have you seen the range they have there?!...” Ranges don’t excite me, neither do chipping greens; putting greens, occasionally, maybe. This however was something else, an expanse of green targets to hit to from perfect sandy ground with Pro-V1s, no less. I won’t labour the point – it’s just a practice range, after all – but this one, this one in particular, is worth a visit. An enclosed world all of its own.
Our caddies looked like a Lemmon and Matthau Odd Couple, a pair of old guys in bucket hats with the demeanour of smiling reptiles. My guy, Joe, was a retired construction worker who’d been at the Valley for twelve years. Like the concierge, he too had the air of matter-of-factness that exudes from someone who, it appears, has seen it all. Pretty soon he figured he was going to have to under-club me, after I sent my ball soaring gloriously over a couple of pins – probably a function of the 96 degree heat, more than anything else – but, with the wonders on show all around, I would’ve been happy taking a 7 iron off Joe and telling him I’d see him on the eighteenth. We seemed to have the sort of unspoken affection that many middle-aged fathers have with their children’s dog: we liked each other but kept mostly to ourselves, only saying something when we had something to say, and even then only when the silence was not too beautiful to be stirred. Pine Valley, you see, paradoxically, is a stirringly peaceful place.
The fourth loops back to the clubhouse and, after putting out, we made for the bar for refreshment. By this time the heat was thoroughly oppressive. At Pine Valley they have it down to a fine art, catering to the bruised golfer. In the cool, dark bar Ed greeted the chap on the other side as a schoolboy friend – erstwhile encounters here are evocative of an Italian family of six hundred cousins, each sincerely interested in how another has been since they saw each other last – and ordered us pints of Gatorade on ice. Big bloody cups they were too, not a hint of measure in the process. This may have something to do with the fact that the barman knows the sweaty golfer is about to hit his tee shot on the draconian fifth hole, a par three that often attracts the tiresome moniker “the toughest par five in America” (I’ve heard the same said about several par threes, such that, regardless of whether Harry Shapland Colt’s creation elicited those words for the very first time, the force of the irony now gives way to a wry sense of exasperation).
From that moment on it’s golf – and golf only – until you circle back, somewhat disorientated, to the clubhouse. You’ll hear about the ‘gowf’, as my pal Alfie would say, in Part II.
Humbled – we weren’t the first and won’t be the last – by the course, when our foursome walked off the massive eighteenth green there was a discernible hankering for comfort, not to mention escape from the heat. A quick splash of cold water on the faces and quickly we congregated around one of only three or four tables in the bar for a gin and tonic. Unlike the famed (and now former) bar steward at the Honourable Company, this chap didn’t hold back on the gin – such that by the time I was half way down, I was in another place, so to speak. He may have taken lessons from my grandmother or one of her fellow Irish cronies (most probably Patty McNeil, who pours and starts her day with a famous ‘breakfast gin’). One drink was enough to whet the appetite for something more substantial, so further into the clubhouse we ventured.
En route to nourishment we were momentarily distracted by the magnetic homeliness of the large room you cross between bar and dining room. Evocative of the Green Room at the National Golf Links of America (though much bigger, from memory) the space appeared to be perfectly suited to reading, card games, whisky talk and the like. A man’s room. Along the wood panelled walls were the faces of past club presidents, and most notably a life-size portrait of Mr. Crump himself. These are the rooms, for me, that really tickle when you visit the world’s great golfing institutions – as is the case, say, at Prestwick, Muirfield, The Links Club, NGLA, Hoylake, Sandwich et al. I could spend a lifetime in them and, in my more decadent dreams, imagine myself as a member of all of these places, moving from one t’another for the basic pleasure of existing in these very rooms.
There was one naked (unclothed) table left in the dining room, over in the right hand corner. (Tables already dressed with white tablecloths are for dinner only). Ed made out as if there was some chance in this, that it was by some fortunate coincidence that they had left it so – but the truth, I suspect, is that this was a combination of two things: first, that the hospitality machine at the Valley is well oiled, catering as discreetly as it does efficiently to members’ needs; and second, that Ed being one of the senior members of the club, attracts the sort of devout service understandably reserved for those that have given so much over the years to the institution he holds so dear. We were seated and soon commenced an experience as satisfying as the golf.
A choice of several cold soups (or warm, if you’d prefer) is reeled off. Despite encouragement from Mark I managed to resist trying the famous snapper (turtle) broth, opting instead for a delightful gazpacho. Apparently a favourite topic of conversation in these parts is whether Merion or the Valley do a better snapper soup – Mark and Ed, being impartial of course as members of both, seemed to agree that the Valley had the edge, or at least the edge in the purity stakes, given it was made fresh on the premises (rather than bought in, as they do at Merion). As detached as I was from the passions of the competition, it was interesting to hear nonetheless. While we waited for our soups a huge bowl of coleslaw was laid on the table. This is a cherished Pine Valley ritual which I somehow didn’t recollect from my prior visit. This not being a restaurant review, I’m not going to bore you with an amateur analysis of the quality of the coleslaw, save to say that it was tangy and delicious and just the right thing in the circumstances.
In the middle of the table sat a decanter of maple syrup, or so it seemed. Being naturally inquisitive, I asked Ed what it was for – “sherry, for your soup...”! When in Rome... A delectable enhancement indeed. Our four ate very well, yet managed to find room when the time came for a couple of large chocolate chip cookies each (another PV ritual), to round off the feast. An idiosyncratic dining experience, most certainly, and one befitting of a day at the world’s best golf club.
It was with equal parts relief, anticipation and sadness that I trudged upstairs for the final act. Past the amiable dark eyes of the attendant we slid, up into the least pretentious locker room you will come across in all of your days. Like the drinks the lockers are large; and like the gruff old chap that meets you out front, they have a spartan efficiency about them. No engraved oak, just rickety old tin (?) mesh doors and a simple name tag (my host was obviously out of town...). As thrilling a prospect as the fifth hole are the showers at Pine Valley – if not the best in the world, then certainly in the top three (not surprisingly, with Merion). In marble cubicles you’ll find copper showerheads larger in diameter than your average football, or Frisbee. How many gallons of water pass through those pipes per second I do not know, but the modern local government official would have a heart attack, no doubt. What a wonderful way – ritual – to conclude one’s adventures at the Valley. Take a swig of Listerine from the gigantic bottle of the stuff by the sinks, get yourself dried off, and you’ll leave exhilarated, refreshed and with a distant smile on your face.
As tough as it is to return to the real world, one’s first step back in has a real spring in it. Several weeks on and mine still hasn’t lost it.