I’m an unlikely golf convert

Golf has always felt like the embarrassing uncle of the sporting world, from those garish check slacks and snobby clubhouse rules to the desperate middle-managers sucking up to the boss at the 18th hole. Like many non-golfers I could never understand the appeal. Surely only a masochist would find pleasure whacking tiny balls into tiny holes. For me, real sport involved sweaty blokes dashing round a playing field injuring each other. Golf had neither sweat nor injury unless you count a nasty chill from standing out in the rain all day. Tiger Woods may have briefly sexed-up the game back in the 2000s but it was never really considered cool to be into golf. Or so I thought.     

For years golfing friends had tried to convince me of the sport’s appeal; not only was it great for hand-eye coordination it could also improve my mental elf. But isn’t that true of everything these days? Gurus are constantly coming up with novel ways to help us avoid perfectly rational human emotions such as anxiety, stress and unadulterated misery. Anything can be spun into a mental health benefit if you phrase it right. Sitting alone with your thoughts is now called ‘mindfulness’ while getting cosy in front of an open fire – or ‘Hygge’ as the Danes call it – can put you in a good mood. Well, who knew?

Anyway, apart from a few rounds of pitch and putt, I had managed to resist the call of the fairway chiefly because I live in central London where courses are thin on the ground. That said I’m sure Sadiq Khan would be more than happy to turn Hyde Park into an exclusive 18 holer if the price was right. My nearest course is the other side of the M25 but has a reputation for attracting petty criminals and uptight cabbies who use the fairway to vent their frustrations. I’m told those tiny balls can really smart when launched in anger.   

No, if I was going to give golf the benefit of the doubt – and yes, I did eventually concede due to a series of personal upheavals – I wanted to be somewhere warm and beautiful. And so you find me, not in the wilds of the M25 commuter belt but on a lush green in Comporta, a pretty coastal region south of Lisbon. The area has become something of a Mecca for celebrities looking to improve their handicap. George Clooney, Madonna and Sharon Stone all own houses here, making it very much the Hamptons of Portugal.

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Ross Clark

Britain is living beyond its means

To the untrained eye, all golf courses look the same and for many nature lovers they are seen as a blot on the landscape, swallowing up entire ecosystems just so fat-cats can have something to do at the weekend. Here in Portugal the rules are pretty strict, with courses having to adapt to nature rather than the other way round.  

As a complete novice I’m surprised and frankly embarrassed that anyone would allow me on to such a prestigious 18 hole course where some of the world’s top professionals come to practice. Ten minutes in and I’m already hacking furiously at an immaculately raked bunker. Aiming has never been my forte and I’ve spent most of the morning wading through the rough.

An inability to hit the ball in any meaningful way has resulted in several hissy-fits and the occasional iron flung in irritation. And yet despite the constant disappointment I am having the time of my life. In fact the many frustrations inherent in the game are what make it so compelling. Ask any golf player. It’s a bit like poker where winning isn’t nearly as fun as working out where you went wrong.

It’s late afternoon and my swing remains shockingly poor as evidenced by the trail of sods littering the fairway but I’m determined to putt at least one ball before the sun sets. Back at the swanky clubhouse all the talk is of holes missed and opportunities lost. Chat that would once have once bored me to tears is now strangely compelling. Despite failing to make it beyond the third hole, I am now well and truly hooked. Much like the retired English couple who regale me with their ongoing addiction and how they’ve spent the last ten years travelling the world blogging about their favourite courses – they’ve played 3,000 so far but aim to visit another 500 by the end of the year. Andy, the nerdy husband somehow manages to bring every conversation back to his beloved sport. Golf is like that, it has a way of infecting the mind.  

As someone who has always envied the dedicated hobbyist, I am thrilled to discover that I may have found a passion of my own. Anyone considering taking up the sport might want to avoid the UK’s chilly windswept courses and instead head straight to Spain or Portugal and one of the beautiful ‘links’ courses that by definition have to overlook the sea.

Doubters will be pleased to hear that the reputation of the game is changing – women are no longer seen as fluffy second class citizens and compared with the UK, where middle aged suburbanites and beer-bellied cabbies still hold sway, courses in Europe attract a younger, more interesting crowd. And you don’t have to be mega rich to play, even in places like Comporta. Often prices are cheaper than in the UK and the weather won’t let you down quite as much.  

Did the game improve my mental health? Absolutely, but not in the way I expected. Yes I enjoyed some moderate but effective exercise, met a bunch of charmingly eccentric characters and had great fun trying to hone my shoddy swing at the driving range. But rather than coming away feeling elated and anxiety-free, my golfing sabbatical has given me a quiet but satisfying sense of resolve.

Since returning home all I can think about is getting back on the green, improving my swing and mastering the many intricacies and anomalies of this surprisingly cerebral sport. If the game has taught me anything it is to keep my eye on the ball and to follow through at all times, even when stuck in a bunker. In many ways golf is like life: endless disappointments punctuated by occasional breakthroughs.