The Ballad Of Iron Mike

you want to be where everybody
knows your name

So it is night three of the Dunmore odyssey and we now encounter the world's greatest bowl of sea-food chowder. As any fule kno this is served at the Haven Hotel in Dunmore East. It is a meal in itself but real men use it as the warm-up act to the King Rib and then finish off with a slab of gateau. Jason the bartender also does a very mean Bloody Mary.

Now I must introduce you to the fourth member of the team. Big Willy and ViperJohn you have met before but our usual teammate, PJ had other commitments this year. Thus did Iron Mike join us. Iron Mike, the Boy Michael, Mikey B. We shall draw a veil over his golf but it suffices to say that he was a model member of our team. That is shorthand for, he was shit. But one does not judge a man by his golf in Dunmore, one judges him by his conduct at table and at bar - and Iron Mike was a star. What other partner in a major accountancy firm would decide to dry his golf glove in the oven and absent-mindedly incinerate it? I love the smell of burning leather in the morning.

Day three meant a damp round at my erstwhile nemesis Faithlegg. Too much walking between holes but I have to concede that this is a good golf course. Please note that I made my only birdie of the week at the par five 10th - driver, 7 wood (yes I do know it's a girl's club), sand wedge, four foot putt. Easy peasy.  Repeated complaint - the clubhouse bar at Faith Legg seems to treat eating and drinking as peripheral activities. They are not and Faithlegg might take lessons in conviviality from the much less salubrious Dunmore East. Mine's a Guinness.

Night four and I eat too heartily of the monster fish and chips at the Spinnaker. Chronic heart burn. Good food mind.

breakfast of champions

Round four took us to Tramore. I'm relieved to say that we played the Old Course not the rather incongruous new holes. By all accounts Tramore Golf Club does not have its financial difficulties to seek - an hubristic epitome of the Celtic Tiger. Mine was a curious round of golf wherein I struck the ball quite well but made an inelegant meal of getting it into the hole. I can play considerably worse. And better.

And so the final night. A quiet one by our standards but graced by a final bowl of chowder, a Bloody Mary and some Hendrick's and tonic. Roll on next year.