Golf, I’ve discovered, is not like riding a bike. Picking up a club for the first time in five years and expecting to smash ball after ball down the middle of the fairway was always going to be wishful thinking. I mean, if Tiger struggles with his game after months out what hope did I have?
At least the conditions were perfect. It was one of those glorious English summer evenings: the warm sun dipping towards the horizon, soft June light, shadows lengthening across the rolling green fairways, woodpigeons calling from the branches … the thwack of small white golf balls clattering into yet another copse of trees.
And, quality of play aside, it was great to get out last night for a hack round with my brothers, the first time we’d done it since before I moved to Spain seven years ago.
In fact, the last time I played was with my eldest brother, when he came to visit shortly after we moved abroad. On that occasion we tried out the Empordà Golf Resort, one of a string of top-notch courses to be found close to our home on the Costa Brava. Unfortunately, that was as far as my Spanish golf career got. Places like PGA Catalunya, which is ranked number seven in Golf World magazine’s Top 100 European courses, remain an unfulfilled dream.
For despite the fantastic facilities and ideal weather in Spain, time was always a problem.
The expat lifestyle may seem to be one of leisurely days spent drinking wine and soaking up the sun, but that isn’t the reality for most. I still had to work hard all week. And with two young daughters to look after it never seemed fair for me to slope off for five hours on the weekend to play, especially when we had no other family around to ease my wife’s childcare load.
As a result, it’s taken our repatriation to the UK for me to be able to dust off the clubs. That, and the chance to spend valuable time with my brothers, are among the plus points of moving back. If only I could have brought some of those magnificent courses with me.
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