St. Enodoc the Lesser
“Seaside Golf – The 13th Hole St. Enodoc,” by Sir John Betjeman, the late British poet laureate, is one of the great paeans to the game. As Noel Freeman pointed out in his piece on Betjeman’s golf poetry in issue two of The Journal of the Shivas Irons Society, the poet “believed golf was an infinite game, played for the purpose of enjoyment and celebration.” Betjeman certainly gave joyous expression to his love of the game in “Seaside Golf,” and with it captured the joy we may each have felt when performance and place intersect.
Less well-known – at least as a poem – is Robin Butler’s response to “Seaside Golf”, which he delivered at the St. Enodoc Golf Club’s Centenary Dinner in April 1990. Compare and contrast!
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— from Betjeman
How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear’d the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker’s back –
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.
And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp’d it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I’d find it on the green.
And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most securely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
The quite unprecedented three.
Ah! seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere. |
— Butler's response
How low it flew, how left it flew,
It hit the dry-stone wall
And plunging, disappeared from view
A shining brand new ball –
I’d hit the damned thing on the head
It made me wish that I were dead.
And up the fairway, steep and long,
I mourned my gloomy plight;
I played an iron sure and strong,
A fraction to the right.
I knew that when I reached my ball
I’d find it underneath the wall.
And so I did. I chipped it low
And thinned it past the pin;
And to and fro, and to and fro
I tried to get it in;
Until, intoning oaths obscene,
I holed it out in seventeen.
Ah! seaweed smells from sandy caves
They really get me down;
In-coming tides, Atlantic waves
I wish that I could drown,
And Sloane Street voices in the air
And black retrievers everywhere.
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