KILLINEY GOLF CLUB

Chapter 12 - Tales from the 19th

As the playwright Alan Bennett once observed, memories are not shackles, they are garlands. And it was possible to gain a keen sense of those words as club members reflected recently on some of the incidents which clearly lent a wonderful richness to their life at a treasured place, which had become a second home to them.

This same richness imbued the thoughts of Johnny Redmond when, on the occasion of the club’s 75th jubilee in 1978, he spoke to Kathleen O’Connor of “The Irish Press” about his memories of golf at Killiney, going back to his early childhood.

Johnny, who was born and reared in Killiney but had lived in a quaint little cottage in Ballybrack since 1943, was all of 10 years old when he got a job caddying on the Hill. “Golf was different then,” he recalled. “In fact everything about the game was different then. The members never came in cars, there were no such things as cars.

“‘Twas great to see them coming up the road on bicycles, tandems and sidecars. And, of course, they were all gentlemen. You had to be someone to be in a golf club. They were all doctors or solicitors or business people. But they were nice fellows, sort of refined I suppose you’d say.”

“There were no tee-pegs in those days and the fella who invented them must have made a fortune. On every tee, there was a box of damp sand and the caddie would grab a fist of it and make a little mound where the player would put down the ball before driving off. But it wasn’t quite as simple as that. Some players would want it low, others middling and other still wanted it high. Your back would be broken, particularly in a fourball where you’d be going up and down like a yo-yo.

Naturally, Saturdays and Sundays were his busiest days. “You’d be up at the crack of dawn,” he recalled, “always hoping to be the first caddie. But walking all those hundreds of miles on all those fairways down through the years, generally paid off in that I got to know the game and everything about it. And, naturally, I also got to know the players.

Though Johnny quit caddying as a 16-year-old to take up a “real” job, the lure of the fairways was too strong to break. So it was that he took a job as a groundsman at Killiney. “It was a nice kind of job,” he said. “You’d start work at 8.30 in the morning and finish at around 5.30. The job involved cutting the grass with a horse-drawn mower, or cutting new holes in greens or replacing sand in the bunkers.’’

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Sharply contrasting memories were recalled by Ronnie Lynam, as he reflected on the myriad stories which emanated from the Back Bar of the clubhouse, where affairs of state were solved, with outpourings of profound wisdom, naturally. And similar sagacity was to be observed in the snooker room.

One particular story from Ronnie, has to do with a rather special snooker game many years ago, involving two deceased members, Brendan Doyle and the ubiquitous Jack Arigho.

As Ronnie recounted: “Brendan was a fantastic snooker player, having been 13 times the champion of Grange GC, whereas Jack Arigho would have been pretty hopeless. In the event, Jack and Brendan were paired in a friendly fourball in the snooker room and when the opposition broke off, the 15 reds were still on the table, 14 of them in the bunch and the 15th red down the baulk end of the table.

“At that point, Arigho had to go to the loo. And given that he suffered very badly from arthritis, it was going to take him some time to make the trip from the snooker room and back again. So, Brendan generously offered to play Jack’s shot, only to have the offer rejected by the opposition.

“It meant there was nothing for it on that the other three waited while Jack shuffled off, did what he had to do in the loo and then shuffled back. And as he came back through the snooker room door, it was clearly aimed badly. This was evident from a tell-tale stain on his light-coloured pair of trousers.

“Unperturbed or oblivious, he went to the table, picked up his cue and prepared to play his shot, at the lone red at the other end of the table. On observing this and the fact that 14 reds were sitting quite close to the cue-ball, Brendan turned to his partner and enquired quite reasonably: ‘Jack, what are you doing?’ To which Arigho replied: ‘I’m playing that red down there.’ Which caused Brendan to explode: ‘In the name of God almighty, if you can’t hit a urinal from three feet, how can you expect to hit a snooker ball 12 feet away.’”

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Then there was the tale of the member who went forward in his car, in reverse. And for the sceptics in our midst, Eddie Conway informed us: “I was driving the car.”

He went on to explain: “This member, who shall be nameless (naturally!), got into the wrong company on a particular night and was a bit the worse for wear when I went looking for him in the back bar. Jack Healy, the caddie-master who, incidentally, appeared to live on Guinness and cigarettes, was out in the car park. So I asked him ‘Did Mr so-and-so go down the road?’‘ Oh yes,’ came the reply. ‘And he’s not so good sir.’

“With that, I drove down the lane and on reaching the end of it, I turned right. After about 100 yards, there was the car and my friend. And the car was in a bit of a mess. So I decided I’d have to get him off the road somehow but I couldn’t drive the car forward.

“I can’t remember the make of the car but try as I would, I couldn’t engage a forward gear. It was a good car because its owner happened to be a senior employee of a major transport company, not CIE I hasten to add. Anyway, he was a very nice guy and I pushed him over into the passenger seat.

“Then I discovered that the car wouldn’t go forward because the bumper was trapped against the front wheel. But I found I could get it in reverse. So I asked him where he lived and he replied ‘just down at the triangle’, which was only 100 yards. So I thought ‘That’s OK.

“I then decided to drive the 100 yards in reverse, having insisted to my friend that if anybody stopped us, the police for instance, he wasn’t to open his mouth. So, I duly drove down as far as the triangle, at which point I asked ‘Is this it’ only to be told that his home was a bit further on.

“I fact as things turned out, he lived down near bloody Dalkey. Well maybe not quite that far, but it was still a long, long way, about a mile and a half, which is a long way when you’re reversing. Then, when I eventually got to his house, it started to rain and I had to find my own way back. And I found it impossible to thumb a lift which meant that I was wet and miserable when I eventually got to my own home.

“And the man’s identity? Suffice it to say that he was acknowledged as THE gentleman of Killiney GC.”

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Another motoring tale from the 19th involved a now deceased member, Frank O’Rourke, who got himself a little under the weather. So another, concerned member, Eamonn Fahy, felt he should follow Frank by car to his home in Glenageary. But when Frank turned down the avenue, instead of heading for Glenageary, he took off in the opposite direction. Eamonn dutifully followed him and their journey took them through Rathfarnham, Merrion Road and back around through Dun Laoghaire and finally to Frank’s house in Glenageary. And as Frank was get- ting out of the car, he looked back at Eamonn who was also getting out of his car and remarked: “Did you enjoy the journey?”

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John McCarron, in a communication from Canada where he has lived for the last 35 years recalled the story of J M “Johnny” Martin, one of the biggest bookmakers in the ring, and how his misplaced winnings eventually became the source of much joy to golfers, not only a Killiney, but from other parts far and wide.  “I caddied at Killiney when I was about nine or 10,” he said. “My father had the idea that it was better for a youngster to earn the cash he spent.”

He went on: “My tale concerns four old-timers, Johnny Fitzpatrick (father of Paddy Fitzpatrick, the hotelier), Martin himself, who took most of his bets in Davy Byrnes and would bet on two flies going up a wall, Phonsie White, who was a vet living in Sorrento Cottage in Dalkey, and former British Army Colonel McCaffrey. They played a regular fourball at Killiney.

“On this particular Saturday, however, a race meeting at Leonardstown was particularly kind to the bookmaking fraternity in that outsiders won the first four races. So he decided he had made enough for the day and after stuffing the money into his pockets, he duly departed the scene, leaving the clerk behind him. If a crisis arose in the last two races on the card, the clerk would find him at Killiney Golf Club.

“On his arrival at Killiney at about 4.15pm, Johnny went straight into the bar where he drank proceeded to drink a serious amount of whiskey. And by the time the other three members of the fourball arrived at 5.30, he was feeling no pain. And he wasn’t going to play, but they prevailed upon him to keep their regular date, largely because Fitzpatrick had visions of driving him home at some ungodly hour.

“So they dragged him from the bar, had their round and then returned to the bar where Martin and Fitzpatrick as the losers, bought the drinks. Except that Martin couldn’t find his money. And myself and the other three caddies were in a corner of the bar, watching all of this while drinking lemonade.

“Questioned by his colleagues about the whereabouts of the money, Johnny eventually disclosed that it amounted to close on £8,000. And despite a thorough search of his clothes and the locker-room and the course, by our good selves, it couldn’t be found. And Johnny took the loss in remarkable good spirits, you might say.

“Then, about eight months later, the same fourball were on the fourth tee on a Saturday evening. And as the last to play, Martin hooked his drive over the hedge and then reloaded. When that, too, went out of bounds, he asked for another ball but the caddie couldn’t find any more ammunition in the bag.

“Whereupon Martin, who claimed to have bought six balls the previous day, grabbed the bag and emptied its contents onto the fourth tee. It contained his clubs, five of the six balls he had bought .....  and £8,000. With that, he called an end to the game, headed straight for the bar, handed over the money and instructed that free drink be given to anyone who came into the club, for as long as the money lasted.

“Apparently, so-called country members from as far away as Skibbereen, arrived at Killiney to drink Johnny’s health. The place was packed for about a week until every penny was spent. Johnny’s instructions were carried out to the letter.”

As a more lasting contribution to the club, Johnny’s children, Dick Martin and Betty Maguire, presented a magnificent claret jug for competition among the veterans (Over 50s). The trophy bears an inscription “Three times in a row or four in all” which is thought to have racing connotations. As well it might.

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The bad old days, pre-1950, when the stymie was still in operation, prompted a story from Eddie Conway concerning a tournament involving Roderick Tierney, in which the objective was to beat the club professional, Tom Gaffney.

Producing reasonable golf by his own, modest standards, Roderick was suddenly shaken to find himself stymied on the fourth green. And there was no escape, which meant that instead of taking an anticipated four or five, he had a dispiriting six.

Given the nature of the competition, it was also a time when the rule forbidding the professional to join members for a drink at the bar, was relaxed. So it was that Roderick, drink in hand, turned to Gaffney and said: “Tom, did you deliberately lay that stymie on me on the fourth? “Oh no sir,” Gaffney protested. “It was in the back of my mind all the time.”

Regarding Gaffney, who was a much-loved character, George Crawford recalled some of his fascinating sayings while giving a golf lesson. “Hold your cock at the top”, he would advocate, when a pupil had reached the top of the backswing. Gaffney would also refer to a delicately-hit approach shot landing on the green “like a poached egg.”

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Eddie Conway was an outstanding footballer of his time. As he recalled: “I played for Southport and Burnley and when I had the chance of signing professional with Liverpool, I decided instead to come to work for Guinness, in Dublin. Though I was an amateur with Southport, I took the money, which was the practice at the time.

“Among my colleagues was George Mutch, the Scotland international and was also captain of Preston. My pay was three guineas which, I suspect, was a lot less than the man I replaced at Southport. He happened to be the great Stanley Matthews who never got another game on the right wing after my arrival there.”

Eddie went on to explain that in the immediate post-war years, English soccer was played largely on a regional basis. “We wouldn’t play against Arsenal, for instance,” he said. “But I played for Southport against the great Nat Lofthouse. I was in college and there was more money in Southport than in any club in the north, at that time.”

He shares a distinction with Roy Keane in that his first front-line game was against Liverpool. “I always wanted to play for Everton but as things turned out, my first time at Goodison Park was playing against Everton,” he said. “Harry Catterick was playing for them and I was marked by a fellow called Woods, who tried to sythe me around the shins. But I was too quick for him.”

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When Muhammed Ali came to Dublin for his World Heavyweight Championship fight against Al “Blue” Lewis at Croke Park in 1972, he stayed at the Kilternan Hotel. While there, the great man was photographed coming down the steps of the hotel with Killiney member, J P Murray, Bord Failte’s director of golf at the time and a well-known fitness enthusiast.

The photograph, which was proudly displayed in the Back Bar of the Killiney clubhouse, carried the thought-provoking caption: “J P Murray and a boxer out for a training spin.”

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Don Fleming, whose maternal grandparents, Joe and May Carey, were Captain and Lady Captain of the club, recounted the story of how trees became part of the club crest.

“I can remember my grandfather telling how, while he was serving on committee, he had a terrible row with his colleagues,” said Don. “It had to do with the placing of big trees around the course, guarding the entrance to the greens. And he thought they were getting a bit unwieldy and that it was time they were lopped.

“The committee’s response was that they were magnificent specimens which couldn’t be touched. Absolutely not. So, after some stormy exchanges, it was eventually agreed to lop two trees guarding the entrance to the ninth green. And my grandfather was quite happy with that.

“As things turned out, however, there was a horrendous storm the following year during which all the trees on the course fortunately survived, with the exception of those two, which were ripped up. Not surprisingly, my grandfather felt thoroughly vindicated.

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Aidan Clarke recalls .“I remember Brendan Jordan finishing with three birdies while returning a score of six-up to win the Pirate’s Prize in 1967.” Brendan did, indeed, complete a remarkable round with figures of 3,2,3. And having broken standard scratch earlier that year, it meant that his handicap was cut to three, making him the lowest in the club.

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Speaking about Rory Saunders, the outstanding player in the history of the club, his son, Tony, recalled: “My parents had a family home at Lahinch and in 1934, during the open fortnight, there were six men staying as guests. We were told that between them, they won every competition in Lahinch during the first week and they also included the winner (Rory) and runner-up (Dr Paul Murray) in the South of Ireland Championship.

“Between them, they cleaned Lahinch, winning close on 20 trophies. And the really interesting bit is that five of them were members of Killiney Golf Club, my father, two of his brothers, Diarmuid and Kevin, Niall Murphy and Tommy Corbert. And the only non-member happened to be rugby international and Milltown member, Paul Murray, who subsequently joined Killiney Golf Club.

“All of them were staying under the one roof.”

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Miss Togher, who was effectively Mission Control at the club during the fifties and sixties is the source of some wonderful yarns, not all of them complimentary. For instance, George Crawford claimed that while she ran a very tight ship, if she didn’t like you, there would be no starter to your meal.

Only a select group were permitted to play poker in the back bar, where drink would be served. But they were permitted to stay as long as they liked.

According to Eddie Conway, when the club first had draft Guinness installed, she was terrified of it, fearing she would be electrocuted. And if a member asked her for a glass of stout, he was likely to be met with the answer: “Would you not prefer a bottle?”

It seems that the only member who could be certain of getting a meal from her in all circumstances, was Johnny Hunter. Michael Green explained his strategy thus: “If you wanted a sandwich, you’d always start by asking for a steak.”

Michael also recalled the admirable steward, John Dolan, who had a limp, a stammer and a fund stories. If he were asked to identify someone who had walked past the front window, didn’t know who it was, he’d reply: “Oh that’s the d gardener on the mailboat.”

There was a famous tory told about him a vital Barton Cup match was in progress. And the personnel included Tommy Corbett, who was one of the people involved in the famous trip to Lahinch, recalled by Tony Saunders. It seems that Tommy and his wife Lalla, had a routine of playing at the club on Sunday’s irrespective of hail, rain or Barton Cup.

Whatever the circumstances, they would insist on going out to have their game of golf. Anyway, during that particular Barton Cup match, somebody came in and asked the bould John how it was going. “T-T- Tommy’s two up on L-L-Lalla,” he informed them.

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We are not informed as to Miss Togher’s reaction when she witnessed the decidedly odd situation in which a Captain’s prize actually leaked champagne at the bar. This was Dr Dick Belton’s year when he presented a beautiful silver teapot which, on being won by Eamonn McCarron, was duly filled with the best-quality Charles Heidseck champagne.

As John McCarron, Eamonn’s eldest son, recalls the situation, the vessel was essentially an ornament and had obviously not been designed to hold liquid. And as the precious liquid streamed it onto the bar, Jack Arigho was prompted to remark: “I’ve never seen such a waste of good f....... liquor in all my born existence.”

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Prior to a certain member’s wedding, the club was the scene of the stag party, of which Jean Crawford retains vivid memories. “I came up here at around 4.0am to collect my darling (her husband, George) from the party,” recalled Jean. “That was when I was confronted with the prospective bridegroom flat out on the floor and Miss Togher standing over him with a syphon of soda, giving an unrequested ‘mixer’ in the face, in an effort to revive him.”

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There was the tale of John Dolan and Mark Hely-Hutchinson who, according to his fellow Guinness employee, Eddie Conway, “used to ride racehorses, one of which was particularly useful.” Dolan who was “a dedicated supporter of the local bookmaker.” Eddie took up the story: “I told him that Mark’s mount, a horse named Arkle, had a good chance at Navan. So we both had a couple of quid each way on Arkle.

“When the race was over, John phoned me at my home and said excitedly ‘Mister C-C-C-..... Mister C-C- C-..... Mister.... it won.’ And when I asked what price it was, he replied: ‘T-T-T-T-’ Two to one, I suggested. ‘No, no no. It was t-t-t-’ Ten to one, I said helpfully. ‘No no no.’ It wasn’t 20? ‘IT WAS!’ he shouted.” It was said rather unkindly that Mark Hely-Hutchinson’s claim to fame was that he was the only jockey who lost on Arkle, which, apparently, is not true.

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Oonagh O’Neill whose father, Norman Medcalf, was the club secretary/manager, recalled: “My father’s only means of transport was a bicycle and the road up to the club wasn’t anything like it is now. It was full of twists and turns and flanked by bramble trees. And, of course, he liked his few drinks. And many’s the night he came home with scratches on his face from unscheduled brushes with the brambles.”

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Jack Healy, a one-time caddie-master, was by all accounts, a lovely man. Apparently the reason he came to be working at Killiney GC was that his doctor had advised him to get an outdoor job. In the event, he always appeared dishevelled, reeking of Guinness and with his clothes marked with cigarette ash.

As an employee of Guinness, Eddie Conway had access to bottles of stout which weren’t quite good enough for normal sale. So, rather than discard them, he would bring the bottles to Jack, who was suitably grateful. Indeed, when asked how the stout was, Jack would reply: “Oh great.” And it wasn’t a little acidy. “Oh no,” Eddie would be assured. Not even a trifle tartish? “Oh no. There was great heat in it.”

The same Jack Healy claimed never to have been in Dublin in his life. Nor did he ever travel on a bus.

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John Morgan, the club’s centenary Captain, has happy memories of Killiney’s challenge in the Carroll’s Pro-Am at Killarney on June 19th 1991. With Barry Drum and Tray Gillham, he was in the team which were fortunate to have the emerging Vijay Singh as their professional.

As John recalled: “Vijay (who was in his third season on the European Tour) was an absolute gentleman and could not have been more helpful to us. He had built up a good following and there were quite a few spectators with our group, a situation which was entirely alien to us. In addition, Bernhard Langer was in the group ahead and, as usual, had a very large gallery.

“On the 15th hole, a 360-yard par-four which dog-legs left to right, Barry, who would not have been renowned as a long hitter, pushed his drive too far right which meant that his route to the green, 260 yards away, was blocked by high trees. As Barry waited for the green to clear, I turned to Vijay and remarked: ‘If Barry gets up there, I’ll buy him a drink.’ To which our professional responded: ‘If Barry gets up from here, you can buy him a brewery.’

“On completing the round, Vijay, who won the Hassan Trophy in Morocco that year, joined us for a drink. When he enquired as to how often we played, we told him our golfing activities were normally confined to Saturdays and the odd game during the week. Whereupon he expressed great surprise that we didn’t seem to know the layout of the course we had just played. It was only when we explained that we were from Killiney Golf Club, not Killarney, that he gave a broad, understanding smile.

“Incidentally, we were thrilled to be among the prizes at the end of the day, finishing fifth.”

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Nick-names are very much a part of golf club life. But at Killiney, one particular family, the O’Dohertys, seemed to corner the market, as it were. Colman O’Doherty was known as The Block, or Blockhead from his schooldays in Glenstal. When his son John joined the club, he became known as the Chip. His daughter, who married Ronnie Lynam, was known as Chipette or Beautyboard. And the second son, who didn’t play very often but was a member of Killiney was known as Marmalade, because he was Little Chip.

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It is said that memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind. If so, we should treasure those we have, and the companions who made them.