What better way to find out about Russet Grange Golf Club than to read the book’s introduction? If you like to sound of this place then hop over here to buy Tales from Russet Grange.
Introducing Russet Grange Golf Club:
The winding private drive through one of Cambridgeshire’s finest orchards to Russet Grange Golf Club more than hints at an establishment of good standing, a place where the traditions of this finest of sports are preserved, as they have been for generations.
A place where all those who love the game of golf are welcomed on the unwritten and unspoken expectancy that the club’s rules and regulations will be observed and respected, and that a proud 120-year history merely represents the first 120 years, with many more decades still to be written.
One can easily imagine a Professional’s shop under the charge of a humble fellow named Kenneth, well into his sixties, who once took Arnold Palmer to 18 holes, and whose father guided Russet Grange through the toughest of times during the Great War. Equally easy to imagine is a spikes bar adorned with memorabilia and a private lounge where deals are brokered over a fine malt or a vintage port, ably served by a Hopkins, the Club Steward who knows all but tells nothing.
The elegant curves of tree-lined gravel, which have surely witnessed the whispers of Bentleys and Jaguars driven by brigadiers, captains of industry and Harley Street surgeons, do nothing but add to the expectation of a club where they just might have considered filming a 1960’s spy thriller, or perhaps applied to host The Open in days gone by. Leather Chesterfields, a hint of Cuban cigar, lockers labelled with the monikers of peers of the realm. These leaps of imagination are short leaps indeed.
But then, as the clubhouse moves into view on the last of those gravelled bends, the mental picture that has been perfectly framed over the last half mile gets shredded like that most famous of Banksy’s efforts. What should have been a majestic building of Bath stone, fronted with oak doors and fluted columns, manicured lawns, tinkling fountains and with snowdrops peeking into the promise of Spring turns out to be an abomination that has surely adorned the pages of Portakabin Monthly’s “How to Fuck Up” feature. A tired and unloved carbuncle, perhaps built from plans rejected for a 1970’s comprehensive, bereft of any redeeming feature other than a partly collapsed banner offering “Half price bacon rolls with any green fee”. In golfing parlance you expected a pristine sleeve of Pro V1s, you got a dozen Argos Commandos.
A glance across to seemingly well-tended 8th and 17th greens adjacent to this abomination does at least give some hope for the course, but not much as evidenced by a sign that warns: “Do not retrieve balls from the pig farm”. (Yes you read that right, the course designer, Major G.P. Bosworth-Minecraft esq. was known for his non-conventional style. Thus, the 9th and 18th holes, a pair of 500 yard par fives, give golfers the chance of a decent, yet unlikely desired stroll following their game).
There is also what can only be described as a mating pair of knackered shoe cleaners, clearly well past their working days, probably having last spun their tired and worn bristles when Ben Hogan was on The Tour.
Further clues to the status and standing of Russet Grange are not hard to spot. The Ladies’ Captain’s parking spot is occupied by a burger trailer, still sporting a sponsor’s banner from a long-since cancelled Pro-Am. The buggy shed is covered in more pigeon shit than Nelson’s Column after a three-month stint of avian diarrhoea, and peeling paint, missing tiles and drainpipes clinging on to the clubhouse for dear life, suggest that the last time there was any money for maintenance was when Double Diamond flowed freely on Club Nights.
But fear not. There are 18 tees, 18 fairways and 18 greens. The clubhouse and Pro-shop, such as they are, remain well supported by six hundred members, many of whom have neither a criminal record nor chronic personal hygiene issues. There are willing volunteers, regular visits from golf societies to boost the coffers, and almost half of the staff know what their actual job is.
This is Russet Grange Golf Club, a club owned by its members, and the following pages tell just some of its many tales.