Belgium/France, 2015
Well its coming up to the end of 2016 and I am sat at my desk, recalling 2015’s September sojourn to France and Belgium and thinking how to immortalize the trip in the pages of MADJIC’s ‘Tournament History’.
It’s 30 days away from 2017 I hear you cry! You haven’t even completed 2015? How has it taken you so long you wonder?
Well the truth is, I just didn’t know what to write.
Usually I would recount tales of adventure and evening tomfoolery peppered with some delightful golfing anecdotes and sign off, safe in the knowledge we all had a great time and that the year’s ranking in the annals of MADJIC past would be broadly agreed by all who were present. The best! One of the best! Up there with the best!
But this time I’m torn. Did we all have a good time? Was it just average for some and great for others? Maybe I’m over thinking it? Maybe I just don’t want to admit it?
Whisper it – was last year’s event an unmitigated disaster? Should 2015 just be written off as a phantom year, left forever unchronicled? The War Years.
Was this really, as I sometimes think I hear on the wind after a hard day, The Worst MADJIC Ever™?
If it was, we need to spend some time pondering the whys, the hows, the wherefores.
We need answers.
What do we blame?
More importantly, WHO do we blame?
Someone must be to blame.
Somebody simply must be responsible for this scheissenfesten..!!!
So many questions. So few answers.
So this is what you’re going to get. No deep contemplations. No deductions. I think it makes sense to sit back, light a Hamlet and retell the parts that haven’t been locked away in a vault, hidden under a bed, behind a false wall, in the garage next to the house of my mind. Just the facts. Then you can make your own mind up.
October is the latest in the year the tournament has ever been and there had been much pontificating as to the merits of Flanders as a destination in the lead up, so it was great to see a huge ball of orange rise from the horizon as we passed Sevenoaks on the M23 at 6.37am.
Last time we would see the sun!
As is customary and with no prior planning, a couple of the cars were running to exactly the same clock, managing to exchange the one-finger salut on the motorway as they sped towards the Eurotunnel at Folkestone: What a source of national pride that Departure Terminal is! Overpriced slop and Burger King flying the flag for British cuisine, being hoovered up by gangs of middle-aged Superdry-clad clientele, taking a break from the Food Halls of the Harlequin Centre, the Galleria and the Oracle.
Anyway, it was still a welcome break for a clearly pale and shaken Frosty, whose generosity to drive half the MADJIC crew around mainland Europe all week had been repaid by having his musical leanings eviscerated before the Battle Bus had even touched down on foreign soil. Feted for their some-time verbose and flowery language, Scousers can also just get straight to the point and ‘Your music is shit Frosty’ certainly didn’t over elaborate.
This set the scene for a tetchy drive down to Dunkirk where the opening game was set to be played.
Opting for a new pairs format to help deliver some more fun back into what was on the verge of become an extremely keenly but possibly over-contested sporting event, we teed off in glorious sunshine, safe in the knowledge we could rely on our Partner to help us out if we had any first day jitters.
So unmemorable was the course that I struggle to remember much about it. A couple of decent holes, some extremely shoddy tee boxes, some undulating scruffy fairways part covered in cud and some ok greens is as descriptive as I feel like being, but as much as I would like to be negative, I remember it being a decent start to the holiday.
The golf was poor but the weather was glorious and it was worth the entrance fee to watch Dave Chilvers smash his driver into the par 4 8th hole from the tee whilst the group ahead were putting out.The look on Sythesy’s face as it trickled between his legs whilst he lined up his double bogey putt was HD from 350 yards away. And yes Pro knocked it in for the eagle it so richly deserved.
‘‘Take that’ div group! Get off the green and tell us who we’ve got in the final..’
As it happened, it was Baz and Chenners, but not until The Par 3 Fiasco where half the field hit woods at the 134yard par 3, having no idea where they were actually aiming.
I’m not sure at the time what made it so funny, and reminiscing now I don’t know why it was funny, but it was funny. Possibly the funniest thing that happened all day.
Maybe that says more about the day than how funny it actually was?
Anyhow, the pairs were finally won on countback which along with the funny / unfunny incident about summed up the day.
OK, but a tad lame.
But the annals of history will show a first win on MADJIC for Chenners, almost expelling the demons of ‘the year that nearly was, but wasn’t and never will be again’. Let’s not forget a first win for Baz as well, but being the tour pro and winning a pairs comp, on countback, after his partner had played all the golf, makes it less celebratory. Sorry Baz but I know there’s a happy ending.
So on we went to our lodgings at De Swaenhoek on the outskirts of Damme and after driving down endless country lanes in the Polder, we came across the most wonderful Flemish farmhouse. Slap bang opposite Damme golf course, with more rooms than we needed and beautifully set in mature gardens, the accommodation was possibly the best we have ever had. If only it was near a pub. Or a shop. Or a restaurant. Or anything really. Cabs had to be called from just outside Paris, making the cab fare to Damme, about 10kms away upwards of 50Euros and requiring an hour to arrive.
When we finally made it into Damme: A beautifully quaint, cobblestoned picture-postcode, canal side town which was so damn boring it wasn’t long before we were wondering what to do with ourselves.
The answer came in the form of beer, with the local brew, which I can’t for the life of me remember the name of, tasting like liquid gold but packing a hefty 7 per cent punch.
Talking of punch, we did well to avoid any the following evening after our first days proper golfing.
The course was Damme, bang opposite the house and the facilities were second to none. Great range, great putting green and an immaculate course to boot. Almost 7000yards from the tips, which we don’t play of course due to having a player who cannot use a driver and a player who uses a driver to get to the ladies tee, this parkland course navigates some natural as well as man made water hazards.
Pro got us started off the first as is customary for the previous year’s winner, 2-fiddy down the centre. Hat in the ring. Back to back MADJICs in his sight. But then up strode Tony Maxx, resplendent in light blue and fresh from his victory the day before, hushing the questioning ‘could it be his year?’ murmurings and pulling out his 1987 frill-less, no-name 7 wood that he’d found down the back of his grandad’s sofa.
Still blindly following the advice of Surrey’s top golf instructor* (*based in Chessington, on a Wednesday evening, between bays 16 and 18) and therefore sporting the ‘no line up’ line up, he spaffed a shot of such prodigious angles it would have taken the ballistics expert from the assassination of JFK to verify its authenticity. To this day there are members of Damme Golf Club that insist it must have been hit from the grassy knoll behind the 14th tee.
2 shots into MADJIC and the field was down to 7.
View from the book repository
Overall it was a beautiful course in majestic condition and will be remembered fondly by all, especially Baz who played well after an average start and pulled out some big shots when it mattered. His awfully pushed drive on the long par 4 that he did well to find in the rough ended up being caressed 220yards to 15 feet and will live long in the memory.
Frosty ended closest to Baz’s 39 points, with an almost as remarkable 37. For a guy who was invited for some bantz and to cook, it’s becoming a regular occurrence seeing his name at the top of the leaderboard. The whole field bar Moodie ended up with 30 points or more as well, which was impressive seeing as the course wasn’t short and there was a fair amount of water to navigate and seeing as one player’s nerves had been shredded on the first shot.
As the vibe had been so good and the clubhouse and facilities so welcoming, we decided to stay the evening at Damme, so after showers we headed back over the road to eat and drink and meet one of the key initiators of Belgium 2015, Stefaan De Clercq who said he would pop down with his wife. Randomly befriended during a mini-MADJIC to Wimereux, he had nurtured the seed of golf in Belgium and throughout the preceding 6 months had been exceedingly generous with his time and knowledge and helped flesh out the agenda.
It was the least we could do to buy this charming gentleman a few beers and so it was we found ourselves meeting him in Le Spike Bar for 7pm.
‘Wheres your wife Stefaan?’ inquired Chenners, exaggeratingly surveying the scene on tip-toe, almost moving the trendy young beauty who was stood in his way to one side. When the reality dawned, it was swiftly glossed over and we soon spent a good few hours exchanging cultural pleasantries.
The pleasantries soon ran out though as the local fortified beer took hold and Damme golf club became the setting for a Tarantino-esque verbal bloodbath, MADJIC style.
Baz continued to delight Frosty, threatening to glass him for getting in his way as he was trying to watch Liverpool on the TV.
Baz then threatened to glass Stefaan (that’s not a turn of phrase, that’s what he actually said!) for having the temerity to offer to pay for his food and drinks.
Frosty ordered an extra sharing platter which an apoplectic Stokes nearly glassed him for.
Baz ordered another 48 beers to take home – which we all wanted to glass him for.
By the end of the night, nobody had been glassed, Liverpool had won, Stefaan quite rightly didn’t pay, his wife looked ever so slightly less like his daughter as the make-up wore off, we all ate and immensely enjoyed the sharing platter and we got back and demolished the 48 pack of Jupiler larger.
Day 2 over. A great course, the magic shot, some great food, lots of great beer and just a smattering of tension.
The morning came in a Belgian Beer Fug, breakfast was probably cooked by Frosty once again and the rain that had been threatening ever since we crossed the border into Belgium had been hard at work all evening, reminding why this part of the world is so green.
The drizzle continued as we grabbed our garb and made for the most highly acclaimed of the 4 courses, situated up on the Knocke on the North Sea coast. Labelled as hidden gem by none other than Nick Faldo, but unhidden enough that it is voted the top course in Belgium, expectations were high for Royal Zoute. The drive in was splendid, reminding us of a slightly more upmarket Le Touquet, with some wonderful houses of varying styles in the lead up to a beautifully designed clubhouse where, unfortunately, guests were only really welcome to see the bedraggled changing rooms and the tiny pro shop.
€105 is expensive to play any course but with so many accolades having been bestowed upon the quality of the grasses and the attention to maintaining local flora and fauna, we arrived in high spirits. What a disappointment! The fairways were blackened from tee to green and the greens, though flat, patchy and occasionally bare. To make matters worse, by hole 4 the heavens had opened and it was full wets, umbrellas and sporadic sheltering under the pines that lined the fairway.
The course was becoming more and more saturated, the water from the previous couple of days having failed to drain, leaving puddles on the greens. By the time the two 4 ball got to the 9th tee, greens were unplayable and it wasn’t even possible to move the ball to a puttable lie.
We sat and waited 30 minutes outside the closed halfway hut, water dripping down the pitched roof right onto us and we all agreed it was time to ask for a refund. Even wet weather expert Pro, who was gross level par for 8 holes and accumulating points at quite some rate agreed that there was no point in sitting it out. Stokes had also acquitted himself well in the torrential weather, winning 16 points for only 8 holes, whilst at the other end of the table, summer-loving Sythes and Chenners struggled. Having propped up the table in Dame, Moodie, suffering from first child syndrome, played some great holes but in all didn’t do enough to get back on the trail of his second star . And as for the former 2-time champion Chilvers, after a decent 3rd place finish on day 1, he fell back amongst the field, which remained headed by Baz. Without winning the second day, he did more than enough to keep his nose out in front and ensure he went into the final day with the pack chasing him.
Over the months I have tried to remain objective about the course and consider how it might have been had we played all 18 and it had been in better condition. The fact is, we didn’t and it wasn’t and even with the 9 holes that we did see (trudging down the sodden 9th to the half-way house rather than playing it), I simply didn’t see enough to make me want to go back. It wasn’t until the 4th where any thinking was required, but then there were some beautifully shaped holes with bumps and hollows on some tree-lined though linksy style holes.
Full respect to the course for refunding our money after initially offering a free round should we want to return, though it was sad that we were happy to take the money and run when this was supposed to the golfing highlight of the trip.
The drive back was wet and long and once we had dumped our sodden equipment in the outhouse we wondered what to do with ourselves.
The answer came in the form of more competition! Tennis, and at the very convenient and respectable tennis club Vijverhof: http://www.tcvijverhof.be/
Obviously the boys didn’t have enough room in their suitcases to dress for 2 sports so off they trotted, looking like the world’s worst boy band.
The Ukranian Decorators
They were admitted entry, with the receptionist pointing them in the direction of the newly rendered back room, but they snuck onto the indoor courts and once again the flame of competition was burning bright.
This need for competition was taken straight from the courts to the Trivial Pursuit, with Baz finally being able to unwrap the cellophane from the box he’d bought for MADJIC 3 years earlier.
Again, the fact it was a highlight speaks volumes trapped as we were in this desolate farmhouse, though maybe Moodie, Baz, Justin, Chenners, Chilvers and Frosty had slightly less fun than the overall champions, who beasted all-comers and earned more cheese than Neal’s Yard.
Still, forget the tennis. Forget the triv. Forget the fact that Stokes had spent most of the previous 3 days texting on his phone. MADJIC is about golf and come rain or shine there was a gold star and a lifetime of pride to be won.
The decision to play a team game on the first day was designed to make MADJIC more ‘inclusive’ and to help it keep up with the mood of the day. Competition was getting almost too intense, some of the fun was draining from the event and the organizing committee were exceedingly quick to deliver progressive change; and all respect to them for such a bold move .
But in light of the rained off second day of competitive play, it couldn’t help but feel that 2017’s competition was the Masters equivalent of the Par 3 event the day before.
The first, though sadly not the only MADJIC* to require an asterisk. A footnote if you will.
And so it was that we set off for Royal Latem, after an extremely lengthy discussion about whether it was worthwhile making the longest journey of the lot, resplendent in our wet weather gear once again as the mizzle continued to give this part of northern Belgium a slightly depressing air. Again surrounded by attractive villas, the welcome to this lush (probably impossible not to be in this part of Belgium) 18 hole parkland course was a warm as the temperature outside. No tea, no coffee, no bacon sandwich, just a demand for handicap certificates from a slightly snotty young lad in the miniscule pro shop.
The wonder of MADJIC is that when you need a lift, there is usually something around to give you one and from the disappointment of the less-than-inspiring Latem welcome, spirits picked up immeasurably when the gang noticed that the Circus was in town. Some people find them creepy, some folk don’t find them funny, but we all, bar-none, fell over laughing when Bozo turned up on the first tee with everything bar the red nose and comedy car. By the time we’d had a few practice swings and it was time for action, there was a queue of 50 families, straining every sinew to get a look at what had washed up on their royally approved, 107 year old golf course. The afore-mentioned miserable git it in the clubhouse was selling tickets and everyone was happy again.
Anyone seen my red nose?
Once we had regained our composure, we teed off, not quite knowing what to expect but what a treat we had in store. If we overlook the fact that the first couple of greens hadn’t been prepared that morning and were dew-heavy, from the easy dogleg right of the opening hole, Hope, to the longer uphill easy dogleg right of the last, Home, Royal Latem was a mature parkland course in impeccable condition. What’s more it was peppered with some exquisite holes. The up and over 17th with a pond fronting the green was a sheer delight and despite the sporadic rain and some fairly dire golf, it was a truth universally acknowledged that the course was the jewel in the Belgian golfing experience.
Nobody was entirely out of the race (Baz had a 13 point stableford lead on Chenners at the bottom of the leaderboard with Pro 2 shots back, Frosty 3, Stokes 7 ,Chilvers 9, Sythes 11 and Moodie 12) but it was a well-known fact that Bailey could crumble when put under pressure or when in a bunker. How was his heed this morning?
The answer came with an emphatic 79 gross for 37 points and a closing 7 iron to 2 feet that the group in front could only applaud. Yes an asterisk, but I think next to it it might have to signal that if we had played the full complement of games, Baz would have probably won by a lot more than the 8 points he ended up winning by.
A new name on the trophy, a new country to have enjoyed all the razzmatazz and hoopla that goes with staging such an illustrious event and some wonderful golf, beer and texting.
Was this really, as I sometimes think I hear on the wind after a hard day, The Worst MADJIC Ever™?