Hoping for redemption on a British golf course

Actually, my week in England was "interrupted" by two rounds of golf: The first at Royal Ashdown Forest Club (old course) near East Grinstead (West Sussex) and the second at East Sussex National Golf Club near Uckfield. The former is an old-fashioned course without a single sand trap. What makes up for this apparent charity is the rough. Whereas the fairways aren't really all that tight, if you hit an errant drive and end up in the rough, well -- forget it. First, if you're lucky enough to find the ball, it's going to be at least a stroke penalty, if not more.

I wasn't driving the ball at all well at Royal Ashdown and consequently got clobbered. When I told the pro, Martyn Landsborough, a great guy, about my problems, he seemed to pause, look at me sympathetically and said, "Oh dear, it's very tough out there if you're not playing well off the tee."

How tough? Well, the course has been used before to make the initial cut for local British Open qualifiers. The last time this was done the average score for the first round was 81! That's pretty bad. Yes, it's true that the heather was in bloom and beautiful shades of purple lined the fairways. But it's much more comfortable to observe these lovely hues from the safe vantage point of a well-positioned drive.

East Sussex is reminiscent of an American-style layout, which is to say more forgiving off the tee, yet with plenty of sand traps and a fair amount of water. Although I played better at East Sussex, I really preferred the Royal Ashdown experience and hope I can get back there at some point and redeem myself.

During my absences, the rest of the party enjoyed the Sissinghurst Castle and gardens near Cranbrook in the county of Kent, and a trip to Brighton. Sissinghurst was an ancient site that lay in ruins when purchased by novelist and poet Vita Sackville-West and her husband, Sir Harold Nicholson, in 1930.

A prominent Elizabethan tower and a few remaining buildings were restored and a series of gardens constructed, which are supposedly among the most beautiful in the world. Again, I wouldn't know, having engaged myself with an up-close-and-personal study of English heather.

The seaside resort of Brighton along the southern coast of England was most fashionable in the late 1700s, when George IV, then Prince of Wales, resided there and built the highly impressive Royal Pavilion. Brighton is not too far removed the Cinque Ports, those towns which at one time protected the southeastern coast of England from continental invaders. Proper naming of the ports usually challenges even the more studious Anglophiles. "Cinque" is Norman French meaning "five," but the British pronounce it "sink," which is consistent with their deliberate mispronunciation of most French words. Given their history, I guess that's understandable.

Next time you play a trivia game, you might remember that the Cinque Ports are Hastings, New Romney, Dover, Hythe and Sandwich. They were supported by two other medieval towns: Rye and Winchelsea. Hastings is now a bustling small city, and whereas its name was given to the battle in 1066, when the invading Norman, William (the Conqueror), defeated King Harold II, the actual site of conflict took place six miles away on Senlac Hill in what is now, appropriately enough, the town of Battle.

I mentioned last week that we had several amusing conversations with our tour guide, Eric, who was aptly described by a member of our party as a frustrated history teacher and thespian in one, who appreciated rapt attention but didn't have much use for interruptions.

Eric was great in his own way, but had a little problem with stereotypes. In this case, if an American asks a question, it's probably not going to be a very intelligent one.

On the way back from London one afternoon, we noticed several deer grazing in meadows, and I thought it was reasonable to ask when the season opened. The "Glorious Twelfth" (of August) marking the start of grouse season had just taken place, and I was wondering about deer season. Harmless enough, right?

" 'The season,' sir?"

"The deer season, that is."

"Oh, we don't have deer season over here, sir."

"Gosh, we just ate venison last night, and I thought it might have already opened. It's on the verge of opening in South Carolina."

"I'm not surprised, sir. You Americans shoot everything that moves, don't you?!"

"Well, no," said a lady in our party. "That's not necessarily true. We don't shoot tour guides -- or at least not all of them."

Eric stiffened for a brief moment. "How 'bout them Red Sox?" I added.

On the flight back to the states, we did happen to watch part of a British TV segment that grossly parodied American hunting practices and would leave the casual observer with the impression that Americans in general really are a bunch of boobs. But from a different angle, though, it presented another opportunity to blame the media for everything!

Edward M. Gilbreth is a Charleston physician. Reach him at edwardgilbreth@comcast.net.