St Patrick’s on the Edge of the Picturesque Sheephaven Bay

In 2018, when my partner, Kevin McGrath, and I were in France we heard rumors about a new golf course that Tom Doak was designing in Ireland. Kevin and I were part of the festivities at the course Tom had designed for the Mourgue D’Algue family in Bordeaux called Grand Saint-Emilionnais Golf Club.

There was talk floating around about Tom going to Ireland in the air. Our antennae were up because we live in Ireland (near Lahinch) so we were very keen to keep tabs on it.

Now it has actually opened, a couple of months ago. This is the third course at Rosapenna, located on the edge of the picturesque Sheephaven Bay.

The First Course – the Old Tom Morris Links

Tom Morris statue overlooking the course

The first course, known as the Old Tom Morris Links, opened in 1893. Old Tom had been a guest of Lord Leitrim at his estate in 1891, and while enjoying the Donegal scenery he noticed a fine stretch of inviting coastline. Before returning to St Andrews, Old Tom staked out the first Rosapenna Links over the undulating terrain of the dunes. Harry Vardon and James Braid added length and more detailed bunkering in 1906. Further changes were made by Harry Colt in 1911. In 2009, the new Strand Nine opened at Rosapenna to replace the original back nine that had you playing across the main road on a number of holes.

The Second Course – Sandy Hills Links at Rosapenna

Pat Ruddy, golf course architect

The second course, Sandy Hills Links at Rosapenna, opened for play in June 2003. The Irish golf architect, Pat Ruddy, in collaboration with Rosapenna owner, Frank Casey Sr., created one of Ireland’s finest modern links courses. Pat’s design is both bold and seductive. He designs for the serious golf enthusiast. While the course stretches to over 7,200 yards, with sensational views of mountains and sea, it blends sympathetically with the Old Tom Morris Links.

The Third Course – St Patrick’s Links at Rosapenna

Our day to play St Patrick’s Links (course #3) at Rosapenna, dawned with cloudy skies. Not a whisper of wind…until we got to the course, that is.

Sound the horns. We’re off. And what an adventure it was. Captivating… Check. Memorable… Check. Muscular… Check. Has that I-Want-To-Go-Play-It-Again factor… Check.

This newest Tom Doak course is laid out over land that had been a 36-hole facility developed by the Walsh family of Carrigart. It was known as The Maheramagorgan Links, designed by Irish architect Eddie Hackett, and the Trá Mór Links were designed by PGA Professional Joanne O’Haire. Both courses opened for play in the mid-1990s.

Tom Doak, golf course architect

The Rosapenna Golf Resort acquired the land in 2012. Discussions with Tom Doak ensued, and with his lead associate, Eric Iverson, the layout was finalized in March 2013. Construction began in April 2018, with all of the greens completed in 2019.

Behind the big project for #3 course is a group of founding members including Frank & John Casey of the Rosapenna Hotel & Golf Resort and architect Tom Doak who had funded the construction of the new 18-hole course in a partnership between The Casey Family who have owned and operated Rosapenna since 1981, along with Tom Doak’s Renaissance Golf Design.

St Patrick’s – A Must-Play Heroic Course!

It is cleverly laid out as two loops of nine, returning to a temporary Links House where you check in and get a scorecard. The St Patrick’s logo is distinctive and ultra cool. Be sure to pick up a cap, putter cover, or towel to add to your collection.

I was impressed when I discovered there is a Forward Scorecard. Playing from the Claret tee markers, the overall yardage was a testing 5,136. On the not-so-puny-par-3s, where I had the best chance to par the hole, I needed to hit a driver into the wind, or at least a 7-wood. Total yardage of the par-72 course is 6,826 yards.

On all the par-4s and par-5s the landing areas are very generous. But when the wind whips up, as it often does, it can grab your ball and send it rolling faster over the undulating links land. The fairways need a bit of maturing; but all the quirk that we links lovers crave is part of the excitement of playing over centuries-old dunes.

St Patrick’s Links (course #3) at Rosapenna – a must play heroic course!

Upon arriving on the first tee, you’ll see a sign indicating the club length you’re allowed to move your ball to a more-grassy lie. The turf and green surfaces have a way to go before they mature; but even before they do, there is no doubt that Ireland now has another must-play course that will top all the lists. This one is heroic.

Our first go-around, the course was absolutely intoxicating and we’re dying to come back soon.

A Tipping Point

We’ve reached a tipping point. It’s official now, as if it wasn’t already, this northwest corner of Ireland is a bona fide golf destination unto itself. A perfect itinerary includes Ballyliffin, St Patrick’s, County Sligo (Rosses Point), Narin & Portnoo, Donegal Golf Club (Murvagh), Carne and Enniscrone. An enchanting week in pure golf heaven.

Discovering the Perfect Peninsula

The Dublin part of our journey with the panelists concluded at Portmarnock Golf Club. Although formally “founded” in 1894, the book entitled A Centenary History by T.M. Healy, published in 1994 reveals:

W.C. Pickeman

“On Christmas Eve of 1893 a Scottish Insurance broker named W.C. Pickeman and his friend George Ross rowed over from Sutton to the peninsula of Portmarnock to scout out the land as a possible golf links. They liked what they found.”

Indeed they did, and so did we on yet another glorious day of sunshine.

But in fact, the ground had been in use for golf as early as 1858 by the Jameson family who built their own private course, starting by their home, to the present 15th green. The Jamesons, of Scottish origin, established the Jameson Whiskey Distillery in 1780, and brought their favorite pastime with them. Eventually, the Jamesons leased the land to Portmarnock with John Jameson becoming the first President of the Club, George Ross the first Captain, and Pickeman being the first Honorary Secretary.

Laying out the first nine holes

Apparently Pickeman, laid out the first nine holes, with his countryman, Mungo Park, winner of the Open Championship in 1874, “consulting” on the greens in addition to his role as the Club’s first professional.

A second nine was added two years later with the involvement of another Scot, George Coburn, who hailed from East Lothian. A skillful player, Coburn, at just nineteen years of age, was engaged to replace Mungo Park as the Club professional. He had gained valuable greenkeeping experience with Old Tom Morris, and is even thought to have assisted Old Tom with the New Course at St Andrews when he designed it in 1895.

Coburn’s tenure at the Club lasted ten years, after which he participated in a number of Open Championships at St. Andrews, Sandwich, Muirfield and Prestwick and he eventually moved to the United States in 1912, where he carried on his career.

The rich history of championships at Portmarnock

Harry Bradshaw, the Club professional for 40 years

Portmarnock carried on impressively too, as the home of many famous professionals including Willy Nolan, who set the St Andrews Old Course record of 67 in 1933, Eddie Hackett who went on to become Ireland’s premier course architect, and Harry Bradshaw, who in addition to many tournament wins, continued on as the Club professional for 40 years. He was succeeded by Peter Townsend, who was both a Walker Cup (1965) and Ryder Cup player (1969 and 1971).

When Townsend left in 1991, Joey Purcell, who had been an Irish Amateur International in 1973, came on board to follow in the footsteps of this esteemed group of men. Upon Purcell’s retirement in 2019, Francis Howley was appointed the Club Professional.

Padraig Harrington

Then there’s the championships hosted at this venerable Club, which include the Irish Open Championships, The Amateur Championships, The Irish Close Championship, the British Amateur Championship in 1949 and 2019, the only two times it was played outside the United Kingdom, The Canada Cup (now the World Cup), won by the team of Arnold Palmer and Sam Snead. The Walker Cup in 1991 hosted by Portmarnock concluded with an American victory with a team led by Phil Mickelson and David Duval, playing against some of Ireland’s top amateurs including Padraig Harrington, Paul McGinley and Garth McGimpsey.

Having great time on the Perfect Peninsula

So on this perfect peninsula, full of sandy soil, with such a rich history and tradition and a membership consisting of the who’s who of Ireland (that would include Top 100 panelists Kevin McGrath, and Adrian Morrow who were also joining us today—and Peter Webster who was with his family celebrating a biggish birthday with and “0” in it) it is fair to say that we were all looking forward to our golf round on such hallowed dew-swept ground.

Portmarnock 18th green

Anticipating our visit, the officers of Portmarnock organized a match for us. Kevin and I were paired with Gary Johnstone, the golf course superintendent, whose ball striking was as good as any professional on tour, and Shane Browne, a member who had just come off a win with his partner in the annual, prestigious Elm Park Mixed Foursomes event the previous day.

Too bad I couldn’t reincarnate as a competitive golfer successfully or often enough — Kevin and I lost our match on the 15th hole, but we never lost our enjoyment of being on the legendary links. This would be Kevin’s home course for decades, along with Lahinch in Co. Clare, where we live in the summer—when we’re home, that is.

After our “match,” there was a festive air in the bar, with Brian Dunnion ordering a glass of sauvignon blanc for me. One after another, the officers of the Club all appeared, many in coat and tie. At one stage, a tall, muscular man with a shock of white hair and dazzling smile entered the bar. I said to Brian, “what famous actor does this man remind me of?”

Brian said, “Why don’t you ask him yourself,” and then tapped the gentleman on the shoulder.

“What actor do you remind me of with your dazzling movie-star good looks?”

With a characteristic kind of drawl and squint of the eye, he answered, “Would it be John Wayne?”

A big laugh erupted that would have broken any iceberg, but there were none in the genial waters of our bonhomie. The entire room full of officers—John Wayne’s real name being Barry Doyle (the Honorary Secretary – or Hon Sec)—were as warm as the welcome sunshine.

When we drifted into the member’s inner sanctum of the Pickeman Room, John Power, the Captain, pointed to the only open window and said, “You know Gary Player, the famous golfer?”

“Sure I do,” I replied, nodding my head.

“Well standing on the first tee right out there, he drove his ball right through this window!”

The vision absolutely cracked me up—a pull hook like that if there were no building in the way would have landed behind him!

During our grand lunch with a lovely lamb entree, the wine and the laughter flowed. Finally some of the panelists took the opportunity to ask Gary questions about the presentation and maintenance of the course.

When he was asked about how he kept control of the meadow grasses, he told us how every stalk of grass produced 10,000 seed heads each season. This certainly boggled my mind.

Having been born in Scotland, not far from Aberdeen, Gary has now followed in the footsteps of the Scottish founders, the early professionals and greenkeepers, whose hands and minds have shaped the links. He is keenly aware of the significance of being a good steward of the all the land — including the wild areas — to maintain the natural character as much as possible.

Johnstone relishes his role to tend to the land that has seen hundreds, if not thousands of famous people and golfers.

Like so many seeds of grass, famous or not, guardians of the links land, members and visitors alike, have contributed to the impressive lore of this ever-perfect peninsula.

Portmarnock, 6th hole and lilies pond

Sunday Morning in Liscannor

There are few things nicer than to get out for a walk on a Sunday morning in brilliant sunshine before Liscannor fills up with church-goers. In fact, with very few people in view, I satisfied my curiosity about a strange-looking bush that had been clipped into the shape of E.T. Or so it seemed. At first I thought it was meant to represent a parishioner, wearing a hooded cloak, kneeling as if asking forgiveness? I later learned it is a simplified nativity scene with kneeling Mary and standing Joseph and the baby Jesus in a crib!

I rounded the corner where the church sits on Main Street and approached the area of the village that will forever amuse me. Yesterday afternoon, I’d told our friends Bev and Steve (an American couple that built a house in Lahinch), that Mark Cronin, the new GM of the Cliffs of Moher Hotel, deemed this block-long beehive of activity in little Liscannor “The Strip”. I could see the wheels whirring in Steve’s head as images of Las Vegas enveloped his imagination, comparing it to this quaint collection of hotels, restaurants and pubs.

Steve laughed and replied, “It does take some getting used to here in County Clare.”

I kept to the church side of Main Street, anticipating the new bakery, located in what used to be Patrick Egan’s Books + Wine shop. That is where I first met Patrick, appearing to him as just one of thousands of American tourists passing through. This was back in 2010, my first full summer living in Ireland. And it is living in Ireland vs. visiting Ireland, which initially inspired me to start writing short stories. I wanted to focus my attention on what made Ireland different and special, having immediately recognized there was an ample number of sights and sounds that were wondrous. I strived to capture them, forcing myself to be more observant, since it is so easy to take all this beauty, and even the quirkiness, for granted.

The Sea Salt artisan bakery is a very enticing place indeed. At 10 AM it was doing a brisk business, with a line starting to form out the door. You only have to poke your head in to see why. I did that very thing a couple of days ago in my initial reconnaissance to survey what was going on in our little fishing village.

The sunshine and near-balmy air brings out the surfers, golfers, dog-walkers, beach-goers, and mothers pushing their babies in prams, along with people like me just strolling along, admiring the profusion of myriad flowering shrubs with their riotous display of yellow, pink and lavender blossoms.

When I reached the end of the block, I crossed over Main Street and noticed a couple of older gents sitting on benches outside the Anchor Inn. I figured I must look ridiculous to them, since there was just enough chill in the air for me to be wearing my lavender zip-up jacket. No matter that it was ultra-lightweight and is the perfect windbreaker for this kind of breezy weather. They’d be thinking the same thing this burly grizzled guy said to me during my first recon a couple of days ago, when I ambled into McHugh’s Pub…

He deadpanned, “Where’s your earmuffs and mittens?”

I took the bait. “I live in Arizona, so this feels a little chilly to me.”

Along with looking like an alien, it’s as if I was speaking Swahili. I teased him along with, “Have you ever heard of the Grand Canyon?”

This was met with a tepid nod of the head and a swig of his drink.

“Well, I live in the desert—in the same state as the Grand Canyon—and it is often quite warm there.”

“You mean hot like it is here? Jaysus, it’s roasting!” yer man on the barstool declared.

“Are you kidding me? This isn’t hot. This is only about 72 degrees. That would be about 21 celsius,” I said with a cheerful smile, engaging in a bit of barroom banter.

“Could you convert that for me?”

Was the public house patron pulling my leg?

“I just did. Twenty-one celsius is actually 71 Fahrenheit. That’s how I remember it,” I replied rather matter-of-factly, rebutting what I hoped was his tongue-in-cheek question.

He lifted an eyebrow. “What are you? A schoolteacher?”

We were both laughing when I said, while shaking my finger at him, “No, I’m not, but I should have been!”

Figuring that was a good time to wrap up our short repartee, I said goodbye and was on my way.

J.P. Holland Centre

Back to today’s walkabout. I wanted to see if the new J.P. Holland Centre was open on the corner close to what used to be called The Tides shop. I noticed some refurbishment going on there last summer and figured The Tides should be open for business by now. Maybe not this early on a Sunday morning, but at least open to take advantage of this being the high season in County Clare.

The Tides was still completely closed; but to my surprise and delight, the front door of J. P. Holland Centre was propped wide open. Before I entered, I noticed a small plaque affixed to a waist-high tree stump:

Fulacht Fiadh

Bronze Age circa 2500 BC

Just beyond it in the courtyard was an odd collection of stone slabs, creating a squarish tub. The plaque told the story of how water was poured into the tub, then brought to a boil. Meat was cooked in the water, which was thought to have remained hot for as much as three hours. Alternative uses for the Fulacht Fiadh could have been bathing, dyeing, or even brewing! Not all at once, mind you.

Once through the outer doors I was in a tiny vestibule. I was amazed to see some yellowed newspaper clippings about the “Submarine Boat Inventor” during the days when Holland was a resident of Patterson, New Jersey. On the opposing wall of the entry hall was a framed reprint of John P. Holland’s Six Submarines, 1878 – 1900, listing their various names, where they were built, and where they were launched.

Along with Holland No. 1, the Fenian Ram, and the Zalinski Boat, another was named Plunger. It was launched 7 August 1897. Place: Baltimore, MD. The builder was William Malster’s Columbian Iron Works. Plunger weighed 168 tons and was armed with: Two Torpedo Tubes; Five Torpedoes.

Two more steps and I found myself in a spacious gift shop. Along with postcards, an array of scarfs, sweaters, and knick knacks, there was a counter along one wall with a coffee machine and a few chairs.

Display cases arranged in a big square in the middle of the room provided both shelving for souvenirs and the pay point for a cashier/shop minder. To the young lady behind the counter, I declared, “I had no idea that J.P. Holland designed six submarines!”

“Not many people know that,” she replied with a charming smile.

A stack of books sat prominently on the counter to her left, looking very much to be the definitive story of the self-trained inventor-engineer, J.P.Holland (1841 – 1914). The cover of one featured the often-reproduced photo of the mustachioed man, emerging from his submarine, wearing wire rim spectacles and black bowler hat.

“I didn’t bring any money with me, so I’ll have to come back for this book,” I said to the pretty lass, whose thick blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

I wandered over to the entrance of the museum and could see that the big bronze sculpture of Holland that used to be positioned in front of what is now the Cliffs of Moher Hotel, looked like it had finally found a permanent home.

I came back to the counter to note the author of the book. His name was Richard Knowles Morris.

“Were you here a couple of years ago when there was a dedication ceremony for Holland down by the harbor? It was the 100th anniversary of his death,” I asked, curious how familiar she’d be with Holland.

“No, I wasn’t there that day,” she said, rather amazed that I knew about this momentous event.

“It was a really big deal. A huge ship from the Irish Naval fleet anchored in the bay and the captain came ashore for the ceremony. And the captain was a woman!” I blurted out with admiration for this exalted lady officer. “She was so impressive in her dark blue uniform. She had on a skirt and was wearing some very smart looking shoes with a block high heel.”

My pony-tailed audience seemed enraptured, so I went on.

“There was also a highly-decorated American Naval officer,” I said, unable to remember his exact rank, but I did recall there was a chest-full of ribbons, badges and medals on his starched dress blue uniform. I don’t know what it is about men in uniform, but there is some kind of mystique. Do men think the same thing about women in uniform? Somehow, I rather doubt it.

“And there was even a guy from the Japanese Cultural Office in Dublin,” I offered. “He said he had come to represent Japan, since the Ambassador was unable to attend himself.”

With this, the cute freckle-faced young lady was able to help me out. “Oh yeah, I remember reading that the Japanese used his design too.”

Then I ventured, “I wonder if the author of this book is the same guy who gave a speech about Holland during the ceremony? He seemed to be quite an authority.”

Her blue eyes lit up. “That was probably Tony Duggan. He was here a lot helping to put the museum together. He’s from Cork.”

I appreciated her genuine friendliness. “Where are you from? Clare?”

“Miltown Malbay. Not too far away,” she replied, flashing her pearly white smile again.

I was thoroughly enjoying her effervescent sweetness. “What is your name?”

“Grace.”

“Oh my,” I gasped. “A couple nights ago, I was watching a webcast, and a lady was talking about a book she had written called The Grace Trail. Have you ever heard of it?”

“No,” she said with a shake of her ponytail.

“It was all about finding a state of grace, especially when you have lost your footing—your emotionally footing—like if your child died, or something tragic like that.” I tried to further explain as best I could, having been pretty jet-lagged at the time, and fighting mightily to stay up until midnight to watch this program, airing at 7 PM eastern time in the U.S. “The author talked about The Grace Trail being something she created after she learned about war veterans, probably Vietnam Veterans, who were walking the Appalachian Trail. Have you heard of it?”

“Oh yes,” darling Grace said emphatically.

“It goes something like 2,000 miles I think—all the way from Maine to Tennessee maybe,” I fumbled, vaguely remembering it included the Smoky Mountains. At that moment, I realized I didn’t know much about it, other than what I read in Bill Bryson’s hilarious book, A Walk in the Woods. It was so laugh-out-loud funny, I can see why somebody would want to make a movie out of it, but even with Robert Redford playing the lead role, it fell completely flat and I couldn’t finish watching it!

“Some people set out to walk the entire trail over—I don’t know—over how many months. Other people hike it a chunk at a time. But the author, Anne Jolles is her name, said the vets were ‘walking off the war.’”

I was proud that I could recall this much, given I was barely able to keep awake. “So anyway, the author created her own Grace Trail, where people could walk, and at regular intervals there’d be a little message on a post, to help them contemplate and heal. She said GRACE was also an acronym for the five steps to finding your way back to firmer footing. G for gratitude. R for release. A… could have been for acceptance?” I struggled to remember.

Grace chimed in, “Maybe C was for clarity?”

That gave me goose bumps, because I think she surmised correctly. And if that wasn’t right, it was so perceptive.

“That’s awesome, Grace. That may be exactly what C was for. And E, I think, was embrace. Embrace where you are. Embrace who you are.”

Our intimate moment evaporated when another lady came in and headed straight over to the coffee machine. Apparently getting it to produce a cup of coffee posed a bit of a struggle, and Grace had to come around the counter and help her sort it out.

I said goodbye as I headed for the door, hoping to come back soon with money in my pocket. I was planning to buy the book and learn once and for all if J.P. Holland was born in Liscannor, as most people, including Grace, are inclined to believe.

On my way home, I decided to take another look at Holland’s Cottage, identified by the stone sign affixed to the left of the green front door, with the funny looking torpedo-shaped Fenian Ram also etched into the stone.

To the right of the door was a rose bush that obviously has been lovingly pruned for many years, and was climbing nearly to the slate roof. It bore the most luxurious salmony-pink flowers, each perfect petal a delicate declaration that summer is here.

Right here on this door step.

Whether or not this is Holland’s actual birthplace, or he ever lived in this house, there are roses galore to greet whoever is lucky enough to grace this doorway now.