A long Tube Ride and Red Sweater.
In the once-small hamlet of Wimbledon, a suburb of Greater London, sits England’s 3rd oldest golf course. Heathland and parkland surround its fairways, all part of the Greater Wimbledon Common, a large community park filled with miles of hiking trails, picnic areas, and dog parks. It’s a real place for the community to get some fresh English air. When the course was built, Wimbledon was still a small village, about 7 miles from the center of London, the seat of English power.
The common was originally the marching ground for the London Scottish Volunteer Rifles, one of the oldest public militias in Britain. Many holes were designed along their rifle ranges. It is also only the 5th course in the world to have 18 holes for play, bucking the norm for the time. The original clubhouse was built to house the regiment, and their rifle lockers still exist by a large marble fireplace. They once held Brown Bess rifles; now they hold golf bags and cleats.
The course was built by the regiment to provide exercise. Golf had already been played on the common for three years before the incorporation of the club, making this the oldest continually played-upon surface in England. The course is so small and hidden among the grounds of the common that you might almost miss it.
I had read an article about it before being in London for a few days, and I still had my clubs from the camper adventure we had taken to Scotland. I knew I had to play it. The only problem was getting there. I had to take four separate Tube lines and then ride a Lime bike for a third of the way, all the way out to the Wimbledon Windmill, the local grist mill for the community since the Tudor Era.
The day before, I had called and obtained my uniform. You need to wear a pill box red top to play the course, reminiscent of the original red uniform of the rifles. Only to set you apart from the rest of the parkgoers, dog walkers, and picnickers sprawled along its fairways.
In England, common land is for the common people, making it impossible not to meet several families on the fairways and greensides over 18 holes.
There is also the other problem of the Wimbledon Common Golf Club, a splinter group of civilian members formed after a schism in the original membership in the late 1800s. Along with the Royal Wimbledon Golf Club, the course housed three separate golfing bodies for a short time at the turn of the century.
The Wimbledon Common Club built their own clubhouse on the opposite end of the common and played the exact same holes in reverse order. Every tee box has two numbers, one for the London Scottish and one for the Commons.
This confusing endeavor only gets worse when you reach the turn, a single hole that is number 9 for one group and the 1st hole for the other, creating a surprisingly long backup of players waiting to either start their round or continue. The Common members wearing another shade of red, made it not helpful to differentiate.
After my adventure getting there, pulling on my red tunic, and throwing the clubs over my back, I reached another group of golfers, locals playing their normal morning rounds. I had been playing alone all day, but when the turn came, they made me one of their own. Not figuratively, but literally. I felt as if I had joined a new club in my life, one that requires many red shirts, many stories, and many pints of British hand-poured London Pride ale.
The course itself is a simple municipal course. There are no sand bunkers, only thick patches of thick grass surrounding the greens in the shape of bunkers, making them actually harder to get out of than the real thing.
After 18 holes of friendly competition and confusing hole placement, I felt like I had walked the length of London and back. I had met several picnicking families greenside and, more importantly, many dogs. That was probably the best part. Many players bring their dogs along to play because it completes two tasks in one.
After the round, we commenced with the real team-building exercise. My poor wife was back at the hotel, unknowingly her husband was getting pissed with two elderly men in a 128-year-old building next to a windmill. The beer flowed, the pork "scratchings" were consumed by the bagful, and lies were told. If I closed my eyes, I could have been anywhere in the South, minus the accents.
The fire raged, illuminating the dark lacquered wood lockers for the rifles, the brass awards from tournaments long past, and the red carpet covering the floor.
The members offered to drive me back to the Tube station, as I still had a long way to get back to my wife. I declined. I’d rather drunkenly bike all the way back. It was a story, and I had found one.
I think about the place often. I’m sure I’ll be back. But I must not forget my red sweater, my clubs, and my longing for a lukewarm pint and a round in the rain.
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