THE SCOTTISH MEDICAL GOLFING SOCIETY
Subtitle: Rye - with no mention of Henry James, Radclyffe Hall, and E F Benson
The current blog is an unashamed ‘puff’ for this venerable society, which is very much an endangered species, only eleven members attending the AGM meeting in Rye, and only eight remaining to do battle with the Rye club members on the Sunday morning. Despite having a large number of members on the subscription list, a minority still play. It has been suggested that any internet activity might be helpful in increasing the profile of the SMGS in our search for new members. So here goes...
The birth of the society came to public attention in the correspondence columns of the British Medical Journal on June 9th, 1934. Those who wish to read the original will find it at:
The first president was Bertram Shires. The entrance fee was one guinea and the subscription one guinea per year. The aims of the society were concisely stated:
‘On April 30th, 1934, a meeting was held at the Langham Hotel for the purpose of giving concrete form to a common desire that Scottish members of the medical profession in the London area should meet occasionally throughout each year for the express purpose of vying with one another in propelling the golf ball from tee to hole, according to the rules of golf.’
There followed an impressive list of vice-presidents, treasurer, secretaries (plural), and councillors. One of the councillors is given as L E Barrington Ward. Later Sir Lancelot Barrington Ward, this famous surgeon is thought to be the character on whom Sir Lancelot Spratt was based in the book and film ‘Doctor in the House’. He was certainly a surgeon at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, which was attended by Gordon Ostlere the author, who adopted the pen name of Richard Gordon.
The BMJ was definitely different in those days: the next two letters deal with alleged poisoning by ground ivy and ‘Tests for Drunkenness’ in which, ‘J.P’, a police surgeon, provides a foolproof defence for anybody accused of being ‘drunk in charge of a car’. I can’t see the present editor of a journal which now takes itself very seriously allowing us column space to push for members, but we are going to try it.
The first golfing meeting of the society was held at Hadley Wood golf club later in the same year.
A number of factors have combined to threaten the Scottish Medical Golfing Society. When I first joined the society in the mid 1980s, there was a fine selection of Scottish doctors from the Home Counties, and we counted pathologists, coroners, surgeons, physicians, and general practitioners among our number. GPs made up the backbone of the society, and their contract favoured the meetings of the society because most of them had a half day off during the week, and they were able to extend this to a full day by doing a Saturday morning surgery in lieu of this extra time. Changes to the contract spelt the death knell of this relaxed and sensible system. Under the ‘new’ contract, which came about some time in the 1990s, it became mandatory for GPs to be present in surgery on every day of the working week. Further changes in their contracts have not been conducive to improving this situation. But another and more important factor is the parochialism of the current system of medical training. Registrar rotations are now organized such that only local graduates stand much chance of being accepted into their local deanery training rotations. Scottish graduates are thus an increasingly rare sight south of the border. At the time when I was seeking middle grade training (what Americans and Canadians would call ‘residencies’), jobs were sporadic, few and far between, and could be as far afield as Inverness. The Society exists for Scottish doctors (who may have graduated elsewhere) or for doctors who graduated at Scottish medical schools and universities. It is becoming increasingly uncommon to find Scottish doctors in any posts ‘down’ here in England. We either need better publicity or an influx of Scottish doctors to the Home Counties.
In considering publicity, our new website will we hope improve our profile, and it is available at:
Unfortunately, if one puts SMGS into Google, the first entry is the San Miguel Golf Society, and this is followed by pages and pages of entries related to ‘submachine guns’ – otherwise known as SMGS. St Michael’s Grammar School in Melbourne manages an entry lower down the first page, but that’s it. Firearms occupy thousands of entries thereafter.
If you try ‘Scottish’, then Scottish Power has the top line. Scottish Medical produces Scottish Medical Training, and adding the G hits the spot (sorry about the double entendre), though Guidelines feature as well.
It’s been suggested that our name needs to feature in as many internet articles as possible, and anything one can do to make this piece ‘go viral’ would be welcome.
Perhaps, since this is usually my ‘letter to America’, my collaborators can do their best to increase its profile. Let me describe to you the feeling of this year’s Rye meeting...
Rye is an elemental place. One of the arbours in Golf heaven. It was Henry Longhurst who was credited with saying ‘If I could play one more round of golf before I die, I think it would have to be at Rye’. (Sir Peter Allen has said the same about Deal, the Royal Cinque Ports Golf Club, but I think Longhurst may have precedence). Despite the despoliation of the Romney Marsh to the east by an enormous wind farm, the elevated position on the two main ridges of dunes that make up the main course gives a wonderful perspective when we visit it in April. New born lambs, with that perfect creamy white colour that they carry for the first few months of life, lie contentedly in the polders of the marsh, the occasional bleating carrying on the breezes, while above, the glorious song of the Rye skylarks announces to the world that the Scottish Medical Golfing Society is here again. To the northwest the unmistakable silhouette of a town that is now two miles from the sea, having been lapped by the waters in the 14th century. To the west, the headland towards Hastings, and the remarkable sight of sailing boats apparently skimming through the fields, though of course they are down at water level in the River Rother on their way out to the sea. I have occasionally played at Rye when the winds have been gentle and light, but even when the sun is shining there is usually a stiff breeze blowing. The humps and hollows of this classic links course mean that it is famous for rarely giving one an even stance. Bernard Darwin, grandson of Charles Darwin, and the man who could be said to have invented golf writing, was captain of this club on two occasions, separated by an interval of 50 years! He is famous for inserting quotations from Charles Dickens into his writings – often leaving the reader to guess the origin of the sentence. When he wrote about Rye he was unequivocal, and he did not need the assistance of the great Dickens when he wrote, ‘Surely there can nowhere be anything appreciably better than the golf to be had at this truly divine spot.’
On Saturday 21st April, the fortunate few gathered in the clubhouse, exchanged a few words, drank coffee and emerged to do battle with both each other and the elements. The sun was shining, the larks sang, but the wind was chill, and slow moving and substantial showers were forecast. My partner and I hacked manfully up the first and retrieved par by dint of holing a long putt to which we had no claim of expectation. Thereafter the usual in and out experience of golf on these links contrived to put us out of contention in the competition, but the most remarkable feature of the round was the dramatic hailstorm which attacked us on the 10th tee and continued for a further two holes. A very satisfying five on the dramatic 13th hole with its blind second shot (third in our case) over the ridge of the dunes towards its exposed green was our main reward for our efforts. ‘It is the constant and undying hope for improvement that makes golf so exquisitely worth the playing’ as Darwin observed, and we clung to this hope like drowning men at flotsam.
A substantial lunch was followed by our afternoon singles round in competition for the Shires cup. On some previous occasions I have been so depressed by my performance in the morning that I have sought solace in the Rye club bitter and claret at lunchtime, making my apologies early in the afternoon by an air shot on the first tee. With eagle eyed and equally determined members of our society beside the tee it has been impossible to pass this off as an extravagant practice swing, and the die has been cast. Today however I only drank ‘Gunners’ and water, and was passably pleased by 17 points on the front nine holes, substantially enhanced by a birdie three on the 9th. But a vicious and unpleasant shower which lasted longer than the morning’s visitation by the elements put paid to my hopes, though I eventually only lost the competition on a count back to our secretary Iain Dow, who also scored 27 points (poor I know you will agree, but anybody who has played Rye will have feelings of companionship over this).
Our evening meal together in the George Hotel was an occasion for great company and that fellow feeling of bonhomie of those who have striven and at least succeeded in reaching the clubhouse intact, even though their cards have been ruined both metaphorically by their score and literally by the ingress of water.
Our President, Professor Lindsay Symon was in the chair. Known as ‘the neurosurgeons’ neurosurgeon’ he must have been a ferocious chief, but his bark is now somewhat worse than his bite, and he is full of wit and anecdote, including one scatological story which I can’t include. Perhaps his best throwaway remark this evening was when the discussion turned to the SMGS club tie, which is dark blue and carries a wreath and the Scottish thistle as its emblem. On occasion it has been mistaken for the tie which members of the Scottish rugby football team are entitled to wear. I asked whether it had proved an entrée to the VIP areas at Murrayfield, to which Lindsay responded that it had not, but it had been a topic of conversation when he had ‘put Gavin Hastings up for membership of the R&A’ and had garnered a certain amount of respect. Any non-golfers who have followed me thus far might need to know that the ‘R&A’ is an abbreviation for the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrew’s, both the most famous of golf clubs and the body responsible for the administration of the rules of the game. Gavin Hastings is of course a famous Scottish ex-international rugby player.
Our guest for the evening which follows our AGM is always the captain of the Rye club, a strategy which we think is likely to allow us to continue our privilege of visiting the club every year, but which also allows us to hear some news about the club. Occasionally there are good jokes to be had. Nigel Wilkinson, the captain elect of Rye, a barrister and an expert on medical malpractice (sic) did not disappoint. Although I have heard this before, he produced a fine joke about talking to his wife when his nomination to the captaincy was announced. He asked her: ‘Darling, did you ever imagine in your wildest dreams that I would one day be the captain of Rye.’ To which she responded, ‘Darling, I’m afraid that you don’t feature in my wildest dreams.’
At some of our finest meetings, the repartee and the recitations of Rabbie Burns have ‘set the table on a roar’ as Shakespeare would have it. I remember once that one of our members recited the whole of Tam O’ Shanter as a party piece. I mentioned to Mr Wilkinson that Lindsay Symon, despite being over 80 years of age could not only recite the famous Betjeman ‘Seaside Golf’ poem but also the less well known parody of the poem, which is equally enjoyable. Overhearing, our President did not disappoint, and duly delivered both. Some discussion about the authorship of the latter followed. Lindsay correctly identified it as being by Robin Butler, subsequently Sir Robin Butler, thereafter Lord Butler, best known by the epithet ‘The Butler Report’ apropos of Iraq. Butler, like Betjeman before him, is a member of St Enodoc, the club in Cornwall which is the subject of the poem. Here are both, reproduced below:
Seaside Golf
How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear’d the rutty track And soaring, disappeared from view Beyond the bunker’s back – A glorious, sailing, bounding drive That made me glad I was alive.
And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white; I played an iron sure and strong And clipp’d it out of sight, And spite of grassy banks between I knew I’d find it on the green.
And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin; A steady putt and then it went Oh, most securely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.
Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs, In-coming tide, Atlantic waves Slapping the sunny cliffs, Lark song and sea sounds in the air And splendour, splendour everywhere.
John Betjeman
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Seaside Golf – a parody:
How low it flew, how left it flew,
It hit the dry-stone wall
And plunging, disappeared from view
A shining brand new ball –
I’d hit the damned thing on the head
It made me wish that I were dead.
It hit the dry-stone wall
And plunging, disappeared from view
A shining brand new ball –
I’d hit the damned thing on the head
It made me wish that I were dead.
And up the fairway, steep and long,
I mourned my gloomy plight;
I played an iron sure and strong,
A fraction to the right
I knew that when I reached my ball
I’d find it underneath the wall.
I mourned my gloomy plight;
I played an iron sure and strong,
A fraction to the right
I knew that when I reached my ball
I’d find it underneath the wall.
And so I did. I chipped it low
And thinned it past the pin
And to and fro, and to and fro
I tried to get it in;
Until, intoning oaths obscene
I holed it out in seventeen.
And thinned it past the pin
And to and fro, and to and fro
I tried to get it in;
Until, intoning oaths obscene
I holed it out in seventeen.
Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
They really get me down;
In-coming tides, Atlantic waves
I wish that I could drown
And Sloane Street voices in the air
And black retrievers everywhere.
They really get me down;
In-coming tides, Atlantic waves
I wish that I could drown
And Sloane Street voices in the air
And black retrievers everywhere.
Sir Robin Butler
http://www.st-enodoc.co.uk/the-club/
The George Hotel is an obvious venue for our dinners, attended by history (Rye Golf Club was first proposed and discussed there), but it is certainly expensive. Our previous secretary, Alasdair Short had chosen three very fine wines for our dinner, much superior to what was available at the George, though with a mouth-watering corkage charge of fifteen pounds a bottle. We drank two wines of Bouchard Finlayson – a sauvignon blanc and a chardonnay; a Rioja Riserva, and another South African red from Rustenberg. All were greatly appreciated.
On Sunday 22nd April, eight remaining members met the Rye Club in our time honoured competition. The minutes will show the true date of origin, but as far as one can tell this match has existed for around forty years or more. A brief shower as we started cleared, and we played the course largely in sunshine, but with a steadily freshening westerly breeze, eventually reaching force 6 or thereabouts. These foursomes games are all enjoyable, friendly and sociable. Although Tony Strong and I won our game 2 up, SMGS were roundly defeated 3 matches to 1. A final lunch in the dining room (jackets and ties mandatory) allowed us to carry fond memories back up the road from Camber Sands, and the promise of even better things next year.
If you have enjoyed this blog, please pass it on to any golfers or medics that you know. Please spread the word of the Scottish Medical Golf Society, and visit the site to make your presence known to our secretary, Iain Dow.
I apologise to those of my few regular readers who may have no interest at all in golf. Golf like cricket is however a metaphor for how to conduct oneself in life, and how to bear the vicissitudes of what life can throw at you. Even for those who cannot play, to study the ebb and flow of fame and fortune during the last nine holes of a ‘major’ championship is an object lesson in fortitude and stoicism. ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster’ was never more true than in golf.
Above is a view from the western side of the river Rother, showing Rye clubhouse in the distance standing above the dunes. Below is a tranquil view of the Rother further inland at Rye town.
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