The Family Challenge: Golf lessons
The family
I've always hated golf. I picture acres of pristine forest destroyed to enable marginally overweight middle-executives in polo shirts to whack a ball across a water-guzzling lawn and I wince. On an early family hike across verdant Beaconsfield, my husband embarrassed his new in-laws by coughing loudly, just as a stray golfer was about to tee off. In golfing terms, we were made for each other and neither of us has been near a links since.
Over a decade later, we found ourselves in equally green Lipica, Slovenia - the original home of the Spanish riding school. The dressage lessons, Victorian carriages and leathery hard hats were a big hit with Edie, nine, but, thrown in with the price at the Hotel Maestoso, was a group golf lesson with Bogdan Palovsnik, formerly ranked sixth in Slovenia. Fergus, 11, was agitating to move on from the prancing ponies and tuition was free. Alex and I, therefore, agreed temporarily to suspend our principles and give golf a go.
The kindly woman at reception told us that at certain clubs it's normal practice to wear polo shirts but that they are more relaxed in rural Karst. This information merely served to reinforce my stereotypes, but it got Fergus all fired up and he spent several minutes inspecting our gear but all I could rustle up was a stripy cotton T-shirt. I was already nippy and we hadn't even started standing still.
A tall man with white trousers, a tan and a stripy polo shirt approached, smiling. "So, kids," said Bogdan in perfect English, "have you ever been in a golf cart? Parents - you need exercise. Get walking!" Delighted, the children tootled away in an electric buggy and we trudged behind. The kids loved him instantly.
The training
Down at the "pro-hut", our coach sifted through an endless array of clubs and balls. Leading us outside, he told us it was important to limber up. We stood in a circle, wiggling our hips while rotating the clubs behind our heads. The kids thought this was a hoot and it helped to keep warm. Bogdan placed us in a line under a wooden shelter, each on a slightly raised mat. One by one, he linked the fingers of both our hands in an interlocking grip called the Vardon that I doubt I'll ever be able to replicate but which, apparently, creates more power for your drive. The kids stood frozen as if they didn't want to fall out of position. Alex seemed transported by a nearby bird. We were all, for various reasons, speechless.
Having made sure that Fergus and Edie, in particular, were nowhere near any other humans, Bogdan told us to stand sideways to the imaginary ball with our feet a shoulder-length apart and then to swing our clubs backwards and forwards. Unlike, say, squash, the golf club is silent as it flies (or stutters) through the air, so it's impossible to tell if you're doing it right, but we could all feel that the moment when balls might actually appear was near.
We were then introduced to follow-through: once your club is at the very front of the swing, you carry on drawing it over your shoulder in a flowing motion. Bogdan made it look easy but we were, apparently, too rigid. The kids suddenly decided they were in a fencing match and started trying to whack each other with the clubs.
Then the balls arrived. Twenty-five each, set out in a neat little row on the mats, ready to fly. Bogdan shouted something in Slovenian to the other golfers who sensibly bolted.
Fergus stepped confidently forwards and bashed away at a spot several centimeters above the ball. It's harder than it looks. His second ball flew away at a slight diagonal and landed at the 35m mark. He had forgotten about follow-through but had achieved distance and he was delighted. We gave him a muted round of applause.
Next, Edie took to the mat, twitching all 10 fingers in nervous agitation. She stepped up, swung forwards, backwards, over her shoulder and executed a perfect follow-through. She had listened to the instructions and, whoa, how that ball flew! It had gone further, and straighter, than her brother's and she was triumphant.
Alex looked quietly under-confident, with the fixed expression of a man who knows he's likely to miss but still holds on to the slim hope that fate might intervene. Sadly, it didn't. His club did eventually make contact with the ball but it was too late. He had already recognised that golf wasn't for him.
I stepped up to the mat. I didn't even think about Bogdan's instruction not to think. I raised my club; no one coughed. I swung and whacked. My ball went flying over the 100m mark and straight into the bushes at the far end of the range. Suddenly golf seemed far more appealing.
As the children whooped, Bogdan awarded the three of us "winners' balls" and, jubilant, I pocketed my dimpled No 4. The kids loved it and, despite Bogdan's endless ribbing about being a man who thinks too much, Alex didn't mind. The course was pretty, we'd been in the fresh air all afternoon and we'd got some exercise.
I may never play golf again because I know that I can never live up to that perfect start, but I can sleep just a little better at night remembering that, for several moments at least, I was the undisputed champion of the Lipica, Thought-free Family Golf Challenge.
Your turn
To find a golf course near you, go to englishgolf-courses.co.uk, scotlands-golf-courses.com, welsh-golf-courses.com, irishgolfcourses.co.uk or try your local council