GET AHEAD OF THE GAME
Perfect your swing with lessons and hi-tech diagnostics at this Yorkshire golf resort
MY FATHER, a keen but incompetent golfer, encouraged me to take up the game aged 12, thereby passing on a sort of family curse as I, like him, found the game absorbing, despite being rubbish at it.
I’ve played a few rounds a year ever since — always alone, not wanting to be observed, as I’m afflicted with the classic duffer’s flaw: I slice my drives. The ball drifts relentlessly right, often into the rough, never to be seen again. Occasional lessons never straightened the ball’s path, and I was considering putting my clubs on eBay, before deciding it was the coward’s way out: I would make one last bid to lose my slice.
Oulton Hall Hotel, Spa & Golf Resort, just south of Leeds, seemed the ideal place to do that. Its 27 holes (a course and a half, in effect) are set amid the parklands of a gracious mid-19th century mansion — stylishly extended for extra bedrooms — so even if my slice persisted, it would do so amid beautiful scenery.
A factor in bad golf is tension, and when I checked into my suite, which occupied a corner of the mansion, I exhaled a sigh of contentment. It was the largest hotel room I’d ever been in, with huge sash windows overlooking the flower-decked forecourt of the hall and a splendid fairway.
After a swim in the gently illuminated pool, I met up with Josh Whittam, a young golf pro, at the state- of-the-art driving range, where radar technology shows the path of a ball and the angle of a club face, among other less important data that Josh told me not to bother about.
I found Josh — opening remark, ‘Nobody hits the ball absolutely straight’ — a soothing presence. He immediately diagnosed my problem: I swung out-to-in rather than in- to- out — potentially fraught terminology, but his corrections came in simple language, for example: ‘ Imagine you’re pulling the club handle towards your right trouser pocket.’
A few hours later, I was on the first tee, Josh having suggested the first nine holes were the least daunting. I was quite gratified when a man teeing off ahead hit a slice. Even better, instead of shouting ‘Fore’ to warn players ahead, he shouted ‘Ey up!’ confirming my suspicion that Oulton Hall was untainted by the pomposity oft associated with southern golf.
Later in the round, another solo player suggested we pair up. Having hit three unsliced drives, I agreed, and we played half a dozen holes I found enjoyable in a social and sporting way.
After a delicious dinner (very posh fish and chips) I slept uncommonly well that night.
Next morning at the driving range, Josh honed my re-modelled drives, telling me to freeze at the top of my backswing. ‘ That’s it!’ he said, and took a photo. ‘When I’m cooking,’ he said, ‘I’ll swing a wooden spoon to keep reminding myself of exactly that position.’
My shots had found a new trajectory: going right a little way, then straightening up. ‘ A slight draw,’ mused Josh, ‘good to see.’
For the afternoon, he directed me to holes 19-27. After some unprecedentedly straight drives, I was actually thinking of waiting for the lone golfer three holes behind to catch me up, so we could go around together.
Next morning, I was driving my car along the avenue leading to the Oulton Hall exit when one of Josh’s fellow pros flagged me down. ‘Did he fix you?’ he asked.
‘I think he might well have done, yes,’ I said, and the man was giving me the thumbs up in my rear-view mirror as I drove away.