I drove my girls from bored to crazy for golf

With two under-10s in tow, Jon Holmes finds the perfect course and tutor – and now they all love island golfing

‘I’m nine, why would I want to do that?” asked Maisie, with the utmost suspicion. “And I’m only six,” chipped in her sister, Isla. “How boring is it?” These were fair questions, not least because I had just interrupted my children’s game of “shops” to suggest a round of golf.

“I don’t understand, Daddy,” Maisie continued “You’ve never ever played golf ever.” She was right about that, too. Unless you count knocking a ball through a “crazy” model windmill on the seafront in Broadstairs, I am pretty much a golf virgin, but the opportunity had presented itself and so: why not?

“Where would we even go to play golf?” asked Isla. I smiled, because the answer lay in her name.

The Isle of Islay nuzzles up against its mother country as part of the Inner Hebrides, just above the Mull of Kintyre. It is Scotland’s fifth-biggest island; a windswept, peaty, whiskyscented heap of gorse and grass with a rich history of Christianity until the Vikings arrived in the ninth century to ruin everyone’s party with swords.

Fast forward through the centuries and now it’s where, at the luxury Machrie Hotel, PGA pro and golf coach David Foley is mounting a one-man mission to introduce children to “the game of kings” (or “the game of grandads”, as Maisie insisted it should be called, on account of hers being a keen player).

So we picked up sticks (“I think they’re called clubs, Daddy”) and took a short BA flight north for some serious daddydaughter bonding.

“If the golf bug bites early, then it’s great for the game’s future,” David tells me on the driving range, keeping half an eye on Isla who immediately wanders over to a neat stack of balls and destroys it, like a miniature Norse invader. Despite this, David is justifiably excited about introducing a new generation to the game. Or at least he was, until we turned up.

“You know what a triangle is?” he says to the children. I do too – I really do – but I keep quiet.

“Of course,” replies Maisie, shooting me an eye-roll. For her part, Isla simply stares at David open-mouthed.

“Good. First thing to do is hold the club so your arms form a triangle, then bend over, feet shoulder-width apart.”

We duly oblige.

“Now,” David continues, patiently. “Swing it back but have your arms and club form an L-shape”. Isla

again. Maisie looks very pleased and even Isla downs tools to watch. Third time lucky.

Obviously I miss again. On the fourth attempt I accidentally let go of the club and it sails out of my hands, landing with a clatter several yards away. There is a moment of silence. “Well that’s rare,” says David. I don’t think it’s a compliment. There is no high-five.

By the end of the session Maisie, who still hasn’t stopped laughing at my ‘“technique”, is happily driving balls down the range, and Isla has perfected her system of running up to the tee with her club, stopping dead, and jabbing the ball with the wrong end. We all have a great time.

Even David.

This genuinely is a pastime for all ages. There are games, fun computer stuff (technology that tracks your “method” and you can watch back), plenty to keep little ones occupied – and David is brilliant with kids. His enthusiasm for the sport is totally infectious.

“That was fun. Please can I play when we get home?” says Maisie afterwards.

“Sure,” I say. “We’ll go to a course and…” She cuts me off:

“Not with you. With Grandad. At least he knows what he’s doing.”

‘I liked the noise the ball made when you hit it, and so did Hetty. And the whole island is named after [Note: Hetty is a small, cuddly, toy Highland cow.] ‘I liked trying to see how far I could hit the ball – and I loved the windy, wide open space’