An Irish entrance: Four Americans have the walk of a lifetime in the north and west of the Republic

IRELAND – I had no idea how any of this might go. 

Take three golf buddies from different circles, shake them up for 10 days in a packed Euro van, squeeze them down skinny roads and release them into the constant winds and sometimes rains of northwest Ireland. What could possibly go wrong? 

Each of the three knew about links golf in general. The kind of stuff you see each year during the British Open: firm ground, brown turf, a bit of breeze, funny bounces. It almost always looks so much more manageable on the broadcasts. 

I knew better. I had lived it on past trips. Early wake-up calls to reach a course just in time. No warm-ups. No chance for a real lunch between rounds. Twelve-plus miles a day on foot to play 36 among steep sand dunes on courses that might be hours apart. A hit-and-get type of golf, head down in a squall trying not to lose sight of the local foursome in front of you. The smell of a van filled with wet bodies, wet golf shoes and wet grass. Take-out supper after a late sunset. All on repeat, day after glorious day, and don’t be late to the van at sunrise tomorrow. 

This trip would be 12 rounds in eight days around the northwest rim of Ireland with one day on each side to arrive and depart. We’d spend more than 25 hours in the van, driving more than a thousand miles total on those frequently tiny Irish roads, me listening to snores from the back seat as I muttered to myself to “Keep left, keep left, keep left” at each of the hundreds of roundabouts along our path. 

Yes, I’m a glutton for punishment. And I planned to subject my three newbie links golfers to every bit of my golf neurosis, because the rewards for all this driving, the walking, the summer storms and the smells emanating from the back of the van were the stuff of halcyon golf dreams. 

Ballyliffin, the Old Links and Glashedy Links. St. Patrick’s Links. Portsalon. Sandy Hills Links. Cruit Island. Narin & Portnoo. Donegal. Strandhill. Enniscrone. County Sligo. And the one I chose to end the trip, in case the plane home went down: Carne. 

I’d seen most of these courses before, and I couldn’t wait to show my buddies. To be honest, I was probably annoyingly eager. I live for this kind of golf. But would the other guys? None of them had done this type of trip. They’re American golfers. Maybe eighteen holes a week. A bucket of balls to warm up each day. Riding carts. Friendly courses built to keep traffic flowing. Soft fairways and receptive greens. Beverage carts and flop shots.

I warned them what they were in for. And I figured they were adults, so they could be responsible for whatever foot or back pain I inflicted. In the planning stages of this trip, I would chuckle at the thought of how their perspectives would change. I also would cringe when I thought of what could go wrong between all the driving, the six different hotels with shared quarters, the weather and the relentless schedule. 

First to commit was my frequent golf partner Krash, whose real name is Chung Kim. Don’t ask about the nickname, because in 17 years of playing alongside him, I’ve never really received an adequate origin story. An attorney in Orlando, Krash is frequently game for a Sunday tee time, and he might break 80 twice a year. Fairly short but mostly straight off the tee with a low flight, Krash’s game seemed purpose-built for Irish golf. 

Next up was Matt Richardson, an Orlando-area accountant. We played high school golf together and were roommates in our college years and beyond, but he doesn’t play as much golf these days – there are too many fish to catch and ducks to hunt. But over the ball, something magical happens. All the speed in the world somehow finds its way into his swing. Less than 10 rounds a year and over 50 years old, he still swings driver at 120-mph-plus if his shoulders cooperate. High, far and occasionally wayward, he can keep it around par on a good day. I couldn’t wait to see where his sky-high tee shots landed in a 30-mph crosswind, for better or worse. 

We’d be joined by Tim Schmitt, my boss at Golfweek. An upstate New Yorker now living in Austin, Tim’s a casual, social golfer when the opportunity presents itself. He might not know his score on any given day, but he can break 80 if the planets align. In the handful of times we had played golf together, usually at the Winter Park 9 when he’s in my hometown of Orlando, he always seems happy just to be out there. That’s an invaluable trait when the rain blows in sideways on Day 6 of a golf trip. 

And that leaves me, a supposedly scratch golfer with a year-long case of the chip yips. I’ve been fortunate enough to play many of the best courses around the world, but at home I mostly play a $50 daily-fee track. I’ve embraced old-man golf, I can hit a skinny fairway and I love my hybrids. Don’t ask about my putting. For this trip, I would be the organizer, the van driver, the herder and probably a pain in the ass as I kept reminding the other three that we needed to keep up with the group in front.

I had an ace up my sleeve, though. I booked this trip through Lyons Links, an Irish and UK golf booking agent. Unlike many of my trips as a travel writer where I piece together rounds and hotel rooms on my own, I was counting on Lyons Links’ Colm Crowley and Cian Booth to set up the tee times and hotel rooms. They delivered exactly what I was looking for: 207 sandy, seaside golf holes and a selection of great rooms. I was planning to walk my guys into the ground, and they needed comfortable beds to fall into each night. 

Tim, Krash and I rode the same flight from Charlotte, North Carolina, to Dublin, meeting Matt at the airport early on a Saturday morning to get the trip started. After loading the rental van in a game of golf bag Jenga, we slow-rolled into an Irish downpour. 

Headed north to Derry, I didn’t know what to expect as I white-knuckled the steering wheel. Would everyone get along? Would the golf impress, as I had promised? Would the skies clear? Could we keep up? Would somebody have a tantrum after one too many soggy rounds, one too many fruitless searches for a ball in the native Irish scrub?

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried at all.