Five-star way to travel

Caddying has always given the global looper the opportunity to observe life from a number of angles. The five-star hotel one week probably gives way to the no-star the next week due to the vagaries of international budget travel., writes caddie to Paul Lawrie, Colin Byrne

The haute cuisine restaurant one night can often be backed-up by the greasy spoon the next. Of course we all would prefer the good life seven days a week. The reality for most is that you expect the worst when it comes to travel comfort and enjoy the best if it comes along.

One thing is certain, it all seems to balance out, so it is best not to become too accustomed to the highlife. I took a late flight to Gran Canaria last Monday for the Spanish Open. Given the previous week of bad weather in Ireland, I was looking forward to having to wear a hat to keep the sun off rather than the rain.

Unusually for an 11.30 p.m. connecting flight from Madrid to Las Palmas the plane was jam-packed. I endured the two and a half hour flight squashed in the middle seat (bad planning for a seasoned traveller) surrounded by a plane load of babbling young Spaniards.

Of course the Spaniards are a nocturnal bunch, midnight to them signifies the start of the evening and not the end as those of us from further north are more used to.

So I arrived in the middle of the night to a five star (Spanish) hotel which restored equilibrium for the day's travel.

I spent the rest of the week in accommodation more suited to my position.

It was a charming old fashioned hotel set by the beach with a view of the apartments next to it. The lobby was a dark wooded area, the focal point of which was an old Ericson switch-board phone from the 1950s. I could have imagined Ernest Hemmingway stopping here for a rest before a bullfight. The decor had not changed since Ernest's time, it was like a museum from a forgotten age.

I decided to try and balance the luxury and inconvenience of my trip home by taking the public bus to the airport.

It was early afternoon on Sunday. I was giving myself extra time to get to the airport for this was going to be a special flight. I was getting a lift back to London as a guest of Retief Goosen in his private jet.

For this special occasion I arrived at the airport with time to spare wondering where private jets actually go from.

Of course it is not posted on the monitor. How does it all happen, I wondered? Do staff flock at your feet when you whisper "avion privado" at the information desk ? No they don't. Just wait over in the cafeteria, was the reply after a couple of phone calls from the information lady, and we'll send the crew over to you.

A sprightly young Scandinavian approached me at the cafe dressed in what I assumed to be a pilot's attire.

Peter turned out to be the co-pilot and asked me if I was happy to sit in the cafe until Retief arrived. It wasn't the treatment I was expecting as a "private customer" , I had plush leather couches and obsequious staff conjured up in the lounge of my imagination.

Las Palmas was not really the best airport to fly privately from according to Peter.

Retief arrived with his wife, Greg his caddie and Laurence another caddie.

It looked like this private jet was going to be loaded with caddies. We were whisked through the formalities and into a bus bound for our Learjet 45 which was perched at the far end of the airfield.

It was, coincidentally, the Goosen's wedding anniversary so someone already had the champagne chilling when we clambered aboard the eight-seater jet.

It was a sleek and smooth machine with leather upholstery, a mahogany finish and soft shades, it was . . . suave, and the pilots Richard and Peter complemented the private set-up with a casual efficiency.

We cruised to Farnborough airport in Surrey at 43,000 feet in three hours and 45 minutes at 80 per cent the speed of sound sucking some six tonnes of fuel along the way.

We were in more ways than one in the Stratosphere, it was dark above the aircraft. We nibbled on smoked salmon sandwiches to complement the Moet and Chandon and really behaved as if we were not actual bag-toters , but influential members of society.

The pampering continued on arrival in England. Chauffeur driven cars were at the plane side to meet us, as the engines ground to a halt, ready to speed us away from "privatedom" and back to reality.

I seem to have lost my state of equilibrium after that trip, I had better public bus it to my next destination in order to regain my travelling balance.