Long day's journey to spiritual degradation

THERE I sat in the fire engine outside the Great Northern Hotel, unshaven, unhappy, uncouth; and then the hall porter came out and placed himself without reserve at my disposal. Other hall porters wait until you are safely inside before they begin to minister, but this was something special. In ten minutes I had been lent a razor, shaving brush, and soap, directed to a room overlooking the fifth green and the sea, handed, with the compliments of the management, a very large, very old, very fragrant glass of Irish whiskey, and finally offered a choice of nine different kinds of bath.

There were Zotofoam, brine bubble, seaweed brine bubble, Zotofoam seaweed brine bubble, and several more. At the bottom of the list appeared the word "fresh." Now I wanted a bath, just a good plain bath with soap, and perhaps a sponge or two, and maybe a loofah; but I couldn't see anything about "bath, one hot," in the directions. I rang the bell.

"Can I have a bath?" I said rather belligerently, not sure of my ground. "Yes, sir; brine bubble, Zotofoam, hot salt, hot fresh No, just a bath - a B-A-T-H," I explained. "Ah, hot fresh" - and then I realised for the first time the significance of "fresh." You never think of your bath somehow as "fresh".

The bath had four taps. One pair labelled "fresh," the other "salt." I was longing to try the "salt," but felt having ordered "fresh" it would be dishonest to unleash the "salt." The "fresh" emerged in a cascade that nearly broke your arm. As I lay in the reservoir - the largest bath I ever have attended I brooded sadly on a strange omission in the otherwise comprehensive plumbing. Where were the taps labelled "Old" and the taps labelled "Mild"?

Dinner was a revelation. Prepared for the best bacon and eggs I had ever eaten, I shrank before the silent advance of the matre d'hotel. Even now it puts my teeth on edge to think of him as a waiter. Hors d'oeuvre, soup, fish, entree - and all the other refinements. And, with the compliments of the management the wine list.

I tried to put my tie straight, polished my shoes on the back of my trousers . . . and in amazement contemplated Juan les Pins on the shores of Donegal Bay. Furtively I pushed my book under the table and strove to look as if I had not been having high tea with an egg to it at 6.30 for the last couple of days. Now it was that my spiritual degeneration began which was to reach its peak at Rosses Point.

The next day may, or may not, have dawned bright and clear, but certainly when I awoke at ten it was a perfect morning of warm sunshine and August calm. I had breakfast 20 yards from the first tee, and as I began on the devilled kidneys a cleric drove the opening ball of the day. He hit it, too. This is the attraction of Bundoran. The course is laid all round the hotel, in the hotel's own grounds.

The course was a dozen strokes more difficult than I expected. The first, the third, the fifth, the eighth, the ninth, the tenth, the 13th, the 15th and the 17th are all holes that would not disgrace a championships course, and I have given this tedious list because in the course of two rounds I had searchings of heart at these nine holes of the most profound and elaborate nature.

I went out looking for a flick with a mashie off each tee, and two putts now and then; and instead I found myself beating wildly with a driver to reduce as far as possible the distance I would have to hit the thing next time. With very limited space a surprisingly long and tricky golf course has been made at Bundoran and if the new extension scheme succeeds Bundoran will have a fair chance of attaining its ambition a West of Ireland Championship some time.

The manager, the secretary, and I had lunch - spiritual degradation - and after lunch we played more, and worse, golf. By now the Easter giggle of guests was beginning to arrive, and I packed, or rather put things into my suitcase, sadly. There were the beginnings of notable doings in Bundoran, and I would like to have stayed to mark their development; but as I was one of the dead bodies over which the probable winner of the West of Ireland title 1936, had to pick his way, I thought it better to be off and preserve jealously the remnants of my health. I never made a worse mistake in my life.

From Bundoran to Sligo there is a road resembling in many respects the perilous passage between Dublin and Bray. Probably the worst moment I had was on a right angled curve shortly before Sligo. I was hugging the hedge in a (considered hopeless) attempt to keep the fire engine on four wheels when another young gentleman appeared in the opposite direction doing much the same thing. Both drivers closed their eyes and left the situation in the charge of providence. Providence heard about it in time, and I drove for a few miles in second gear.