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Nonesuch River
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It is strange to go out expecting one thing, only to encounter its antithesis once you arrive. This is especially chagrining when it was something good and pure and joyful that you were expecting. Our arrival at Nonesuch River Golf Club, through the gate, up the drive to the club house, had been on our minds since finishing drinks at Grill 65 at Dunegrass the day before. The fellows bellied up to the bar beside us said they made their way there several times a summer. The online reviews were interesting. All reviews were positive; however, none rang with any sense of passion. The word on social media was that this was a must visit course in the area.
When we arrived, fog was covering most of the course. The clubhouse, sitting on a hill overlooking the turn, seemed well maintained and a banquet tent set up beside it told us that crowds do sometimes gather here. As should be expected at many a golf course in northern New England, a madman with a six-inch cigar clenched in his teeth and wearing a train conductor’s hat was wiping down a golf cart and berating it for its lack of windshield.
We walked into the pro shop and immediately felt our presence risked interrupting the story being told by the guy behind the counter. He was going on about several of the members, mentioning them by name, and describing their idiosyncrasies with all the dramatic incensement of a Seinfeld bit from the 90s. I thought it best to let him finish his performance as he had landed at least two laugh lines in as many sentences, and accomplished an off-putting impression of a member with an apparent limp and speech impediment. I briefly explored the pro shop, then the nineteenth hole down the hall, past the restrooms. I decided the guy at the counter had enjoyed his ventilation of frustrations long enough, so I stood before him to check us in.
He ignored me.
I’ll be honest, after two decades in various customer service positions, I was impressed with this guy’s ability to maintain his focus and continue his tirade. It wasn’t until I laughed, loudly, and with questionable sincerity at one of his punchlines regarding a lady who is often late for her Sunday Morning round, that I stole the room’s attention and was able to ask the storyteller if I could check in for my round. I answered each of his inquiries--“When?” “Who are you?” “Been here before?”--with one-word answers and then I was told, “Go out there, one of the guys will tell you where to go.”
Ask around, I am a pretty unflappable guy in most trying situations. But rudeness, especially on this level, irks me to a tightening of my neck muscles and an unconscious viper’s grin forming across my otherwise smiling face. My wife saw my posture and expression as I turned to her for permission to respond. She reacted by linking her arm into mine and tossing a “Thanks guys!” over her shoulder before we departed the room together.
Shaking off the nincompoop inside, I selected a cart with the least grime, the most intact seat, but alas, without a windshield. I drove it over to my truck, broke out the rags and some glass cleaner, and gave the old girl a necessary scrub. We loaded up our bags, our cooler, and what I have come to call my Sin Bag, as it contains my Firelight 750 flask, Highball Shaker, a couple good cigars, and various other comfort items. Then we set off in pursuit of the driving range.
We hit a few balls into the fog from driving range stalls that needed some straightening, some grass, and much in the way of trash removal. When I say I picked up a dozen broken tees, a gas station donut wrapper, and a crushed Monster can from my stall alone, believe me, it was rough. I get that hiring is difficult. I know all about bitter employees who are half checked out and in the midst of quiet quitting, but the range is often the first experience of a course that visitors and guests will encounter after the clubhouse. It’s a place where we work out our travel-tightened back muscles. It’s a place to get local information and a feel for the greens. It’s a place to switch from real world concerns to the mind, body, spirit escape from daily reality that is golf.
Standing on the green for hole one, I looked down at the scorecard for the first time, “Great Golf… Great Service,” it read. I marked my bogie below a column that read, “PACE RATING time to play in (min) :13.” We had played the dog leg left, 389-yard Par 4 in under nine, so we were feeling pretty good. The back of the card said, “Nonesuch River Golf Club, Where Pace of Play is a Priority.” The card concluded with, “No coolers or alcoholic beverages allowed on course or parking lot!”
Oops.
All morning we failed to see a ranger, a beer cart, or any representation of the course’s personnel at all. By hole five or six, with the highway screaming behind the tee box, we mixed a much needed cocktail, Gin Martinis: Barr Hill Gin, barely .25 oz dry vermouth, two olives and a pearl onion each, a splash of the good stuff to make them dirty, and a solid shake in my High Camp Flask Highball Shaker.
Then we decided this day was going to be truncated to a nine-hole morning.
Hole nine, a 407-yard Par 4, had a Pace Rating of eighteen minutes. Having enjoyed our Martini’s, shaken off our underwhelming welcome to the course, and having been rattled out of our mellow focus with constant road noise, we each parred hole nine, returned our cart with a fiver clipped on the steering wheel, then made a happy departure for better waters. Indeed, martini number two was enjoyed as we strolled along Saco Bay, my Sin Bag slung over my shoulder while the salty waves crashed nearby, ran up on the sand, and cooled our bare feet.
Cheers,
Matt
When we arrived, fog was covering most of the course. The clubhouse, sitting on a hill overlooking the turn, seemed well maintained and a banquet tent set up beside it told us that crowds do sometimes gather here. As should be expected at many a golf course in northern New England, a madman with a six-inch cigar clenched in his teeth and wearing a train conductor’s hat was wiping down a golf cart and berating it for its lack of windshield.
We walked into the pro shop and immediately felt our presence risked interrupting the story being told by the guy behind the counter. He was going on about several of the members, mentioning them by name, and describing their idiosyncrasies with all the dramatic incensement of a Seinfeld bit from the 90s. I thought it best to let him finish his performance as he had landed at least two laugh lines in as many sentences, and accomplished an off-putting impression of a member with an apparent limp and speech impediment. I briefly explored the pro shop, then the nineteenth hole down the hall, past the restrooms. I decided the guy at the counter had enjoyed his ventilation of frustrations long enough, so I stood before him to check us in.
He ignored me.
I’ll be honest, after two decades in various customer service positions, I was impressed with this guy’s ability to maintain his focus and continue his tirade. It wasn’t until I laughed, loudly, and with questionable sincerity at one of his punchlines regarding a lady who is often late for her Sunday Morning round, that I stole the room’s attention and was able to ask the storyteller if I could check in for my round. I answered each of his inquiries--“When?” “Who are you?” “Been here before?”--with one-word answers and then I was told, “Go out there, one of the guys will tell you where to go.”
Ask around, I am a pretty unflappable guy in most trying situations. But rudeness, especially on this level, irks me to a tightening of my neck muscles and an unconscious viper’s grin forming across my otherwise smiling face. My wife saw my posture and expression as I turned to her for permission to respond. She reacted by linking her arm into mine and tossing a “Thanks guys!” over her shoulder before we departed the room together.
Shaking off the nincompoop inside, I selected a cart with the least grime, the most intact seat, but alas, without a windshield. I drove it over to my truck, broke out the rags and some glass cleaner, and gave the old girl a necessary scrub. We loaded up our bags, our cooler, and what I have come to call my Sin Bag, as it contains my Firelight 750 flask, Highball Shaker, a couple good cigars, and various other comfort items. Then we set off in pursuit of the driving range.
We hit a few balls into the fog from driving range stalls that needed some straightening, some grass, and much in the way of trash removal. When I say I picked up a dozen broken tees, a gas station donut wrapper, and a crushed Monster can from my stall alone, believe me, it was rough. I get that hiring is difficult. I know all about bitter employees who are half checked out and in the midst of quiet quitting, but the range is often the first experience of a course that visitors and guests will encounter after the clubhouse. It’s a place where we work out our travel-tightened back muscles. It’s a place to get local information and a feel for the greens. It’s a place to switch from real world concerns to the mind, body, spirit escape from daily reality that is golf.
Standing on the green for hole one, I looked down at the scorecard for the first time, “Great Golf… Great Service,” it read. I marked my bogie below a column that read, “PACE RATING time to play in (min) :13.” We had played the dog leg left, 389-yard Par 4 in under nine, so we were feeling pretty good. The back of the card said, “Nonesuch River Golf Club, Where Pace of Play is a Priority.” The card concluded with, “No coolers or alcoholic beverages allowed on course or parking lot!”
Oops.
All morning we failed to see a ranger, a beer cart, or any representation of the course’s personnel at all. By hole five or six, with the highway screaming behind the tee box, we mixed a much needed cocktail, Gin Martinis: Barr Hill Gin, barely .25 oz dry vermouth, two olives and a pearl onion each, a splash of the good stuff to make them dirty, and a solid shake in my High Camp Flask Highball Shaker.
Then we decided this day was going to be truncated to a nine-hole morning.
Hole nine, a 407-yard Par 4, had a Pace Rating of eighteen minutes. Having enjoyed our Martini’s, shaken off our underwhelming welcome to the course, and having been rattled out of our mellow focus with constant road noise, we each parred hole nine, returned our cart with a fiver clipped on the steering wheel, then made a happy departure for better waters. Indeed, martini number two was enjoyed as we strolled along Saco Bay, my Sin Bag slung over my shoulder while the salty waves crashed nearby, ran up on the sand, and cooled our bare feet.
Cheers,
Matt
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