Four men, two balls and a humidor

Few early morning sounds promise more to a golfer than that of a lawnmower. Similarly few early morning sights are more reassuring about how a course is looked after than that of greens being hand-mown. The pleasure of hearing and seeing these at first light is why staying the night in a golf club is such fun.

A particularly agreeable place to savour this is the Kittansett Club in Massachusetts. Kittansett hosted the 1953 Walker Cup and is spectacularly situated at the end of a quiet tree-lined road that winds its way south to the tip of Butler Point. Upstairs in the friendly clubhouse bedroom, one finds a white-panelled, cream-painted corner suite with a wooden floor and a four-bladed fan overhead, a combination that positively exudes happiness.

Waking up early in the morning, I pulled up the blinds. Overnight drizzle lingered on the panes of the window overlooking the 18th green and, beyond it, some New England-style homes nestled beside the blue water of Buzzards Bay. Through another window, green-keepers were at work and the first fairway stretched out invitingly.

My host, Newcomb Cole, golfing networker extraordinaire, drove into the car park and got out of his car cradling not a box but a whole humidor of cigars, a trailer for the off-course delights in store. We breakfasted well, before being joined on the tee by the writer Fred Waterman. Later our fourth, property magnate Michael Kane, emerged from the clubhouse munching a bacon roll.

One reason why this day was special was that, unusually for America, our match was a two-ball foursome instead of the four-ball format preferred almost everywhere outside a few traditional British clubs. Taking it in turns with another person – whom you may or may not like, respect, or have even met before – to hit the same golf ball involves a degree of intimacy that only one other human activity requires.

Actually, the ratio of golfers who play foursomes to those who play four balls is about the same as that of travellers who use private jets rather than scheduled flights. Warren Buffett describes returning to scheduled flights after flying private as going back to holding hands. Nevertheless, foursomes golf has much of the sexiness of a private jet: it’s faster, more exclusive and more fun than the alternative.

The merits of foursomes aren’t confined to the speed of play, the unique relationship it creates with your partner or the unlimited scope for psychological turmoil during the round. Although fourballs are fine when you only have one chance to play a course and want to get to know it, friendships develop better in foursomes because of the common interest you and your partner have, as well as the frequent need to converse alone with whichever of your opponents is driving the same holes as yourself.

So it was a treat to stand on the first tee with two friends and a new acquaintance with a 36-hole level match ahead. My first drive flew improbably far and straight and may have raised the hopes of Fred, who had drawn the short straw of being my partner. Such fanciful notions were dispelled as a four-up lead, painstakingly built up over the first 14 holes, had evaporated by the time we came off the 18th green.

We changed into jackets and ties before going into the bar overlooking the bay to the south-east. Lunch was laid at a discreet table for six in the dining room where a friend joined us. The empty place was occupied by a double magnum of Californian cabernet sauvignon, as erect and dignified in its handsome bottle as a scratch golfer, and it soon submitted uncomplainingly to being consumed.

After our meal we repaired to the glass-protected veranda to the west of the clubhouse where a table, amid comfortable wicker armchairs and their generous cushions, was set with further necessities including kümmel, coffee and Newcomb’s humidor. Two hours were devoted to doing justice to these generous provisions but by 3.30pm the resumption of hostilities could be delayed no longer.

By now a breeze had sprung up and the sun was shining more brightly. The match went this way and that before ending all square – a perfect outcome. As dusk fell we returned to the armchairs for chowder, fish pâté and cheese, with more wine and cigars. An air of contentment descended as the banter, lively enough on the course, grew more excited and the bad shots were forgotten.

Climbing the panelled staircase to my room that evening I reflected on the pleasure that a great course, a charming clubhouse, welcoming staff, and hospitable hosts tolerant of the shortcomings of their guest, can bestow. First visits to a golf club don’t come any better than this.

tim.yeo@ft.com

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