Royal St David's
The weathered stone of Harlech Castle casts a shadow over the first tee at Royal St David’s. Our dri-release, moisture wicking MANORS clothing is a little more advanced than the mediaeval chain mail of old but there’s a sense that we’re going into battle. Luke, Creative Director at MANORS, emerges from the passage way that leads to the first tee, he’s swapped a long sword for an oat milk latte and exclaims: ‘this is the hardest par 69 in the UK, just so you guys know.’ He takes a sip, the coffee is too hot so he burns his mouth a little. Let the battle commence.
We trade blows with the opening 4 holes. A 450 yard left to right doglegging par 4 breaks the ice. Then the battalion turns to face the castle on the hill top, unleashing a tirade of bulleted two irons towards the Western facing battlements. Another long, left to right tracking par 4 follows, wounding the slinging draw aficionados of the group.
We’d be preparing to retreat were it not for the late emergence of the British Summer. Gilets are shed and our Spektrum sunglasses pulled down over our scrunched up eyes as we venture deeper into the Welsh countryside. Wooden clad bunker faces and flowering yellow gorse keep our attention on the idyllic surroundings, distracting us from our 4th bunker shot in as many holes.
The back nine ushers us south along the towering dunes until we reach the monstrous par 3 fourteenth. It's said to be the start of the 5 toughest finishing holes in the country, which at this point feels like an ambush. The tee is nestled so close to the sun drenched terrace of the clubhouse that you’d be forgiven for thinking you were half a dozen strokes from home. The stone plaque at the edge of the tee reads 230 yards: psychological warfare.
The group inhales deeply and we puff out our collective chest. We’re not going down that easily. Long irons surround the green, to the right of which a large metal triangle dangles on a wooden pole, encouraging you to signal backwards that you survived the hole. We ring it with intent.
On the 16th tee a derelict brutalist skyscraper comes into view above the windswept egg box dunes. The landscape of the course has changed almost completely now. Edging closer to the sea, the crashing waves come in and out of earshot over the marram grass behind us. The narrowing fairways sweep through increasingly undulating moguls.
Finally we reach the par 3 18th. Luke, in a final bid to conquer Royal St David’s, demands that one of the videographers head to the greenside in case someone flirts with a hole in one. As the cameraman speeds to a canter I quietly point to the tee marker, its 201 yards into a soft breeze and I’m holding a 4 iron. These are more like par 3.5s. As the fading group sends balls flying into greenside bunkers and not-so-greenside rough, the Captain’s head hangs heavy. We’ve battled nobley, but perhaps it's time to admit defeat.
The hardest par 69 in the UK might have won the battle, but we’ll be back to win the war.