West Country
Somewhere behind me, the Atlantic was throwing itself against the edge of the country. The wind didn't care about my club selection and 120 yards was now my stock five iron.
But why was I here on the southernmost point of England?
I had come to the West Country in search of the most underrated golf destination in the UK. Five courses across three counties, and, because no good idea is ever allowed to remain simple, a three-day attempt to win the Cornish Golf Festival.
The plan, at least on paper, was straightforward. Begin in Somerset, move south-west into Devon, then cross into Cornwall for the festival. Along the way, assemble a dream team of golfers, lean on the local knowledge of a head professional, and somehow beat a field of people who presumably knew where all the blind shots went.
But golf rarely respects the paper or yardage book on which a plan is written.
Our first stop was Burnham & Berrow, a course that immediately felt more serious than its understated reputation lets on. The dunes moved with that strange natural rhythm you only really get on old links land. Somewhere in the middle of it all sat a church, with an adjacent golf hole redesigned multiple times because play was not permitted during weddings, funerals or Sunday services.
The course where Justin Rose qualified for The Open in 2024, before almost winning the thing at Royal Troon. A sign of the gap between the Rosey of 2024 and 2026, where fighting for a Green Jacket and Claret Jug is now a more pressing issue than surviving British Golf's longest day. A fact that sat in the back of my mind as I made a series of considerably less Open-worthy swings through the Somerset air.
Still, the welcome was warm, a New Zealand flag kindly raised by the starter on the first tee. A feeling of home despite being 12,000 miles away from the shores on which my golf game was 'crafted'.
The next morning, Devon made me question why I lived in London. Stopping in Croyde Bay, we walked up Baggy Point, drank coffee, enjoyed the surf, and were interrupted by the friendliest of strangers. A stark contrast to London, where the simplest of hellos can feel unwarranted. In Devon, it felt rude not to stop for a conversation.
That afternoon we reached the East Course at Saunton. Set through the vast dunes of Braunton Burrows, it had scale, championship pedigree and three par threes worthy of a place on the Open rota. The wind was kind enough not to show all of its teeth (yet…), but the course still had plenty to say.
By the time we left Devon, I had already begun racking my brain over why this part of the country was not spoken about in the same breath as the more obvious links destinations. Sure, maybe it lacks the stature or poetry of Scotland and Ireland, or the Open rota names like Lancashire and Kent. But down in the South-West, tucked beneath the surf culture and the smell of fish and chips, there is golf of frightening quality.
Then came the Cornish Golf Festival.
Our first round was at St Enodoc, which is not exactly underrated in the traditional sense. A course ranked among the best 50 courses in the world cannot credibly claim to be hidden. But even knowing its reputation does not quite prepare you for the place itself. The Church Course sits above the Camel Estuary, wrapped around St Enodoc Church and guarded by the Himalaya bunker.
The wind was blowing hard enough to give every decision a second opinion. The course is only a par 69, which sounds manageable until you realise that links golf has a special ability to make the numbers on your scorecard meaningless. A par 69 in calm weather is one thing. A par 69 in 50 miles per hour of Cornish wind is another.
Our team started bravely, dovetailing occasionally. Still, it was hard to feel too sorry for yourself surrounded by the church, the estuary, the dunes, the strange little angles of Braid's routing (team score: +3).
That evening, back at the lodges at Perranporth, someone suggested a putting competition. I don't know how long it lasted. An hour, maybe. It felt endless in the way childhood games feel endless, before time became something you managed. I can't remember who won. I remember laughing so much the score became irrelevant. I remember putts dropping from off the green and being taken from under golf buggies. I remember thinking that this was probably the purest golf we had played all week.
The next day at Trevose, the wind arrived even more brazenly. Layers were added. Eyes watered. Putter heads didn't go straight back and straight through. A par five measured 459 yards and somehow felt like it could be reached with driver. The second round over the road at Perranporth had already been suspended at times because of the conditions, and we played with that strange mix of gratitude and resentment. Lucky to be out there. Furious to be out there.
Trevose felt different again. We were battered, occasionally useful, and held together by enough moments from the team to avoid complete collapse (team score: +6).
By the final round at Perranporth, winning the tournament had become a pipe dream. Our new goal was simpler: get the team into red numbers and leave with our dignity intact. Perranporth, of course, is not a course built for dignity. Twelve blind tee shots, marker posts, uneven lies and trust exercises disguised as architecture. The sort of place where local knowledge is essential.
Thankfully, we had Richard Sadler, Perranporth's head professional, whose golfing CV contains the sort of things that sound made up if told by anyone else. A round of 68 at Augusta National and a run-in with Jack Nicklaus.
But somehow, we did it. Not winning, don't be silly. That had long since disappeared into the Cornish wind. But we got ourselves under par. We shook hands on the final green with the quiet satisfaction of a team that had been humbled, entertained, occasionally useful, and never entirely defeated (team score: -1).
At Lizard Point, with the trip coming to an end, I thought about the scorecard again. Golf is very good at convincing you that the score is the story. It rarely is. The real story was the New Zealand flag raised at Burnham & Berrow. The locals stopping us in Devon. The par threes at Saunton. The church at St Enodoc. The wind at Trevose. The marker posts at Perranporth. The fish and chips in Rock. The beach pub. The child-like putting competitions. The laughter that made an hour feel like a summer holiday.
The West Country is not a hidden golf destination because nobody knows it exists. It is hidden because it asks a little more of you. A longer drive. A willingness to look past the obvious names.
But for anyone who loves links golf, good people, occasionally non-windy weather, a proper fish and chips, and the feeling of escaping the city, it is absolutely worth the pilgrimage.
Golf is a game to be explored. And the West Country is a round trip worth making.