300 MEMORIES OF MEN AND HORSES 



My first experience of golf was at Filey, some twenty 

 years ago, and a delightful course that is, on the South 

 Cliff, with the sea in full view and a most perfect air, 

 teeming with ozone. Beck, the professional, is a right 

 good man, and there is no better teacher. There, in 

 war time, one saw the convoys go past morning and 

 afternoon, and there were many stirring incidents, for 

 submarines were busy in those waters. 



It seems like a dream now to recall those convoys 

 as they passed, with an airship scouting in front and 

 destroyers on either side, but you so soon get used to 

 almost anything that golf would be resumed after a brief 

 inspection of the convoy. 



There is a ravine to drive over at Filey, and the first 

 time I ever played I had the full confidence of a novice 

 and carried well over it with complete success, but not 

 the second time, nor for many times afterwards. Golf 

 appears to me to be a game dependent almost entirely 

 on temperament and nerves. For instance, in the few 

 lessons I have had I could do whatever I was told to do. 

 Beck would put down half-a-dozen balls, with caddies to 

 field them, and with a driver, or an iron, or a mashie, 

 as the case might be. I was supposed to hit them, and, 

 in such circumstances, never failed to do so with absolute 

 ease, but there is a great gulf fixed between that sort of 

 thing and playing in a game especially driving off 

 from the first tee with a lot of people looking at you. 

 Still, be all that as it may, golf is one of the best of all 

 games, if you can only find a course that is not too 

 popular, which seems to be really impossible in the 

 neighbourhood of London. 



In my earliest days it was not unusual to play marbles, 

 though I never attained to any proficiency at that game, 



