Category Archives: Seasons

In the Bleak Midwinter

Henry Longhurst on Winter Golf

The drawbacks of winter are obvious…The first thing is to keep warm. Golf, despite all the talk about shifting of hips and rotation of shoulders, is a game that is played primarily with the hands. In putting and the short game the sense of touch comes essentially from the fingers. Cold hands and golf do not go together.

[Golf: Henry Longhurst; Dent, 1937, p.246]

In the bleak midwinter

[Tune: In the bleak mid-winter – G Holst]

In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan.
Tees were hard as iron,
Ball was like a stone.

Greens and fairways frozen,
Lakes completely iced;
Shots flew half their distance
Even when not sliced.

Only golfing madmen
Would have gathered there,
In their winter woolies
And thermal underwear.

What was their reaction,
When snow began to fall?
One said to the other,
“Use an orange ball.”


When This Winter Round is Over

When this winter round is over

[Tune: What a friend we have in Jesus – CC Converse]

When this winter round is over,
O how happy I will be!
Once I’m back inside the clubhouse
No more ‘Winter Cups’ for me.
Bring a warming mug of coffee,
Serve some hot soup out for me.
You won’t see me reappearing
On an icy golfing tee.

I don’t want to get the frostbite,
Hunt for balls in driven snow,
Dress to look like Michelin tyre man
Frozen stiff from head to toe.
How I long for spring to blossom
When again I can swing free,
When the main greens are reopened
And the birdies call to me.


Suggested tune:

Golf Is a Many-Splendour’d Thing

Golf is a many splendour’d thing

[Tune: Love is a many splendour’d thing – S Fain]

Golf is a many splendour’d thing
The long putt holed,
The pitch so bold,
And the perfect swing.
When you cream a lovely draw ball
To th’amazement of your fourball…
Golf’s a many splendour’d thing – Oh sing!

Golf has its melancholia too.
When the east wind blows
On your frozen nose
And your hands turn blue;
And your partner keeps tut-tutting
At your imbecilic putting,
It tries the patience of the Holier’you.

Spring sees my golfing spirits rise.
The birdies all,
With their siren call,
Wake my sleeping eyes.
To the sunlit tee I hurry
And I swing without a worry,
And win the annual Rabbit’s Prize – Surprise!
I’ve won the annual Rabbit’s Prize.

WoodenSpoon Prize