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The hysterical story bestseller about one man's epic Celtic sojourn in search of ancestors, nostalgia, and the world's greatest round of golf By turns hilarious and poetic, A Course Called Ireland is a magnificent tour of a vibrant land and paean to the world's greatest game in the tradition of Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods. In his thirties, married, and staring down impending fatherhood, Tom Coyne was familiar with the last refuge of the adult male- the golfing trip. Intent on designing a golf trip to end all others, Coyne looked to Ireland, the place where his father has taught him to love the game years before. As he studied a map of the island and plotted his itinerary, it dawn on Coyne that Ireland was ringed with golf holes. The country began to look like one giant round of golf, so Coyne packed up his clubs and set off to play all of it-on foot. A Course Called Ireland is the story of a walking-averse golfer who treks his way around an entire country, spending sixteen weeks playing every seaside hole in Ireland. Along the way, he searches out his family's roots, discovers that a once-poor country has been transformed by an economic boom, and finds that the only thing tougher to escape than Irish sand traps are Irish pubs.… (mais)
In 2006, I was fortunate enough to experience a golf trip to Southwest Ireland, playing a few of the courses visited by Coyne. That trip added immeasurably to my enjoyment of this book, and in the event of a return trip, I will certainly reread this book and follow some of the author's suggestions.
Tom Coyne, a golf writer and PGA Tour wannabe, plans the ultimate Irish golf trip, planning to play every links course in Ireland, via a counterclockwise circuit of the island, BY FOOT. This latter condition, though perhaps adding somewhat to the book's allure, was really somewhat silly, and likely added nothing to his enjoyment or understanding of the island or its people, other than to add a month and a half of walking time.
Doubtless, Coyne's itinerary provided him a far deeper understanding of Irish culture than that enjoyed by most week long golf trips, housed in upper scale resorts catering to Americans, however, walking between the towns added little. It was the days and weeks spent in modest bed and breakfasts and neighborhood pubs that added spice to the trips. More such time could have been spent were it not for the hundreds of hours spent by Coyne slogging along Irish highways and beaches. But, of course, it was the walking tour that added the cache to the journey and doubtless provided the media exposure that he required to finance the trip and publicize the book.
Overall, this was a very entertaining travelogue, however I was at times put off by Coyne's repeated references to "rich Americans" and "luxury tour busses" in an almost sneering, holier than though tone. It was rich foreigners and money spending tourists that allowed construction and maintenance of many of the courses that Coyne played, professed love for and rarely had to pay a penny to play (trading upon his notoriety to access such courses as Old Head and Royal County Down).
Also offputting were Coyne's moments of amateur psychological analysis. Sure, by virtue of the months he spent among the Irish people, he achieved an understanding and insight few of us would have an opportunity to garner. However, he trades on this experience to make some truly astonishing assumptions.
(SPOILER ALERT) Most troubling was a situation in which Coyne and two of his traveling companions of the moment (he cycled through a variety of friends and relatives throughout the trip) became so inebriated that they actually crapped on the floor of their bedroom. While acknowledging the horror of the offense, Coyne spends the next several pages assassinating the character of the bed and breakfast owner who had the effrontery to track down the offenders, who had attempted to run away without taking responsibility for their actions. Coyne attributes this to an overly familiar culture and whines that he will always be identified in the region for the offense, of which he was certainly guilty.
In all his bemoaning of "ugly Americans" and luxury tour bus inhabitants, I doubt any have generated the bad will toward golfing tourists that Coyne and his companions did by crapping on the floor of a bed and breakfast and then running away. ( )
The hysterical story bestseller about one man's epic Celtic sojourn in search of ancestors, nostalgia, and the world's greatest round of golf By turns hilarious and poetic, A Course Called Ireland is a magnificent tour of a vibrant land and paean to the world's greatest game in the tradition of Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods. In his thirties, married, and staring down impending fatherhood, Tom Coyne was familiar with the last refuge of the adult male- the golfing trip. Intent on designing a golf trip to end all others, Coyne looked to Ireland, the place where his father has taught him to love the game years before. As he studied a map of the island and plotted his itinerary, it dawn on Coyne that Ireland was ringed with golf holes. The country began to look like one giant round of golf, so Coyne packed up his clubs and set off to play all of it-on foot. A Course Called Ireland is the story of a walking-averse golfer who treks his way around an entire country, spending sixteen weeks playing every seaside hole in Ireland. Along the way, he searches out his family's roots, discovers that a once-poor country has been transformed by an economic boom, and finds that the only thing tougher to escape than Irish sand traps are Irish pubs.
Google Books — A carregar...
(3.95)
4
Tom Coyne, a golf writer and PGA Tour wannabe, plans the ultimate Irish golf trip, planning to play every links course in Ireland, via a counterclockwise circuit of the island, BY FOOT. This latter condition, though perhaps adding somewhat to the book's allure, was really somewhat silly, and likely added nothing to his enjoyment or understanding of the island or its people, other than to add a month and a half of walking time.
Doubtless, Coyne's itinerary provided him a far deeper understanding of Irish culture than that enjoyed by most week long golf trips, housed in upper scale resorts catering to Americans, however, walking between the towns added little. It was the days and weeks spent in modest bed and breakfasts and neighborhood pubs that added spice to the trips. More such time could have been spent were it not for the hundreds of hours spent by Coyne slogging along Irish highways and beaches. But, of course, it was the walking tour that added the cache to the journey and doubtless provided the media exposure that he required to finance the trip and publicize the book.
Overall, this was a very entertaining travelogue, however I was at times put off by Coyne's repeated references to "rich Americans" and "luxury tour busses" in an almost sneering, holier than though tone. It was rich foreigners and money spending tourists that allowed construction and maintenance of many of the courses that Coyne played, professed love for and rarely had to pay a penny to play (trading upon his notoriety to access such courses as Old Head and Royal County Down).
Also offputting were Coyne's moments of amateur psychological analysis. Sure, by virtue of the months he spent among the Irish people, he achieved an understanding and insight few of us would have an opportunity to garner. However, he trades on this experience to make some truly astonishing assumptions.
(SPOILER ALERT) Most troubling was a situation in which Coyne and two of his traveling companions of the moment (he cycled through a variety of friends and relatives throughout the trip) became so inebriated that they actually crapped on the floor of their bedroom. While acknowledging the horror of the offense, Coyne spends the next several pages assassinating the character of the bed and breakfast owner who had the effrontery to track down the offenders, who had attempted to run away without taking responsibility for their actions. Coyne attributes this to an overly familiar culture and whines that he will always be identified in the region for the offense, of which he was certainly guilty.
In all his bemoaning of "ugly Americans" and luxury tour bus inhabitants, I doubt any have generated the bad will toward golfing tourists that Coyne and his companions did by crapping on the floor of a bed and breakfast and then running away. (