Having completed the pre match formalities, all that remained was to wish each well and in keeping with age old tradition, remind Enty that whatever he did he couldn't win unless he took hostages and even then it was not a certainty. Enty, Neil, Jack set off up the first, a short par four and established the tone for the day. Jack, a hook into the trees. Enty, possibly still not aware he couldn't win, a massive strike through the back of the green. Neil, a canny light tap up the middle, although using all your straight shots on the first hole, would later prove to be a tactical mistake. Ally, Rick and Sam off next. Rick, admiring Jack's tactics, a hook into the trees. Sam, short of practice, but straight as a die, a safe 25 yards. Then Ally, who demonstrated complete disdain for the trees and rough throughout, a lovely straight drive. Time would prove later that even at this early stage, the omens were good for the lady in pink.

It is an unfortunate fact that unless the golf rules move to permit 6 or even 8 ball matches , the author is pretty much constrained to reporting on performance within his own group. However, on this occasion such was the standard of golf that the two groups met at regular intervals, as competitors weaved their way towards the green, exhibiting all the random and directionally challenged golf the competition favours. In fairness, meetings were typically fleeting as players passed on their way to each other's fairway to attempt yet another recovery shot towards the next triple bogy. So, I can report that overall the golf did not reach the highest standards and this can only be blamed on the players, not the course.  The hidden gem was essentially a fair test in "tidy" condition (that's Welsh),  except perhaps for the acoustic accompaniment of the half hourly Cardiff to London express, the building site pile drivers and Sam's very rattly carry bag.

Back to the golf. Sam starting double bogey, quadruple bogey, par .. looked on the up. Except time would prove that he wasn't looking up at all, as on countless occasions playing from under trees he hadn't noticed, his lofted pitch shot destroyed branches and increase his carbon footprint. Ally however was taking a different approach. Hitting straight, using fairways, reaching the dance floor as other zig-zag'd around her, only to rejoin her dancing partners on the green to demonstrate the art of 3 and 4 putting.  A shame, but those in the know, still recognised that the magnitude of her errors were paltry on this years Grimbleford scale. Further, some of the red tees were at least 3-4 scuffed shots farther down the track than the yellow tees and regardless of being a par 4 rather than a par 5, still a psychological blow to those arriving to watch her drive, having already played too many shots. Rick, other than a glorious  strike and ricochet off a tree that disappeared back towards the tee, just missing Sam's head in passing, his golf was too mundane to report, although the room left for improvement was encouraging. Reporting blind now, except for the occasional meetings I experienced on the course, the front group action was; Jack all over the place as tradition calls for; Neil, clearly not in the right places very often and not exhibiting the jaunty stride of a potential winner; Enty, giving balls the experience they deserve and enjoy when hit properly. However, the author saw him 3 putt once and immediately wrote off his chances,  comforted in the knowledge that hostages were not likely to be taken to support a winning or rather the highest score.

So to the end of the round. What could be taken from observations over the past few hours and who might be in contention. Neil, just not jaunty enough, possibly because no one recognised him or called him Mr Captain. Rick, left "it", and most of his balls, out on the course, but also left far too much room for improvement. Enty, 3 putts and a handicap of one, would be needing more than hostages. Sam, too many invisible trees and no golf in 12 months not ideal, but three pars and a gem on the last hole to great applause from other competitors and some other players who couldn't or wouldn't (?) drive off while this tense battle was played out. Surely not, even with Ally scoring. Jack, seamlessly erratic as ever, probably three birdies, 4 pars and a gaggle of other bigger numbers.. Stroke index and length of hole completely irrelevant to where points were scored. Unpredictable, but he'd travelled a long way to lose. Ally, so, so steady, using the fairway as the golf gods intended, focussed and only distracted by Sam's rattly bag, excellent from tee to green or occasionally those pesky bunkers. Would she putt her way out of contention or would good golf prevail and deliver her a victory.

The golfing endeavours completed, the competitors set off to the bar for a memory erasing beer or wine, Sam bouncing after his par 3 lap of honour, Neil more jaunty now the beer was nearer than the golf course. Who had played the least badly, retained some element of personal pride and delivered a score they would be able to talk about without apologising? No one knew, but the person who had floated above the debris of the day would soon be recognised as the just about worthy winner of the 47th Grimbleford.