Our illustrious leader and despot, Mr Captain brought us to Cavendish Golf Club Sunday last, perched in the rolling hills of Buxton, Derbyshire, it is the kind of place that makes you question why you ever bothered playing anywhere else. Crafted in 1925 by the genius Dr. Alister MacKenzie—yes, the Augusta National guy—this 5,721-yard, par-68 masterpiece is short but savage. With its sneaky hazards, greens that slope like a funhouse floor, and views of the Peak District that practically beg for an Instagram post, it’s no wonder Cavendish is consistently ranked among the UK’s top 100 courses. Nicknamed the “Inspiration for Augusta,” it’s as close to golfing royalty as you can get without a green jacket. Oh, and it’s stayed true to MacKenzie’s original vision, which is more than you can say for some members swing.
The Alfie Noakes Golf Society’s latest pilgrimage to this hallowed ground was a riot of sunshine, sarcasm, and some questionable golf. Our day was proudly sponsored by Mike Oakes, the man who’d sell his soul for a birdie. Tragically, fate had other plans: Mike sprained his ankle just before the event, leaving him hobbling like a pirate with a grudge. Did that stop him? Pfft, as if. The man rolled up anyway, commandeering a buggy with Len to bask in the glory of Cavendish. Mike’s love for golf borders on obsession, and he proved it mid round by limping to a red tee, balancing on one leg, and smacking a 7-iron that soared past all his four-ball’s drives. You gotta take your hat off to that. Well played sir!
The weather was disgustingly perfect—bright sunshine, clear skies, and a course so pristine it looked like it had been Photoshopped. Cavendish, true to form, was ready to humble us. Its fairways may look inviting, but they’ll chew up your ego and spit it out faster than you can say “triple bogey.”
Our crew, never ones to shy away from a challenge, arrived early, practically vibrating with anticipation. Leading the chaos was “No Doe” (Kevin), who decided the clubhouse was the perfect spot for an impromptu strip show, going topless to “prepare.” Subtlety, clearly not his strong suit. Meanwhile, Steve, our so-called custodian of the Alfie Noakes trophy collection, had a full-blown existential crisis (again) over which shiny relic to bring. His solution? Bring nothing. Brilliant, Steve. I think we need to invest in a laminated Ladybird book of ANGS trophies for him.
With no food on offer members took matters into their own hands. Some, in a stroke of culinary genius, detoured through the “Golden Archers” for a McMuffin others just ordered from the usual from the kitchen.
Out on the course, Cavendish didn’t disappoint. It’s the kind of place that lulls you into a false sense of security before reminding you why you’ve never gone pro. We figured a Stableford score of 36 would take the crown, given the course’s knack for breaking souls.
Enter Stuart, who apparently didn’t get the memo, racking up a ridiculous 42 points. Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it. Len, our runner-up with a respectable 34, was so chuffed he broke into a jig that was equal parts adorable and alarming.
Colin Butler snagged nearest-the-pin, the only one of us with the nerve to hit the green and actually stay there. The twos pot? Untouched. It’s now rolling over to Didsbury, and Mike’s already rubbing his hands like a cartoon villain plotting a triple rollover heist.
The 19th hole brought the real entertainment: Joe’s finesmastery. With the precision of a sniper and the mercy of a tax collector, Joe unleashed a barrage of fines that left no one unscathed.
From dodgy swings to dodgier excuses, he had us in stitches, with belly laughs echoing across the patio. It was the perfect cap to a day of superb golf, superb company, and just the right amount of stupidity.
Cavendish was everything we’d hoped for and more—a course that demands your best and rewards you with views and memories worth framing. A massive shout-out to Mike for sponsoring and dragging himself out despite his busted ankle. Mate, you’re a legend, and we’re not worthy. Here’s to Didsbury, where we’ll chase that rollover pot, more fines, and another round of Alfie Noakes anarchy!