When the great Christy Ring retired from the game of hurling he was asked by Jack Lynch if he’d like to take up golf to pass the time.

- Ah shur where would I be going playing golf, Jack? Shur I know nothing of the game.

- Ah ’tis easy, Christy. If a man can hit a sliotar he can hit a golf ball. I’ll show you the ropes and you’ll be flying in jig time.

So one sunny morning the pair ended up on a tee box overlooking the first hole, 400m away down in the valley.

- Right. What do I do now, Jack?

- Well, you see that bit of grass that’s cut as if like sheep had been at it? With the flag in the middle of it? Off down there in the distance? That’s called the green. The idea is to get the ball onto it in a few goes as you can.

Christy’s ball soared through the air and landed motionless smack in the middle of the green, a mere cat’s whisker from the pin. Not one to be put off, Jack Lynch, played four shots and his ball too ended up on the green.

- Your turn, Christy.

- So what do I do now, Jack?

- Well all you have to do now is hit it into that little hole. That’s the whole idea of the game.

- Well why in the name of sweet Jayzez didn’t you tell me that back up there?

* This yarn is dedicated to all those who, like me, hate the game of golf but see magic and wonder in the skilful game of hurling especially when played by the greats like Christy Ring.

It is just over a year now since Ireland hosted the Ryder Cup at the K Club. And oh what a total load of utter bollix it was. But oh (again) what wonderful memories I have of those few short days. Or should I say, few long years, as the whole population of the island, not just we residents of the area, were subjected to hype about it from all quarters since the year 2000.

For those who aren’t familiar with the Ryder Cup let me direct you to Google, Yahoo or SearchMash. Golf bores me. For now, all you need to know is that Europe play the US every two years. Every second time the teams meet it is in Europe. They should have met in 2001 but yer man bin Laden mucked about with airplanes and the Americans couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t travel. So that game was deferred until 2002 which gave Ireland an extra year to prepare. Not that we needed it - everything is done at the last minute here anyway. Except for the talking that is.

Bertie told us about the money that would flow in from golf tourism. Fáilte Ireland said this’ll be great lads. Just wait and see. Or words to that effect.

Greedy individuals the country over would rent out their homes for the week at exorbitant rates to rich Americans. Yeah, right. Like Chuck and Darlene Azzamilewhide were going to fall for that when they could live it up in fancy hotels at a fraction of the prices being asked by Ernie and Bernie MacInerney.

But oh the memories. I remember driving up from Cork and being greeted in north Tipperary by a big sign saying Welcome to the Ryder Cup Region. How the feck they figured that out I don’t know. Perhaps geography isn’t a strong point with Tipperary County Councils. I emailed Donegal, Kerry and Galway County Councils, CCing North Tipp, suggesting they erect signs too.

There was a special committee set up to liaise with the K Club on road improvements, traffic management and so on. They met many times over a year or more before the K Club realised they weren’t dealing with a County Council delegation but rather a self-appointed group of local residents. Oh how we laughed. The K Club should have smelled a rodent - the authorities never get involved until the last minute.

Ah yes, the road improvements. They were class altogether. The N7 upgrade was suddenly a priority. We couldn’t have the visitors being shuttled along a road built in the early sixties. The good silverware had to be brought out. However, unlike your mother would have, they couldn’t put it back in the box in this case, so commuters got a decent road out of it.

The minor roads got great treatment too. Actually, they got the full range from the beauty parlour - manicures, pedicures, elbowicures, choctherapy, vinotherapy, tarmacotherapy, the works. The depilation was my favourite sight. As shown below, all low hanging branches were removed from the roadsides by men with slash-hooks aboard open-top double decker buses.

So the stage was set. Then pelting rain for days. Then came the storm. And a power cut right before the tournament would begin. The crews worked like Trojans through the night and restored it just in time. Restored it to the K-Club that is. The rest of us were left without for another 48 hours. The crews needed rest I was told. In an area devoid of mains water where private pumps are the norm, we sat in the dark, drinking souring milk and getting progressively smellier while the crews slept. But at least the Ryder Cup wasn’t affected an that’s what counted, isn’t it?

The residents of Straffan were well looked after. Well, sort of. They had the privilege of purchasing tickets. No freebies going from Ryder Cup Inc. And they couldn’t flog them on either - applications had to be accompanied by passport numbers and so on. A few got around this, but not many.

Those living outside the village of Straffan, semi-residents, would be ferried by shuttle bus. A strict cordon would be in place around the village and absolutely no private vehicles or pedestrians could pass through. My neighbour (who hates golf) and his 6 year old (golf fanatic) son strolled down to the junction on the Saturday morning and asked the Garda on duty what time the bus would arrive. It wouldn’t. There wasn’t one. He could go to another junction and meet it there. But that’s a 7km detour, he protested. Kind of stupid when the K-Club is less than 1km away. The cop agreed and my neighbour drove his manky builder’s van right into the village and parked up at the shop. Oh how he laughed.

If there was a ring of steel around Straffan, then there was a ring of copper further out, and one of wood outside that. We who weren’t eligible for resident stickers for our cars had often to convince grumpy Gardaí at the outer checkpoints that we actually did need to pass through. I chatted with a cute young Garda stationed near my house. How long was her day? 5am to 8pm. No relief? Only for loo breaks. I call on my mobile for someone to come. Don’t tell anyone - I’m not supposed to have my mobile with me. What about food? I have sambos but I can’t be seen eating them. She demonstrated how, from a distance, eating a ham & cheese could look like using a walkie-talkie. What exactly was her function? To guard this fecking tree as far as I can make out. Oh how she laughed.

We kept a tally on the number of golf-tourists visiting the local pub. (The owner had bought bunting and American flags to attract them and had stocked up on Bud and Coors). 7 in total. 7 over the whole week. 4 pints and 3 glasses. Oh how he laughed.

So who benefited from the Ryder Cup? Well the guys who set up the websites advertising properties for rent were paid handsomely by greedy home owners. Many of these owners paid for holidays or home improvements on the strength of income that never came. But that’s their tough and at least the tour operators and builders turned a shilling.

The village of Straffan got landscaped and streetscaped for free. They won in the Tidy Towns competition this year without hardly raising a finger.

Straffan and surrounds got upgraded roads. But that needed to be done anyway. And it isn’t the benefit we all thought it would be, for now the volume and speed of traffic has increased and residents take their lives in their hands getting out their own gateways.

Foot-shooting was the order of the day it would seem. The K-Club expected American golfers to come baying at their gates. But America lost so they’ve little interest. Plus their green fees are crazy. And up until Monday this week non-members could only play Mondays and Tuesdays.

Neighbouring golf clubs charged mega-bucks during the tournament. If I were an American golfer who played there would I even bother coming back after being screwed? I think not.

I could go on, but this is really about my memories of that great sporting spectacle. And what fond memories they are. Like all Paddys I thrive on being inconvenienced and witnessing bureaucracy mess up.