Par for the course

Snap-hooking and slicing a swath through the western (and woolier) side of the isle

BELMULLET -- I met three men in three days in the wild west of this island, and each had something to teach me.

First came the dog-walker, a wearer of wool who watched me snap-hook a 3-iron from the second tee of Strandhill Golf Club, at the edge of County Sligo, on a glorious, gusty afternoon. The passing petter of pooches leaned in close with white whiskers, but did not whisper: "SWING EASY, LAD!"

Then came the pub owner on a night of misty misery after a round at Carne Golf Links at the end of the earth and County Mayo. Square-shouldered and stout as a pint, the proprietor put his hands on a dry counter and shared a secret about buffeting wet wind: "You need to have that one shot in your bag -- 150 to 200 yards -- that you can hit low."

Finally, on a blue-brushed afternoon, there was Paddy Gannon, good enough to match his age with a score in the 70s at Connemara Championship Golf Links, braced between the sea and the Twelve Bens of County Galway. When I strode up an early fairway and mentioned the merits of playing on a dry day, Gannon smiled and winked, I think: "Well, there's wind a factor as well."

Not that words of wisdom would help in the middle of that early autumn ramble through a less-traveled region of links-looped Ireland. A friend and I had appointments with some of the west's better-known courses and were determined to play them come hell or high water. On Wednesday afternoon, at Carne, it did, with sheets of rain and 75 mile per hour gusts (yes, you say, the gentler side of hurricane range) that turned the sand-settled links tucked against the sea into the sea itself. Rich Byron, my well-Gore-Texed friend, looked into the horizontal howl at the par-5 13th hole, which measures 480 yards and ends a feathered wedge from the surf. He leaned on his heels near a quivering white wooden tee and reacted with realism: "We could take 12s on this hole."

He was nearly right.

But I am well ahead of myself here. That can happen when thinking of something so simple as a few days in Ireland with a rental car, sticks in the trunk, and tee times that brush against noon.

The island is thick with storied courses, and visitors from afar are often hard-pressed to pass by legendary links in Ireland's southwest (Ballybunion, Lahinch, or Tralee), or over the border in Northern Ireland (Ballyliffin, Royal Portrush, or Royal County Down). But we chose to head to Ireland's relatively rustic western edge. The Internet promised epic golf (countysligogolfclub.ie, connemaragolflinks.com, carnegolflinks.com, enniscronegolf.com). Thinner crowds would leave plenty of room for slices and snap hooks.

It all began in County Sligo, then, roughly eight hours after the red-eye to Shannon, and eight minutes after a soothing soak in a Celtic seaweed bath, of all things. We were heading into tidy Sligo to find the best pint in the town, when sun broke through the day's gray lid. And lo, there on the right, a sign that read "Strandhill Golf Club."

Twenty minutes later, I had carded an opening triple-bogey, then nearly felled one of the dog-walker's shepherds with my wayward 3-iron, and all was right with the world. The extra, unexpected round of golf on a suddenly summery Monday evening in Ireland delivered a zen-like delight. Something for nothing, in other words, final score be damned. (Though birdie-par-birdie on five, six, and seven did help.)

No such karma the next day, at County Sligo Golf Club. The subtle textures of Rosses Point, just northwest of Sligo and home to the course, had famously lured the painter Jack Butler Yeats, more visually inclined, if lesser known, than his brother, the poet. We had no sooner finished our pre-round burgers, when fat clouds stooped to deliver cold rain. A woman towing a large leather golf bag with a Cleveland Browns logo teed off from number one, and soon we followed. By the time we wrung out our knickers, I'd lost 12 balls (I am not kidding), and was so cold that I needed -- wait, don't guess -- a warm pint of Guinness.

We asked kind Gavin, the clerk at the Riverside Hotel in Sligo, for advice. The night before he'd steered us to Shoot the Crows, a snug, sad little place where the foam comes with the shamrock. It turns out, according to Gavin's tale, that the Crows were a family, and someone really did shoot them. (As Rich remembers it, Gavin set up the plot and ended with, "and that's jest what they ded.") Anyway, after Gavin told us of a righteous session with fiddle and flute at Sheela Na Gig, we mentioned a trip the next morning to golf in Belmullet, a two-hour drive west.

Gavin more or less winced.

"That," he said, "is a wild place."

True, if civility were the goal, we would be better served at Connemara on our final day. But that course, with its Tom Watson testimonials, recently-added third nine, and location closer to Shannon, catered a bit too much to its American visitors. Happily, our impromptu playing partner, Paddy, held forth about the political trials of Prime Minister Bertie Ahern and about the joys of life lived in the hamlets beyond the swirl of roundabout cities and suburbs. (He also gave me the best piece of putting advice I've ever been told. E-mail me for details.) Gannon was the father of 14 kids, by the way, ordered by gender with his Galway grace thusly: "Bye . . . bye . . . gull . . . gull . . . bye . . . bye . . . gull . . . gull . . . bye . . . and all the rest gulls."

Yet it was on that middle-day drive from Sligo out to Belmullet that we hit the sweet spot of our course. Somewhere west of Ballina, though not yet to "The Mullet," a strip of land dog-legged off the edge of Ireland, the surrounds took on Tolkienesque tones. A river rushed south of the N59 and peaks drew close to form a narrow passage, as though further travel would thread through a portal to another dimension. The same feeling came just after noon, in fact, when we left the quiet Carne locker-room to face the rising storm. The only other visitor, a silver-haired member of a foursome from Baltimore, tugged on his polypropylene long johns and bid us goodbye: "Be careful out there."

At least on the first few holes there was sun. We stripped off layers, conjured par on every tee, and pondered the kind of idle topics a road trip allows. Why, for example, didn't "Like a Song" become an enduring anthem for U2?

Carne's fairways trace slinking gullies, its greens are tucked beneath rounded hills, and its tees give only enough glimpse to know there is a pin out there somewhere. It is the best course I have ever played. Which is saying something, because on the par-3 seventh, the sideways rain arrived. By the ninth green, there was no sign of life on the course save us, and the wind was loud enough to make Tiger Woods pull a putt. Predictably, a clubhouse stop for Snickers and Guinness delivered more gumption.

The aforementioned par-5 13th, nicknamed on the scorecard "Aodh," which in Gaelic might as well have meant "cyclone," or "trash compactor," or "charging herd of savanna buffalo," loomed as a ridiculous proposition. On the tee, gusts made it impossible to stand steadily, much less draw back a club for a swing. I know I have written of the wind already, but I could use every alternative listed for "gust" in my thesaurus ("squall," "draft," "flurry," "breeze," "blast of air," "gust of air," "burst," "explosion," "expulsion," "eruption," "outburst") and still not capture just how hard it was blowing.

So how about this? I took out my 3-iron. Rich will tell you that when I am not snap-hooking it, I can hit it 210, easy. (I'd say 230.) I shouldn't have toed the first swing into the heather left of the tee. And I shouldn't have topped it 30 yards from there. Or sculled it another 30 on the third swing.

(I will divulge the result now: I tapped in for the eerily-foreshadowed 12, just besting Rich's 13. Rich did recover nicely with a par 3 on the next hole, though. My 9-iron slipped from my wet golf gloves and flew 50 yards left of the tee. The ball? No idea.)

But I need to finish this 3-iron situation. So I'm standing there, just into the fairway, about to hit my fourth 3-iron. Rich and I were oddly giddy in the face of the storm, as I imagine a clown might feel while trying to hug a circus bear.

When I swung again, though, I absolutely striped the ball. On the screws, as they say, or in this case, the sweet spot of the 3-iron blade. Straight and true. The ball rose against the wind and battled honorably. It went 50, NAY, 60 yards closer to the hole!

I screamed my joy to Rich. He couldn't hear me.

Tom Haines can be reached at thaines@globe.com.