‘Ugh! Ugh!’
A Frenchman who couldn’t pronounce my name properly was pointing at me delightedly while also magnanimously addressing the crowd.
‘Ugh!’ he said, turning to me ‘You play before, non?’
I was nine years old and I was playing in a mini-golf tournament at my holiday camp in France. Having been paired with a middle-aged Frenchman and an even older Swede, who obviously both knew how to hold a putter, it was generally assumed I would be knocked out pretty quickly, but here I was, holding my own with my eye on the prize – a free crêpe (with any topping) from the camp shop.
While small in monetary value, this prize was the culmination of a lot of thoughtful deliberation over the course of my holiday. What I didn’t know then was that this piddly little prize would become a lifetime pursuit. From then on I would always want to have a proper French crêpe, made in France. I still haven't to this day, despite returning to France three times. But because of little quirks of fate even stranger than this first time I was always denied this simple wish. The first time cuts the deepest though and in a small holiday park in Biarritz, a small Irish boys’ new found dream of sampling a crêpe were about to be dashed.
For the previous two weeks I had stood outside the little window in the camper van which housed the small shop/bakery clutching my daily allowance trying to decide between ice-cream and the exotic sounding crêpe. For two weeks I had played it safe and got the ice-cream, the short term satisfaction winning over each time. I knew where I was with the familiar ice-cream and I didn’t want to risk my day’s treat on something I had never heard of before.
It was something that genuinely worried me at the time. I would lay awake at night thinking I should have got the crêpe but once the sun rose high in the sky and the time came to part with my precious ten Franc piece once again, the ice-cream would be duly grabbed and eaten in a slurped frenzy. So crêpe’s were on my mind and the golf tournament was my last chance to get one. We were leaving that day and there were no more allowances on offer; I had to earn my keep.
What all these old men didn’t realise was that another part of my daily ritual was to play a round on the mini-golf course right after going on the water-slides. You could see the course as you whizzed down the water-slide and the layout fascinated my eye. From a height, a mini-golf course looks like a model world, full of details and strange angles in all of the 18 holes. I got very good at it.
Going around the turn (the halfway point) I was only a shot or two behind and I knew that the back nine were my strongest. I had worked out the best angles to shoot from and was confident that I could start sprinting ahead. It wasn’t to be though, as my two rivals kept matching my efforts, themselves getting increasingly annoyed they couldn’t shake their small Irish tail.
By the time we reached the final two holes a crowd had gathered all around the course. Even the water-slides were covered in spectators hanging onto the edge as the tournament reached its climax. It was clear that the winner would be one of my group and it all began to take on a more serious edge.
The 17th was a winding affair that went up and down a hill, curling around on itself with a barrier at the top of the slope. The Swede settled over his shot on the 17th and gripped his club tightly. Shanking it badly, the putt hit an obstacle and was held up, rolling back down the hill and almost hitting his putter. The Frenchman who had called my name so loudly at the beginning of the match was now silent and his face full of concentration. He did well, putting his ball just inches from the hole.
Then I had to step up. I hit it exactly as I wanted to, the ball just rolling up the hill at the right pace to roll back down again straight into the hole. Another hole-in-one – making it a tie for the lead.
It was now between me and the Frenchman.
The 18th hole was a monster. I had tried and tried in my previous attempts to figure out how to do it in one but it had always seemed impossible. Once again it was the Frenchman who stood up first. He shot well, his ball rebounding off the different angles with speed until it made it all the way down to the circular area around the hole. He would certainly putt the next one easily.
The crowds went shushed. For people at a holiday camp for two weeks, a mini-golf tournament suddenly seemed to be the star attraction. I was on my own though, my family back in the caravan packing to leave. My nine year old shoulders burdened the weight and I gripped the putter tightly in my sweaty palms.
I hit it. The ball rolled at pace, hitting the first angle perfectly, shooting the ball over the hill and through the obstacles that had sent my ball rolling back to me so many times before. As it rolled down the hill everyone could see what was about to happen. With that perfect symmetrical beauty that can only be seen in sport, my ball rolled passed the Frenchman’s effort and nestled perfectly into the cup.
The crowd cheered, I waved, the Frenchman offered his grudging congratulations and someone shoved a tiny trophy along with the prized gift certificate into my hand.
I strolled to the shop, feeling every bit the conquering hero, and ordered a crêpe with every topping on the menu. Slapping down my gift certificate on the counter the chef simply raised his eyebrows as if the world hadn’t fundamentally changed and slowly went to work.
Standing looking at the blue sky I knew my life had changed forever. A brilliant mini-golf career stretched out before me, a life full of travel, woman, song and crêpe's. Then I heard the engine of my family’s car.
‘Hugh! C’mon, we have to go.’ It was my Dad.
‘But he’s just cooking the...’ I shouted, hopping from one foot to the other.
My dad was one of those men whose plans cannot be altered to the slightest degree ‘We don’t have time! Come on!’
'But...but..he's...he's...lining up the toppings...'
I looked pleadingly at the chef but he just made a Gallic shrug of the shoulders and lazily licked a piece of melting chocolate off his finger.
Feeling that if I hesitated enough the crêpe would be mine I pretended not to hear. But then I got 'the stare'. I dragged myself into the car, crêpeless, and thus began a life-long obsession.
I should have gotten the ice-cream again.
