Tickets to the opening of Christchurch’s new One NZ Stadium were not easy to come by. Somehow, back in November, I managed to jag a double for the opening weekend.
The colt, Jackson, lives in Sydney these days, and while rugby league is more his speed, I eventually convinced him to jump on a plane and come over.
“Only if we can squeeze in a bit of golf,” he said.
Not a problem.
It has taken me a while to get him into the game. Sydney golf is not exactly cheap, and between work, traffic and life in a big city, it can be hard to find the time. But he has a mate who works as a greenkeeper at one of those prestigious Sydney clubs with hedges trimmed better than an Eastern Suburbs haircut, and they sneak out for a few holes in the late afternoons when they can.
That was enough to get the hooks in.
We started further north, knocking around Whangamatā on the Coromandel. Beautiful part of the world, though the golf was fighting a losing battle against another wet North Island autumn. Fairways soggy, courses barely open, golf balls plugging where decent drives should’ve been rolling.
By the time we flew into Christchurch, I was desperate for firmer ground and a proper South Island track.
First stop was Fable Terrace Downs (head image), sitting out beneath Mt Hutt like somebody dropped a golf course into a postcard. It was magnificent. Also freezing. Three degrees at tee-off, and I quickly discovered cold golf balls travel about as far as a chipped eight iron.
The golf from my end was pretty ordinary, even after generously adding five shots onto the handicap. The young bloke, meanwhile, flushed a few and made sure Dad was the one shouting beers afterwards.
Fair enough too.
Terrace Downs is one of those places where the scenery almost rescues the scorecard. Snow-capped mountains in every direction, the Rakaia River cutting through the landscape, and a golf course that somehow feels both rugged and polished at the same time. The hospitality was outstanding as well. For $244, including clubs for the two of us, it felt like remarkable value.
We both agreed we would be back. Preferably, when the air temperature starts with something higher than a three.
The next day, we pointed the car towards Hororata Golf Club at Glentunnel, tucked away near the Selwyn River. Completely different feel. More understated, more local, but one of those genuinely enjoyable country layouts that quietly surprises you.
Off the whites, it clipped four shots off my handicap, which felt slightly rude.
Playing off nine around there was no picnic, but thankfully, I managed to square things up against the young bloke. A bit of local knowledge, a couple of lucky bounces and suddenly experience started counting for something again.
At $90 for the pair of us, including clubs, plus a stray glove “Janice” had accidentally left behind, it was golf exactly as it should be. Relaxed, welcoming and unpretentious.
RIGHT: The duo ot Hororata GC. PHOTO: Shaun Fay.
That night, we headed into Christchurch for the stadium opening and spent a couple of excellent days soaking up the atmosphere at what genuinely feels like a world-class venue.
But somewhere across those four days, driving between courses and rugby and bad coffees from petrol stations, it struck me again how often golf gives you a reason.
A reason to travel. A reason to catch up. A reason to spend time with people you might otherwise only see once or twice a year.
Sometimes the golf itself is almost secondary.
I’ve got a tournament on the Sunshine Coast lined up in August with an old mate. Officially, we’re going for the golf. But really, golf is just the excuse. The actual reason is friendship, stories, a few laughs and the shared language that golfers seem to carry wherever they go.
The game has a funny way of doing that. It keeps giving people reasons to turn up.
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