In May, some startling news in the Irish golf world spread like a sighting of Taylor Swift. Pat Ruddy, a gregarious golf entrepreneur, course designer, and former sportswriter, had sold his world-top 100 handmade links creation, The European Club, to former BMW dealership owners for a reported $40 million.
Now edging into his 80s, Ruddy remains a jovial, worldly golf addict who somehow saved enough money to build (along with son Gerry) an exquisite links on Ireland’s East Coast, some 35 miles south of Dublin, on Brittas Bay. It opened in 1992, and by 1999, a panel of experts from a dozen international golf magazines selected three holes from The European Club to be named among “the world’s 500 greatest golf holes,” a stunning feat for such a new place.
“Magnificent,” declared three-time British Open winner Nick Faldo on his first visit. “I would love to see the British Open played there,” announced former U.S. Open champion Johnnie Miller.
Though he rarely advertised, Ruddy was a master marketer, charming legions of golf writers with free rounds, tours of his 7,000-volume golf library, and award-winning apple tarts, while entertaining the likes of Tiger Woods, David Duval, and Padraig Harrington, who practiced at The European Club prior to his two British Open victories.
Ruddy designed or greatly improved about 30 courses in Ireland, including the Glashedy Links at Ballyliffin, Sandy Hills at Rosapenna Golf Resort, and the Donegal Golf Club, but none of them is so delightfully eccentric as The European Club, which features controversial railroad ties in the bunkers, a 127-yard green at the 12t,h and two extra holes for settling bets.
Even the parking lot is pure Ruddy. There are palm trees here and there, and no sign of the ocean, or even a golf hole, because he wanted to delay the first tee euphoria until you actually got there. Whether plebes or potentates, Ruddy welcomed you into the snug pro shop and might even sit with you in the surprisingly good dining room to hold court.
Ruddy grew up the son of the local postmaster in a tiny village in West Ireland called Ballymote. He loved poetry and science, but longed for Spring afternoons when his teachers would allow him to sneak away with his father to play golf. Addicted to the game and certain of his future, Ruddy threw himself into golf writing.
In the 1960s, he freelanced for the BBC and more than a dozen magazines and newspapers (from England to South Africa), and wrote five broadsheet pages of golf coverage every week for Dublin’s Evening Herald. Ruddy loved his work, indeed barely considered it work at all, but there was always one larger goal, a lifetime dream.
Ruddy wanted his own golf sanctuary, a modest place for friends, family, and perhaps a few paying customers. He wanted a place where he could hit balls all day “without anyone saying boo” and where everything would be done on his terms—no outside investors, no hotel chain, and no stuffy club presidents. One can only dream that the new owners will maintain that spirit.
In 1980, he told me, Ruddy began renting helicopters to fly over the Irish coast, hunting for the sandy land that “links” the seashore to the inland farms. These stretches of rumpled peaks and valleys, strewn with knobby grass and furtive rabbits, have given golf some of its most celebrated playgrounds, such as St. Andrews, Ballybunion and Royal Portrush. There are about 170 true links courses in the world, and Ireland has more than 50 of them.
Hovering above the sea, Ruddy quickly realized how much of the Irish coastline was dominated by marsh and cliffs. True linksland was in short supply.
Finally, on his third flight, he spotted 300 promising acres with about a mile of Irish Sea frontage along Brittas Bay. Rugged sandhills covered with waist-high marram grass and sprinkled with fluffy sheep rose as high as 80 feet, and would-be fairways fell naturally between the gnarly dunes at various angles to the prevailing wind.
Ruddy knew that appearing too eager to buy the land would just inflate its price, so he waited four years for its farmer-owner to put it up for auction. Meanwhile, he raised cash by selling his car, re-mortgaging the house, and cashing in an insurance policy. He also applied for a bank loan.
But on the morning of the auction, as buyers crowded into a room at Wicklow’s Abbey Hotel, the normally unflappable Ruddy was in a pickle. Fifteen minutes before the bidding opened, he still hadn’t received an answer from the bank.
“Listen, I have to know now,” Ruddy pleaded to his loan officer over the phone.
The banker demurred. His bosses were in no hurry to lend money on raw land.
“We’ll call you tomorrow,” came the reply.
Ruddy, who wasn’t the gambling type, had to roll the dice. Two other golf-hungry buyers were also sniffing around the land. The bidding was brisk, but right at Ruddy’s limit, his rivals fell away, and the 300 rugged acres along the bay became his, for something approaching a half-million pounds.
The next day, the bank called. He got the loan.
At last, the artist had his canvas.
The obstacles were both comic and serious. One neighbor mysteriously “borrowed” a tractor for several days. Another constructed a noisy airfield. Acres of grass seed blew into the ocean. Ruddy broke his left foot three different times while dismounting from machinery. Local environmentalists petitioned the European Union to stop the project, unsuccessfully.
When it opened on December 26, 1992, Ruddy named his creation The European Club. This must have seemed like an inside joke to outsiders because its studiously unpretentious owner wasn’t offering valet parking and nouvelle cuisine—just exceptional golf.
Why’d he sell the place?
“Only the greatest lunatic would not think about selling the place and handing the profits to your five children,” said Ruddy one afternoon as we strolled beside the Irish Sea. “But my curse is that I love golf. And I can’t sleep in ten different houses.”
Bruce Selcraig is a former investigative reporter for Sports Illustrated and U.S. Senate investigator who has made 27 golf trips to Ireland. selcraig@swbell.net