Like many women who play golf I have my father to thank for it. He’s the one who first took me to a driving range to hit balls, who used to take me around pitch and putt courses packed with disapproving men at the weekend, and who I spent countless hours practice putting with. Like many daughters, my relationship with dad revolved around playing sport. I was the tomboy of the household who loved nothing more than kicking a football with him in the garden, playing bat and ball on every family beach holiday and spending endless evenings in our garage playing darts or table tennis together.
Golf was a natural progression. He introduced me to the game when I was 13. Despite being an 18-handicapper at his best, dad used to like to think he was good enough to teach me how to play all the shots, especially his Jack Nicklaus-style putting stroke! As a junior he caddied for me in the Dorset county championships, although if I’m honest, it wasn’t a ‘daddy-caddy’ relationship made in heaven. There were definitely times when he couldn’t hold his tongue, asking why on earth I’d played a certain shot? (As if I meant to hit it into the trees!)
