Golfing Round the World
Chapter XII The cheerful Caddy
What do we know of Hong Kong, those of us who have not seen it? Nearly everyone has friends there. Don't we know them, those much tanned 'revenants' who turn up after the years of absence, in our homes and clubs, almost shy and reticent, wistful and politely bored? I remember such a one. During the day he played golf darkly like a Trappist: after dinner he would fall asleep, if his chair had arms. Another told me that the one thing that interested him when on leave in England, was the sailing date of the steamer in which he had booked his passage back to the East.
From other parts of the world men return and talk informatively and expansively, and not always veraciously, hence the term 'traveller's tales'. Why then this silence concerning Hong Kong? Is it a conspiracy? Having had the privilege and unalloyed pleasure of spending some days in that delectable Crown colony I am inclined to think that the hush hush tactics of its denizens are intentional. They know a good thing when they see it and do not mean to give it away.
Hong Kong is an island about as large as Arran or Bute. It is rugged and mountainous and most beautifully wooded. The coastline is indented with shady bays and coves and creeks like the shores of a sea loch in the Highlands. If shelter were required in that superb climate there lies just across the sound or strait, from a mile to two miles wide, the bold mainland of China, with its chain of imposing mountain heights towering up to five and six thousand feet. Hong Kong itself rises to three thousand feet and falls sheer from the famous peak, tumbling from terrace to terrace to the sea level ledge far below, whereupon is built the most beautiful city of the Far East. Mingle the beauties and climate of the Golden Corniche with the rugged grandeur of the Western Highlands and you have some idea of the fascinating charm of this Pearl of the Orient.
Now the men of Hong Kong live in palaces on top of the peak, literally suspended in the blue, above the city and the sparkling waters of the sound. Dwelling on these giddy heights they become Hyperions: they are not as other men, and while in the guise of human beings they may at times descend to the plain, and even condescend to visit their native land, their spirits remain behind on high Olympus.
The "Imperatrice" had stolen in, in the small hours of the morning. We always came and departed in the dark.
We lay alongside the "Godowns" (splendid word) at Kowloon which is situated on the peninsula of China, to which it gives its name, and which is, since its lease from China in 1895, British territory. It was to some extent our misfortune to have ushered in the rainy season, so the Peak and city which lay just a short mile across the Sound were shrouded in mist. The whole harbour seemed crowded with life and activity, there were dozens of huge liners at anchor alongside wharfs and hundreds of small sailing junks, and sailless sanpans literally teaming with Chinamen, their wives and large families. In view of the rainy weather, only a mild warm drizzle in fact, the port labourers wore heavy looking capes and bell tent hats made of striped palm leaves, which are said to be unsurpassed in their weatherproof qualities.
Whenever a steamer leaves the harbour for foreign parts all Hong Kong is aware of it, without even taking the trouble to look out of its windows. The Chinese have a notable mode of bidding their friends farewell by letting off thousands of crackers - Chinese crackers, those neat little red cardboard tubes filled with gunpowder and having a little fuse of twisted paper which are the delight of every British schoolboy, but I had to travel many years from my schooldays before I realised why they were called Chinese. The generally accepted explanation of this quaint custom is that every cracker kills a devil.
We had come back to a rickshaw country. It is perhaps significant that none of these man-drawn vehicles were to be seen in Java or the Philippines under Dutch or American administration. I have seldom seen a finer type of man than the rickshaw men of Hong Kong. One night I went up to dine with a friend who lived on the Peak. He had given me the address of his house written in Chinese characters on a slip of paper. It was pitch dark when I stepped out of the 'take your breath away' tramway near the summit and my chances of finding his house unaided were absolutely nil, but as directed I invoked the help of the native policeman, who was on duty just outside the Station. He glanced at the chit and summoned one of the rickshaw men from the rank. This fine fellow, a magnificent athlete to look at, carefully read the address, nodded his head cheerfully, and invited me to mount his rickshaw, a smart silver mounted affair with rubber tyres. He then dashed off with the speed of a quarter mile sprinter, traversing a maze of inclined footways and terraced paths. He was the embodiment of strength swiftness, and silence, and very evidently he took a pride in his work. Most decidedly I enjoyed the sensation and there and then, I realised why the recent Wembley Exhibition had failed of complete success. Rickshaws would have filled the universal need of easy and comfortable transport up and down and across that square mile of weary slope. Cannot you picture the letter columns of the British press if my dream had come true. If the Rodeo came near to being suppressed, the promoters of such an enormity as rickshaws, with the coolie drivers, would have been lynched: thus providing an even greater sensation. But nursemaids still push perambulators, and if porters still condescend to pull your personal baggage by the quarter ton, it is surely not less honourable and useful to exercise skill and strength in the plying of Jinrikishas.
On another evening I enjoyed a fine motor drive across the island, on an absolutely perfectly surfaced road, to a much favoured resort, where we partook of a Chinese dinner, a taste for which would need, on my part, an enormous amount of patient and painful acquisition. Here is the menu, which however, does not include the highly flavoured sauces of strange and strong concoction, which are kept in a little cup at the side of one's place at table, and into which one dipped the continuous succession of morsels with the aid of fragile bamboo chop sticks.
MENU
APPETISERS
| Preserved Eggs | Dried Shrimp Salad |
| Spiced Pig's Tripe | Duck's Giblets |
Shark's Fin
Garoupa Cutlets
Stewed Mushrooms
Grilled Slices of Chicken & Ham
Bird's Nest & Pigeon Eggs
Soused Pork Chops
Cold Chicken & Ham
Stewed Duck & Chestnuts
Almond Custard Tea
Assorted Pastries
Fried Chinese Pilau & Clear Egg Soup
Fruits, Melon Seeds, etc:
At the conclusion of the meal which seemed interminable I felt if anything more hungry than at its commencement, but I should be unjust to Chinese cookery which is perfect when applied to European dishes, if I supposed that this particular dinner was representative either in quality or service. Anyway, it is absurd to try and use chop sticks until you know how.
I have ventured to compare the scenery of Hong Kong (which means sweet or fragrant waters) to Scotland and the south of France, but as I travelled along the Kowloon Canton Railway towards Fanhing I discovered features which I imagine are only to be found in China. Quite apart from the curly roofs of the villages, the semi-tropical vegetation and the aspect of the people, Chinese mountains appear to have a character which is quite unique and strangely beautiful.
You may have seen in school atlases in the days of Queen Victoria, at the foot of any particular map, a representation of the comparative heights of mountains. Thus in the map of Europe you would see a tiny little conical Ben Nevis then a gradation of French, Spanish, Austrian and other heights mounting by degrees to the culminating peak of Mont Blanc and all depicted as spire like cones apparently enjoying the same base, which rested securely on sea level. Though the tender aged students of geography might not realise it, that plan, or rather elevation, was purely imaginary, but none the less it gave a fairly accurate idea of Chinese mountain formations.
I noticed this regularity of peaks and folds and intersecting ravines more particularly on the entrancing shores of Mira Bay and Tolo Harbour and again much further north on the coast line of Weihaiwei, among the Western Hills near Peking and in the wild mountain region of the Great Wall. I do not say that all Chinese Mountains possess this characteristic, indeed, on the south side of the wide expanse of the exceedingly beautiful landlocked Tolo Harbour is the amphitheatre of rugged and irregular Bens which tower above the links of Fanling the famous course of the Royal Hong Kong Golf Club.
Those who know both courses compare Fanling with Gleneagles the famous Scottish Golf resort. I have never seen the latter course but if there is a compliment implied in the comparison Fanling has charms enough to rest on its own merits, as well in its setting, in its design and in its quality of turf.
I think the pleasure of any sport may be greatly enhanced by the surroundings and scenery in which it is enjoyed, whether it be moor or river, hunting field or golf course. But this opinion is not universal. I remember a keen and doughty Scot whom we introduced to an English course noted for its wild and sandy beauty: but when we tentatively enquired if he admired the scenery, he merely granted and asked us why we turfed our putting greens with wire instead of grass.
At Fanling there is everything that the heart of a golfer could desire. The old colonial style club house looks out over a low terraced garden of lawns, edged with brilliant coloured herbaceous flowers and bounded by a low stone wall. Beyond the wall is the emerald expanse of greens and fairways, with a darker green background of pine plantations which adorn the soft folds and gentle slopes of the red brown and olive tinted foot-hills, and behind them rise sheer into the heavens the beetling cracks and precipices and peaks of wild and rugged mountains, dark steely blue on the crests, purple and umber in the deep glens and scree scarred ravines and everywhere splashed with patches of yellow rose-pink and green in the vivid sunlight. It was sheer delight, simply to sit in the grateful shade of the club verandah and watch the slumbering white mist gently hovering over the towering ridges, now concealing now revealing the grandeur of the scene.
There are two magnificent courses in this remote sequestered valley plain, with straths and glens running deep into the heart of the mountains. The Old course is a little over six thousand yards in length and grand golf from the first tee shot to the last putt. My game had not yet quite deserted me and I remember the electric thrill of keen satisfaction I felt as I hit a perfect peach to within ten yards of the pin at "Braeside" which is 231 yards long. Now in the course of one's golfing life, especially if it commenced, as mine did, in the distant 'eighties' one hits many a peach and forgets. Why then should I call to mind this not very extraordinary shot so vividly? It was my caddie, a sturdy little Chinaman, dressed in bruise dungarees with his chubby little red cheeked face and twinkling eyes and his ridiculous wigwam hat. This cheery little Celestial who rejoiced in the name of HOW KUM was an extremely good caddie, both keen and attentive: but he filled in all legitimate moments by singing to himself in a sweet and melodious high pitched treble voice. As he watched my ball come to rest in the advantageous position already described, he ejaculated with as much glee as if he himself had been the striker. "On de Gleen". I can never forget the long drawn out melody with which he trilled that word. It is of course a fact that there is no 'R' sound in the Chinese tounge: and oddly enough the Japanese do not possess an "L". It calls to one's mind the oddities connected with the letter "H" in our own language.
Playing golf is such a naturally homely pursuit that I frequently forgot my surroundings and imagined myself on some new and happily discovered course at home: only to be pleasantly jolted back to reality by How Kum's hat or by suddenly coming upon a beautifully built pagoda erected as a shelter by a former captain for the refreshment of thirsty players and for shelter from the sun and much needed protection against sudden storms and typhoons which periodically visit that delectable locality. This pagoda was a gem like reproduction of the most beautiful type of Chinese architecture and thoughtfully pitched on a commanding mound just above the "Turn" at the end of the outward journey. The illusion of Britain was also gently but effectually shattered by the frequently happening of graves of departed celestials in most ubiquitous number dotted about on the hill slopes bordering the fairway. At one hole, named appropriately 'The Graves' I hooked my ball into very close proximity to one of these romantic looking tombs, built like armchairs in a fold of the hill with a massive white stone for the back and two smaller ones for the arms. Extricate myself from its neighbourhood, I could not: the influence of something uncanny made itself felt with extraordinary power of suggestion. I had the sensation of being among the devils. I put down my score at that hole as 'eight' which is more than some of our leading experts do on similar occasions. Another very fine hole is called 'The Arm Chair' and doubtless the architect who designed it came under the necropolitic influence of his surroundings, for the green is quaintly suggestive of a Chinese grave. None the less, Armchair is even a magnificent hole, played along a broad strath and requiring two superb shots to carry its length of 450 yards culminating in a large steep banked shelf green in a deep fold of the hill. It is typical of the excellence of Fanling as a test of golf. In the neighbourhood of Hong Kong I saw none of the mounds of heaped up earth, which are the commoner type of grave and dotted about in great profusion in some parts of the country and notably around Tientsin, so much so, in fact, that at the Tientsin Golf Club there is a local rule to the effect that "a ball may be lifted from a coffin and dropped without penalty not nearer the hole". Perhaps one of the finest holes in the World is 'the Pass' or sevemteenth hole at Fanling - 460 yards in length, a tremendous tee shot will carry you to the summit over and up a beautiful ravine of fine springy turf lying between fir plantations. The hole is slightly dog-legged, your drive must therefore be most carefully placed. On the fafther side of the pass another magnificent sweep of fairway leads to the green. It was just as we were going through the pass that How Kum who had been blithely singing his way along, turned to me and said apropos of nothing:- "Are you happee?". Perhaps I ought to mention that one of my opponents caddies (we were playing a three ball match) hiccoughed steadily at all his most critical shots, which proves my contention that races may differ superficially but caddies like mountains remain unchanging and unchangeable.