For a course that it still comparitively young – the club was instituted in 1887 – Sandwich has more that it’s share of up and downs. It was heralded with much blowing of trumpets and without undergoing any period of probation, burst full fledge into fame.

Sandwich has a charm that belongs to itself and I frankly own myslef under the spell. The long stip of turf on the way to the seventh hole, that stretches between the sand hills and the sea; a fine spring day with the larks signing as they seem to sing nowhere else; the sun shining on the waters of Pegwell Bay and lighting up the white cliffs in the distance; this is as nearly my idea of Heaven as is to be attained on any earthly links.

One great characteristic-I think it is a beauty-of Sandwich is the extraordinary solitude that surrounds the individual player. We wind about in the dells and hollows amoung great hills, alone in the midts of a multitude, and hardly ever realize that there are others playing on the links until we meet them at luncheon. Thus, on the first tee, we may catch a glimpse of somebody playing the last hole, and another couple disappearing over the brow to the second, and that is all; the rest is sandhills and solitude.

At the second we have a bunker to carry from the tee-it was sometimes a terrible carry for a gutty ball-and then a pitch to a plateau green, the sides whereof slope down steeply into hollow on either side.

On the very next tee another bunker of terrible aspect lies before us, this time a towering mountain of sand, and the ball is soon out of sight. However, at the second shot we get a good view of the green away in the distance perched on a plataeu hard up against a fence. It is a really grand two shot hole.

Few bunkers have a more infamous reputation than this Maiden, but the new-comer to the Sandwich of today will think that she has done little to deserve it. There stands the Maiden, steep sandy, and terrible, with her face scarred and seamed with black timbers, but alas! we no longer have to driver over her crown: we hadly do more than skirt the fringe of her garment. In teh old days the tee was right beneath the highest pinnacle, and sheer terror made the shot formidable, but the tee-shots to the fifth endagered the lives of those drving to teh sixth, and the tee had to be put away to the right.

The ninth is in reality a far more formidable affair. The hole will doubtless be called the Corsets for ever, but the second of these famous bunkers now plays but an inconsiderable part, for the reformers have moved the green far on and away to the left and, it must be admitted, have made a good hole. We may still drive into the first Corset, however, and if we do, heaven help us! We shall be playing a night-mare game of racquets against its unflinching sides, and the other man will win the hole.

Those who love the hopes and fears of a lucky bag will enjoy the seventeenth, where the hole lies in a deep dell with sharply sloping sides. Man can direct the ball into the dell, but only Providence can decide its subsequent fate, and whether it will lie stone dead or a round dozen of yards away is a matter of chance.