An Unremarkable Adventure
It’s been done before and I’m sure it will be done again. And by people with deep pockets and
a helicopter it’s been done in a month, I am told. So to be honest my achievement, of playing
nearly all the world’s real tennis courts, in about a year, is pretty unremarkable. In fact it’s
very unremarkable. One expects major endeavours, like an Iron Man, or an Everest ascent, or
a single-handed navigation of the Southern Ocean, to encompass great physical pain, huge
stress, substantial risk to life and limb, and much, much more. Yet the most difficult moment
in my ‘adventure’ was probably getting a bit lost, on a dismal October afternoon, driving south
from Ely to play the Blue court at Cambridge. Thus it would be stretching things just a little bit
to say that I have been ‘touching the void’. I agree that tennis-type sports are not renowned
for danger, but then the writer Tony Hawkes managed to fit plenty in playing the Moldovans.
So I don’t doubt that some will be unimpressed. But whatever, I am of the opinion that
clocking up every one of the world’s courts should not be stressful. It should be simple, and
fun, and it should, I think, avoid any temptation to put one’s own life on the line (tambour
shots excepted, of course). And if there’s a club you don’t get to play for some reason – Boston
in my case, it had no roof - then lose no sleep; just go back next year instead. I shall, I hope,
play there in August.
How then did I come to embark upon this wholly unremarkable adventure? It was November
2012, I think. Another one of my life’s adventures had recently come to an end, and I needed
something new. I had in effect a suitcase full of hard-earned leave ready to be emptied out, in
some captivating foreign destination, for the whole of January. So why not jet off to
Melbourne, to replace bleak mid-winter with glorious Aussie summer, and to immerse myself
in all the cultural delights that the state of Victoria has to offer to the world? In other words,
Sport. The Australian Open, Big Bash cricket and of course the real tennis circuit. A plan was
made.
So at 3pm on Monday 7th January 2013, with my underwhelming handicap of 58, I strode out
onto a beautifully pristine court in Melbourne, struck the first ball of my first “Royal Tennis”
match, and my world tour had begun. And for those who are particular about these things
(heaven help you) it was on court number one. This was in fact the first court I had played on
outside of my home club Holyport. How different it was!
In particular I must remark upon the penthouse. Holyport’s is made of corrugated metal, or
so it feels, and the reliability of the bounce as the ball descends into play, off a serve, is about
the same as the reliability of, well, a winter forecast on the front page of the Daily Express. Not
very. You will have to forgive this rather bizarre analogy; it’s because I work in weather, and
sometimes it’s difficult to detach. Anyway I digress, so coming back to Melbourne, the
penthouse there is made of wood finished like fine furniture, and is extremely reliable. Like
the forecasts I used to produce? Well if truth be told, rather more so. Anyway, whatever
strange analogies one might choose to use, after endearing but quirky Holyport playing on
such a predictable, well-finished court made for a refreshing change. Inspired by this,
perhaps, I racked up my first win.
Next up was Ballarat, a sprawling but engaging mining town to the west. I called ahead, and
was asked “how do you like getting up early?”. “That would be just great”, I replied. This was a
tad dishonest, but I was so keen to play that sacrifices had to be made. And the lady had been
very helpful. There are activities which appeal less to me than getting up early, most certainly,
but they are not that numerous, and the main one that springs to mind is the electric chair. So
at about 5am the alarm went off, and taking great comfort from the thought that I wasn’t
about to die from electrocution I made my way through the chilly Ballarat morning air, and
played a doctor on his way to work.
My super early start also left plenty of time for the second mini challenge of the day, which
was panning for gold. Ballarat is famous for this, indeed they have built a giant working
tourist attraction in recognition. But I am sad to report that my sole triumph that day did not
come in the afternoon. Though initially quite pleased to have unearthed 5 tiny specks of gold
in the river bed, my satisfaction was dented somewhat when I realised that someone found a
5 kilo nugget nearby just a few days later. And if that sounds suspect you should check it out
on YouTube.
The Ballarat court meanwhile seemed rather under-used. OK it was holiday season for
Aussies, but I think we were the only booking that day. So come on people of Ballarat, trade in
those gold pans for racquets, and you could find treasures of a different kind.
I then returned to the Melbourne metropolis, to fit in court number two, which I have to say
was pretty similar to court number one. The questions were pretty similar as well – so you
must be here for “The Boomerang”? To be honest I had no idea what The Boomerang was, and
must be the first person in history to travel thousands of miles to Melbourne in January to
play real tennis just before the celebrated Boomerang tournament was due to begin without
having any idea what was going on. So thank you Melbourne for fitting me in around all this!
Victoria’s fourth court is to the north, lying unobtrusively amongst fields and vineyards a
short drive from a little settlement called Romsey. Very conveniently, just a few days before
my arrival, the sovereignty of this court had transferred back to its energetic former keeper,
Mr. Gordon Cope-Williams. Thanks to him, the venue has added attractions, that include a
cricket pitch with a twee pavilion and various art installations. There is also fine wine in
abundance, examples of which are often to be found in Mr. Cope-Williams’ hand. The court is
pretty unique too. You get a glass back and mushroom-coloured walls, and there’s even a
twisted tambour for the more ‘discerning’ player. It all made for a great day out in the back
blocks.
After feasting for 5 days on grand slam tennis at Melbourne Park I then returned to tennis
with walls, and completed the Australian ‘set’ via a flight to Hobart. I have to say that this city
really surprised me. Given its very detached Tasmanian location, within touching distance of
Antarctica, I had expected somewhere a little dilapidated, but with maybe some old, rustic,
Victorian charm. True, the court was pretty much in that category, and so too was the hotel
(due to climate scientists, can you believe it, bagging many of the posh rooms in town) but the
rest of Hobart could only really be described as opulent. So what do I mean by this? The
eateries, the shops, the galleries and the general décor were all so incredibly swish that I
really felt I didn’t belong. The bars for example are big and swanky. You can drink your
stubbies on lush sofas that are as long as the main wall is tall, you can gaze at darting fish in
colourful aquaria that surround the room, and you can enjoy magical lighting sets that
cleverly raise the mood. Even using the gents could be uplifting. The place to relieve oneself is
a wall made of one-way glass, a veritable “loo with a view”. Many of Melbourne’s bars are
equally posh. I kid you not.
As for the tennis, I must commend the pro at Hobart for being one of only two pros, beyond
British shores, to have entered my scores. Interestingly, these were the only foreign match
ups that I failed to win. How unlucky is that?! On a more serious note, if serious notes are
allowed in articles such as this, for equality of grading (and indeed our handicaps!) it would
be helpful if more results from international match ups made it onto real tennis dot com.
After a little hiatus I was back in business again in the UK, in the coldest March ever. And I had
been hoping that winter would by then be over; probably the Express had said it would be.
Anyway the Oratory came first, a conveniently short drive from Reading, and majestically
situated on a little hill in the rolling Oxfordshire countryside. What a wonderful place to have
gone to school; with so many classy sports facilities there would have been no need nor time
for any proper lessons! I really envied the prospective Russian students being shown round as
we played. Then at month’s end, between shifts, I had another flurry of matches, including
modern Bristol, where silence rules, Canford school with it maze of corridors, and the most
unlikely of village courts hidden away in appropriately named Hyde. In case you were
wondering and thinking of doing a world tour too, I will advise here that to get to play at these
and other venues, all that’s needed is a call or an email to the club a few days before, and a
match and an opponent will usually be set up. It really couldn’t be easier! This is one of the
pleasures of the real tennis circuit, strangers welcome you warmly wherever you go. And
thanks to the real tennis passport system, it now costs no more than playing at home. OK,
T&RA advert over (!), now back to the story.
Early in April I travelled to Vienna, to a conference to talk about how the sea, and ice on it, can
affect our weather, and on the return stopped off in France. I played my first official game of
Jeu de Paume in the big, bright and airy Paris court, situated not a million miles from the Arc
de Triomphe. I imagine it could get hot here in summer, thanks to the greenhouse roof, but in
April it was just fine, and due to broadest daylight visibility on court was as good as anywhere
I have played. I took on Sanam, one of only 2 female players there if I remember correctly. So
why is that? Paris, in amongst your two million inhabitants there must be a few other ladies
that would like to play? Surely? A short train ride then took me to Fontainebleau where,
within its extensive chateau grounds, you will find the only other purpose built court
remaining in France. Finding my way in was quite a challenge. Like Captain Cook hunting
down the Northwest Passage I passed mile after mile (it seemed) of high fencing and closed
gates, before stumbling upon a tiny opening. I waved my racquet, and the guard there let me
in. Everywhere was like that, wave a real tennis racquet, gently, and any security just seems to
‘crumble’. Maybe I should try the Royal Mint, or Buckingham Palace. “Ah, nice racquet sir, just
the job, come right this way, the Queen will see you shortly…”. I played an up-and-coming
junior, who gave me a comprehensive run around, in front of several spectators, delivering
many types of serve that I had never before seen, and after two long sets I suffered my first
defeat of the tour.
I spent most of May trying to find Moreton Morrell. So if ever you go there do please set out
very early, and look not for a court but for someone’s house. The denoument of my search was
asking a dog walker for directions to a ‘big indoor tennis court’; they cheerily told me that I
was looking at it. The chocolate themed Leamington came later that day, where we completed
a remarkable 33 games in one hour, double the usual number. I don’t expect anyone cares but
after all that effort I have to report that 21 went to me! And if you were wondering about the
chocolate reference, the court colours were greens and blacks. Of course.
Time leapt forward, as it does when you change job, and in high summer I needed to step up a
gear. So for the next 3 weeks every spare moment saw racquet in hand, and my tally went up
by 8. At Hardwick House, hidden away at the end of a quaint old Berkshire lane, the lefthanded Katie Leopard used her excellent high backhand volley to good effect, and got her
revenge for my victory at Romsey, just coming through in a deciding set. Worse was to follow
at Hampton Court where zillions of people turned up to see me play, only to be disappointed
as I fell foul of spectator pressure and lost quite heavily. I suppose I should be more truthful
and add that the spectators were merely eager tourists passing through, and probably didn’t
even know when I had lost a point, never mind the match, but it is true that there were a lot of
them.
With hardly any planning at all one can easily notch up Radley and Oxford in one day, as they
are more or less in the same place. In a manner befitting an unremarkable adventure I
completely failed to do this – I forget exactly why – but at least I learnt a useful lesson for my
time-bound US marathon that would come in September. The Oxford court is in Merton
college and it deserves a special mention, because it is I think my favourite court. Perhaps it is
the smallest court of all, and so I’m inclined to put this preference down to that. The rallies
were longer, for sure, but more importantly I think it’s the serotonin effect of having to run
less to reach the ball. There is one downside mind, the court is red, and the lines on it are red.
I suppose that in Oxford in particular there’s more for bright people to do than paint lines.
Radley meanwhile has a swimming pool colour scheme that is very easy on the eye, not to
mention the world’s most obvious tambour. No excuses for visitors there then, so I better
spare you mine.
I now have a question. Where in the world can you play every game involving a racket?
Answer: on the south coast, on Hayling Island, at Seacourt. But they don’t just limit themselves
to racket sports from planet earth; there are even one or two from elsewhere! One of these
was called ‘Vulcan squash’, or something similar, and it looked incredibly dangerous. The
court seemed to embrace the bat-and-ball concept just as much as any other, but was about
the size of a garden shed. So how two players could both swing racquets without killing each
other was beyond me. Maybe the make up of some extra-terrestrial beings is so advanced that
racquets slice through them unnoticed? Frankly it’s hard to know. Anyway on my visit I didn’t
see anyone playing (from any planet), but figured that for humans protection befitting an
American football player must be appropriate. As for tactics, given court size the mantra must
be “let the ball come to you”; following it would have brought as much success as a greyhound
gets chasing mechanical hares. So a wacky game all round. I’m even tempted to say ‘off the
wall’. I suppose I could have gone for the adrenaline rush and spiced up this story no end by
trying it out, but fearful of unannounced aliens (or more truthfully my safety) I stuck to my
unremarkable plan, and on the centrepiece real tennis court progressed well by not waiting
for the ball to come to me.
Next on the agenda was a long journey, by train, to the site of the world’s only topless court. I
refer here not to a mode of play (though that might have been interesting) but rather to the
roof. It was in about 1500, I think, that someone unimaginatively chose to site this roofless
court where roofs tend to be more useful than anywhere else. In Scotland. Perhaps the
builders came from Oxford? In fact, like at Wimbledon, the slightest hint of damp will render
the court unplayable, and so this was the perfect opportunity for me to blend work and
pleasure, and instruct the weather gods to lay on a dry day. Thus I must extend special thanks
to my genial opponent and organiser at Falkland Palace, Simon Sanders, for trusting my
weather modification skills (it stayed dry), for his great help in organising our match, and for
the celebratory beer afterwards. And in case you were wondering, we did both wear shirts.
My whistlestop tour of the wonderful north lasted another 36 hours. In this time I cycled to
golf-mad St Andrews, took another train south to play lob-friendly Jesmond, watched England
beat Scotland at football in the buzzing heart of Newcastle (thankful that I had just crossed the
border), admired the majestic buildings and bridges that span the Tyne, and finally crossed
the Pennines to play historic Manchester.
The Manchester club really feels like a relic of a bygone era, and at a time when retro is in
what could be better. The exterior of the building, and its huge door belong very much to the
industrial revolution, the walls inside are adorned with the heads of hunted animals, and in
one dark room there are dusty old sofas and massive paintings of gentleman’s pursuits from
days gone by. I didn’t ask but I imagine that in that particular room smoking isn’t banned, but
is in fact obligatory. As for the tennis, like most courts Manchester will surprise you with its
own ‘party piece’: to win a set there you have to get to eight. I tell you mainly for future
reference, because it can be a little harsh finding this out when, in a particularly tough match,
you have just pulled out all the stops to reach what you thought was set at 6-5. It’s a bit like
saying that to win at Old Trafford you need to score at least two goals more than Man U, and
finding this out in the ninetieth minute when leading one nil. It’s an idea that would have
(once) been hugely attractive to David Moyes, for sure, but not I think to the rest of football.
Yet somehow, alongside its hunting theme and ‘smoking room’, Manchester has managed to
preserve its scoring anomaly. Anyway, in spite of dwindling glycogen, I managed to overcome
the surprise and came away with a win.
I guess the evening could have then fallen flat, but as I strode back to the hotel dark billowing
clouds began to descend from on high, and in time, like an intangible duvet, cocooned the city,
as if to ready it for nightfall. But any sense of security was naturally short-lived, and a violent
rainstorm then took hold, dispersing everyone to cover, and creating miniature rivers all over
the city. I loved it. It was the sort of primal phenomena that only meteorologists (and maybe
Mancunians) have really learnt to enjoy, and it provided the perfect end to the northern leg of
my unremarkable adventure.
The next month was like a month at school; it brought homework every evening. I became a
virtual tourist in many big US cities, using Google Streetview to pinpoint the courts. I checked
flight schedules and rental cars, and unravelled ways to fit in every venue in my 8 day limit,
whilst at the same time sending out emails carefully worded to keep all options open. On
landing in Chicago I had about 7 matches pencilled in, 4 flights and two cars booked, and just
one gap left in the schedule to accommodate Tuxedo. The homework had taught me that the
best strategy would be to race through the most remote locations first, then continue on
through the Northeast by car, at a marginally slower pace, basically playing one match per day
throughout.
I nearly fell at the first hurdle, spending an inordinate amount of time in the customs queue at
Chicago O’Hare. And as the taxi driver then skilfully weaved his way through rush hour traffic
it even felt, momentarily and unintentionally, like I was taking part in a real adventure. So I
reached the hotel, hurriedly put on the jacket and tie that would get me in, strode along the
lovely shoreline of a choppy lake Michigan, and arrived at the club just in time. Chicago houses
the most recently (re-)opened court in the world, which is in tip-top condition, and also
provides hospitality unrivalled in the real tennis world, or at least that was my experience. So
if you get the chance, just go, and don’t be at all surprised if free beers come your way! That
was Friday, and by Saturday evening I had flown on to South Carolina, and played Aiken too.
Aiken was the site of my first and to date only doubles match. I was a bit scared about this,
thinking that adding extra complexity to an already hellishly complicated game would send
my poor brain into meltdown, but thanks to a few pre-trip pointers from Tom Durack at
Holyport I coped, and was rewarded with yet more fine American hospitality in the evening.
On Saturday night I stayed in Augusta, which is close to Aiken, and which is also site of the
annual US Masters golf major. Having come all this way, I had thought that it would be nice to
take a look around, and so during my evening meal I enquired about visiting. I was told that
Augusta golf course is like a fortress. Encircling the course is a huge electric fence barricade,
and inside that a moat full of underfed crocodiles. Moreover they also pay snipers to sit in
sentry boxes on top of the fence, and take pot shots at anyone who comes remotely close. Ok,
so I exaggerate a little, but I definitely got the right message, which to anyone thinking of
visiting is “forget it”. You are not welcome. This I found very sad, and rather a contrast to St.
Andrews, the ancestral home of golf, which I had found to be completely open to outsiders,
and which even has public footpaths that cross the fairways.
Sunday’s match was in Washington. The novelty there is that there is no main wall; instead
they have a very big window. Thankfully the builders had the foresight to not use glass, and
another bonus is that if you get bored you can watch TV through it whilst playing. It was here
that I came up against a “12”, the highest ranked player in my career so far. I began every
game with a very nice lead, but not nearly as nice, I later discovered, as it technically should
have been, so to come away with a 6-5, 5-6 result was just fine. I really like the handicap
system, but I have to say that it does struggle a bit when there is a big gap, and it seems to me
that the weaker player gets the upper hand. From what I can remember if you are a 50, say,
and your opponent a zero, you would typically start a game at 40, minus 40, and not only that
but your opponent would be banned from hitting the tambour, banned from using the grille
and banned from laying chases better than the door. Moreover they would have a ball and
chain attached to one foot, could only legally hit the ball over the net every fourth point, and
would not be allowed to use a racquet except on cold Wednesday mornings during a leap
year. Something like that, anyway. Yes it’s tough at the top. I really must remember to play the
very best players in the world more often to get my handicap down.
For anyone reading this that is planning to drive to the courts of the northeast, I can now
provide a few tips. Firstly it’s not that difficult. The number of different roads that you will use
on your journey is approximately one. “At the next junction”, the satnav would say, “take the
I95 north, and stay on it for the next fourteen thousand miles”. So at 10 dollars per word
there’s not a lot of point in renting a satnav either. The I95 begins almost in the Caribbean,
and wends its way past Aiken, Washington, Philadelphia, New York and Boston, before
terminating almost in the Arctic. Slip roads, meanwhile, are everywhere, like little legs on a
gargantuan dead millipede. So watch out - blink and you might miss your exit. In the UK
meanwhile we seem to make a big song and dance about junctions, because there are so few. I
used to live in Wokingham, and well remember heated local exchanges about the need for
another motorway junction nearby, yet 20 years on: nothing. If that had been America my
impression is that the diggers would have been out on day one, before any public debate and
with reference neither to countryside nor aesthetics. The result is that many American towns
are spoiled by concrete, tarmac and flyovers. The big plus is that it really is dead easy to get
from one of these concrete monstrosities of modern living to the next. Thus I joined the I95 in
Washington, at junction seventeen hundred and twenty two, and then after a few hours, via
one of its little legs, conveniently found myself at the front door of the court in Philadelphia.
If you want to know what it’s like inside the Philadelphia court, think huge, cavernous,
wooden church halls from about the 1970s. So, character in spades, and almost out of place, it
seemed to me, in what was essentially a striking modern city (with a skyline to really admire,
even if it was made of concrete).
Georgian Court was next; it’s not far from Philadelphia, but seems a million miles away. It is
strangely located, in the middle of a community of Hasidic Jews, on the campus of a university
for female students. At least it had been ladies-only; it seems that when I arrived they had just
begun a bizarre trial which involved letting a couple of male undergrads in. I did ponder on
how this initiative was all working out. Playing there was tricky too, given there is no real club
as such, given the campus security and given that I am not female. I am thus indebted to
Schuyler Wickes for organising, and for driving a not inconsiderable distance to be my
opponent. We played in the afternoon, and I then ventured down to the amazing Jersey shore,
to take in the sunset, the revitalising scent of the ocean, and the mesmerising Atlantic waves
chipping away at banks of fine white sand.
More poignantly, I also encountered in Jersey the aftermath of hurricane Sandy. The sad sight
of streets and houses still awaiting reparations reminded me very much of the earthquake
impacts I had seen in Christchurch in New Zealand, back in February. To be honest though the
devastation in Christchurch was far worse. Hurricanes don’t contort the whole fabric of your
house so that any remaining doors and windows won’t open, they don’t destroy the sewer
network, they don’t ruck up roads like they were a piece of fabric, and they don’t fill your
kitchen with a metre of solidifying liquefaction – the concrete from the centre of the earth.
Though it was admirably and stoicly fighting back, for over two years Christchurch had been
in a sorry mess. The proportion of Jersey properties still affected looked much less, and
consisted mainly of ostentatious ocean-front dwellings that had snapped in two when the
front supporting stilts were swept away by waves.
As regards natural weather disasters, I am, like anyone else, extremely sympathetic to the
plight of all those affected. However I have to confess here that like a journalist on a mission I
did drive up and down the Jersey coastal road to try and find the bits worst affected by Sandy.
I think I am a typical meteorologist, I love extreme weather, so much so that when TV
headlines are awash with reports of widespread devastation I (and others) have been known
to punch the air – metaphorically at least - with a resounding ‘yes’, thankful that the severe
weather warning issue was justified. It’s certainly not something to be proud of, but heart and
soul goes into getting these warnings right, for the common good, and in the long run it could
all be much worse if we cried wolf too often. And from an individual point of view, there are,
quite rightly, only so many duff warnings that management will stand before your job is on
the line!
After incessant travelling I needed a breather, and so I spent a full two nights at my next hotel,
which was close to Manhattan, but separated from it by a body of water. The benefit of being
off the island is that accommodation is way cheaper. I felt that due to lack of demand my
particular room should have been even cheaper still. Indeed I must remember to ask next
time if they run discounts for anyone happy to check into 911. Or maybe not. I did actually
take time out to visit the ground zero site, which is being converted into a park-like memorial,
but this was not the most edifying experience. Building work is going on all around,
corrugated metal walls continually obscure the view, and there are far too many tourists like
me. I would recommend waiting a while before visiting.
The New York club, in Manhattan, occupies a very regal-looking building on Park Avenue. As
might befit a posh address in a famous city, it is difficult to get into, or even locate. The club
had no website that I could find, and even uncovering a phone number was a challenge. All my
search brought up was a few articles describing how exclusive the place was. In the end I had
to get a pro to recommend me, and read and sign up to club rules – such as no cameras, no
mobile phone calls, no credit cards, no loitering, and no women. But unless you want to bring
a lady in with you, or are one, please don’t let this put you off. I found the club’s bark to be
worse than its bite, had an enjoyable game on a decent court, marvelled at the football-pitchsized changing room, and was invited back. The second New York club, Tuxedo, provides the
perfect contrast, occupying a beautiful, serene, lakeside location northwest of the city. So
serene was it that the only booking that day, on a multitude of courts, was for me and my
opponent. I feel obligated to also advise on the bounce there, which is so low that you will
never get more than one.
Suitably refreshed, after two nights in nine eleven, and with a few provisions from seven
eleven, I hit the road again. And yes, it was on the good old I95, my new found friend. En route
to Rhode Island there are a lot of tolls, and, for entirely understandable reasons which I won’t
go into, I failed to pay a couple of them. Now, many months on, in the absence of fines I have
come to the conclusion that they let me off. It’s good to have friends you can rely on. Even if
they dress in soul-less grey, and spend all their time lying down. Thank you I95.
In the tiny state of Rhode Island there is a wonderful little town, that looks majestically out
onto the Atlantic, as if it were guardian and keeper to all vessels that sail there. It is called
Newport. Not only is it home to a huge sailing fraternity, but also to the Wimbledon of North
America. And it plays host, I believe, to the only grass tennis tournament in the whole
continent. By this I don’t mean to imply that turf has been laid inside and had chase lines
marked on top. It is of course the type of tennis that most people know and love, that Federer
and co play for a living. So therein lies a conundrum, what should we call this? To most people
who are not reading this article this is real tennis, but for most who are it clearly is not.
Confused? Yes, me too. So maybe we should dispense with confusion by introducing some
new terminology. What shall we call Federer’s brand of tennis? What are its distinguishing
features? How about symmetrical tennis? Or soft ball, or big racket, or wall-free tennis? Or, to
reflect its relative lack of variety, perhaps humdrum tennis? Or even tennis tennis. Yes I kind
of like that last one. It really does leave you in no doubt. We would then have the ‘Wimbledon
tennis tennis championship’. It has a hint of alliteration, and a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’. OK, fair
enough, I don’t suppose for one minute that this will stick, but tennis terminology does badly
need a re-think. Other examples are ‘lawn’ which usually means ‘hard court’, ‘court tennis’
which is American for ‘real tennis’, and ‘real tennis’…well, we discussed that. And I can’t leave
this topic without a quick reference to ‘court tennis’. Who on earth came up with that term?
“It’s tennis played on a court, so lets call it court tennis”. Genius? I think not. Its hardly a
distinguishing feature. They have a lot to answer for! So I have digressed rather a lot; please
forgive me. I meant to point out that in amongst the lawns (made of grass) can be found the
real tennis court that I played on. They have made it into a little museum piece, like at
Hampton Court, with silhouette signs of a big hand pointing to beckon the visitor in.
The court itself has great spots for spectators, at and above player level, including a unique
cosy seat for lovers behind a glass format grille. In fact if I could choose to play in a real tennis
tournament anywhere in the world I think it would be here. Because of the spectating options,
the grass court diversion, the on-site ‘afternoon tea catering’, the unspoilt ocean-going town
on the doorstep, and the gorgeous coastline nearby it would be the perfect venue.
In the coming weeks, with the remnants of a fine summer fast fading, I took time out from
frantic travel, and contented myself with occasional matches at Holyport. Everything was now
looking more manageable, with the remaining courts all just a drive away from home. I then
had a run of one-court-weekends, fitting in Petworth, Hatfield, Middlesex and half of Queen’s.
Like Hampton, Aiken, Falkland and many others the Petworth court was originally built for
the amusement of rich and royal dignitaries, and it now lies on National Trust land. Playing
there brought an early start for me, and what particularly stuck in my mind were the beautiful
morning views from the Hog’s Back on the drive down, the sun being so aligned as to show
the dew-laden valley below in perfect light. I was being reminded that early rising is not all
bad! On the trip to Hatfield I was not expecting any such delights; the name itself brings back
childhood memories of long trips south stuck in A1 traffic, surrounded by a formless
landscape. And later they built the Hatfield tunnel, which, though quicker, seems unlikely to
ever quite make it to world heritage status. So to discover the beautiful Hatfield House, with
its old red brick buildings and cobbled streets was very pleasant and totally unexpected. The
Middlesex court, meanwhile, lies in a less celubrious setting. And given the pervasive pass
system installed on every door, you are forced into thinking that security is a major issue. The
upside is that the court has the cleanest lines, the most reliable of bounces, and a gutter,
beneath the net, to die for. OK, I should at this point mention that I am not a complete
crackpot, with an unhealthy attraction to tennis ball collection mechanisms, but I have to say
that when compared to all the other gutters in the world the one at Middlesex does do its job
of directing all the balls into the basket incredibly well.
Cambridge is a two court club. There is the green court which is green. And the blue court
which is red. On my colourful weekend away to the East Midlands I also took in nearby
Newmarket, which has a genuinely blue-coloured court. So to help with clarity we will call
that one red. First up was green, where something clicked, and I won convincingly. Often you
get runs in real tennis – 4,5,6 games – for reasons I don’t fully understand. Yes the lack of an
alternating service advantage contributes, but even so it seems to me that these runs happen
much more than is logical. If only I could crack the reason why, I could keep it secret, go on a
permanent run, and win everything. There has to be a way!
One simple way to win points for evermore would be to invent an unreturnable serve, and
indeed I have laid awake at night trying to “dream” one up. Given that the range of options
when serving is orders of magnitude greater than in tennis tennis, this is not as sad and
pointless an exercise as it might at first seem. Indeed I have had plenty of ideas, often
involving the ball maintaining contact with the back wall or floor somehow or other. The
shame is that when I enthusiastically go on to try these out the spin just won’t bite in quite the
right way, and the success rate drops to about nil. But one has to persevere.
Sunday began with a clamber up the re-hydration curve, as Sundays often do after a night
catching up with friends. My first appointment was the 12:00 at Newmarket. A good place for
chases, I mused, as I galloped into a lead. Post match my opponent fittingly introduced me the
to the world of equine pursuits. I learnt that a polo pitch is, remarkably, the size of six football
pitches, and then, sensing again the threat of my very own chukka, took in more water. I soon
discovered that a re-hydration of sorts can be used to good effect in racing too. To speed up
your horse, apparently. Or even to slow it down, should a need arise, but I really must be
careful to not give the game away here.
Next on the card was the 4pm Cambridge Blue handicap, where I unfortunately gave lots of
games away, to an up-and-coming biology student, under-weighted in my view, and with a not
inconsiderable track preference advantage. It was however a nice place to lose, the strange
light, the red court and a contact lens issue making for a rather ethereal experience. Another
special feature was the view into someone’s living room from the receiving end. It later
transpired that this was a spectating gallery, above the penthouse, kitted out with sofas and
armchairs. A very nice touch, I thought. Probably the best place to watch real tennis in the
world. Whilst drinking a Carlsberg, of course.
In my story it is now almost December, and also time, you will doubtless be pleased to here, to
call a halt on wordplay. On my final weekend trip away, to Essex, I added the two Prested
courts to my list. These are some of the newest on the real tennis circuit. One has a glass back
at the receiving end, like Romsey, whilst the most striking feature of the other was its stripey
floor, made out in school-blazer green and blue. Ben, a friend from Frinton with whom I was
staying, came to watch. To my surprise he stayed for just a couple of my serves, and then
transferred over to the glass back court. Were my serves really that bad, I wondered? I have
been known to throw in depressing double faults, most commonly on a chase of better than a
half, but I don’t recall playing that badly at Prested. I later discovered that the ladies world
champion, Claire Vigrass, was playing the glass back at the same time. I guess I felt slightly
miffed, but to be honest if I had had the choice of watching myself or Ms Vigrass, I would
probably not have chosen me.
Attempts to squeeze in Lords before Christmas fell on stoney ground. It seemed that Lords
was, how can I put it, a bit of a local club for local people. Particularly old ones. So I needed
some assistance, and I am most grateful to the young Paul Cattermull for helping out. Like
New York though, the club’s bark is worse than its bite, and once inside you will find a friendly
septuagenarian welcome. They will also tell you that the waiting time to join is longer than
many people live. So now I understand why booking is a challenge!
As well as my Lords match, January also brought floods aplenty across the UK, which, as you
may have heard, was due to a protracted southward meander of the jet stream. People often
ask me: “so the bad weather is due to the jet stream, and so why is the jet stream where it is”.
The simple answer is random chance. If you roll three dice, sometimes you will get three ones.
No one asks why then! And perhaps they should expect less of a clearcut explanation for the
jet stream too. Yes there are some factors which weight the dice, in one direction or another,
but that weighting, in my view, does not have a particularly large effect. It is also why those
emphatic Daily Express winter forecasts lack credibility (though I do acknowledge that
“Winter might be cold”, in ninety point font, might not do as much for sales!). So why am I
talking about the weather again? It’s because all the floods gave me the opportunity to finish
my tour, at Queen’s, on an audacious note that had hitherto been lacking. I could have kayaked
into London along a very swollen Thames. That certainly would have been very exciting and
very dangerous, and a fitting conclusion provided I didn’t sink. But I imagined the headlines –
“Idiot drowns trying to kayak into Queen’s club” - and in the end stuck to my very
unremarkable theme, negotiating instead just little watery hazards on my drive there:
sporadic drizzle and a few puddles.
Queen’s is a wonderful place. It is synonymous with the light-touch pre-Wimbledon grass
court tournament, and maybe with the BBC’s John Inverdale chatting to celebs on Finals Day,
on the gracious old stand that fronts their centre court. So I felt very privileged to have been
able to play there twice on my tour. The two real tennis courts are in excellent nick too, and a
joy to play on, even if the intense red and green colour scheme and piercing spotlights are
somewhat reminiscent of time spent in Specsavers having an eye test. The changing facilities
are classy too, with an attendant on duty to maintain order. This aspect reminded me of the
top US clubs, where they even go a step further - their attendants double up as waiters, and
will lay a table, take your meal order and deliver it, bizarrely all within the confines of their
(admittedly ginormous) locker rooms.
My final match, on Queen’s east court, was on the afternoon of February 1st. Fittingly, it
proceeded without any fuss or fanfares, and if I remember correctly, concluded with a
decisive acute-angle shot into the winning gallery. To signify completion I think I punched the
air (happy, for once, that there was no accompanying disaster). And thereby ended, in an
unremarkable way, my unremarkable adventure, after an equally un-noteworthy one year
and a bit.
By way of summary, I will document that my handicap went up by nine during my tour, and
that my record was won 31, lost 7, drew 3. I still have to play renovated Boston, and the
second Manhattan court (one per year is the law there). Due to illness I didn’t quite make it to
Bordeaux before it sadly closed in May. Similarly I have excluded the multi-purpose courts in
the South of France, which are primarily designed for other sports, like trinquet. And there
are apparently two other playable real tennis courts in the world. One is in Kent, in a private
home, and another seems to be on Long Island. I had been hopeful of fitting in the Long Island
court, but it would appear to be off-limits, if it is there at all, and indeed none of my many US
opponents even knew of its existence. So a mystery still to be solved…
It would be nice to think that writing this little piece will encourage others to maybe take up
the game, and those that already play to hit the road and try a few more courts. Deliberately, I
have not described all the details of the game, nor the not inconsiderable complexities of
scoring; there are books and coaches to do that. And please don’t be fooled by my downbeat
unadventurous style; the game can be dramatic and is always tense, and it provides stern
tests for both physique and intellect. And as I have intimated, for the adrenaline addict it has
surprises too: whilst you might not die from a misjudged tambour shot you could conceivably
come close.
I haven’t said a great deal about Holyport, my home court. For a time as I travelled Holyport
was in jeopardy, due to some property development shenanigans, but I am happy to recount
that under new ownership its future now looks very bright. It was at Holyport, about 4 years
ago, that I executed my first ever real tennis shot, inevitably off the frame, in an introductory
lesson from the ever-enthusiastic Angus Williams. I well remember how crazy it all seemed.
And given the pleasure Angus took in telling me the intricacies of the rules, I even thought,
momentarily, that he was making it all up! Over the four years though I have come a long way
(evidently!), and have come to realise that the targets and the chases and the rules that glue
everything together do have an extraordinary, if complex, logic. This should be savoured. I
have played many sports in my time, but for bizarre enjoyment none can match the real tennis
experience.