The Eagle has landed. It’s so warm here at Royal Birkdale, the diarist may have to tie an unprecedented fifth knot in the hankie that sits on top of my bonce.
The last time The Open was here in 2017, the diarist was billeted in the now closed Pontins resort which had the same kind of old school charm and alluring, bijou elegance as the cells of Alcatraz.
Here in 2026, we are sharing an extremely small studio flat just down the Liverpool road in Waterloo. “Has it got water and a loo?,” asked a concerned colleague of the facilities.
With Waterloo in mind, the diarist got to thinking of auld Napoleon. “Courage isn't having the strength to go on, it is going on when you don't have strength,” he said.
The sports editor knows all about that as he proofreads this bloody diary.
*Let the train take the strain. The diarist has become a bit of a ferroequinologist this week. “I’d have another ‘f’ word for you,” muttered the aforementioned gaffer through clenched teeth.
The journey on the rattler from Waterloo to Hillside station right next to Birkdale is a seamless, simple excursion. Golf and the railway network on these isles, of course, has a long and cherished history.
The diarist also has an enduring relationship with the tracks. This small column, for instance, tends to be a complete and utter trainwreck.
*Some hardy souls used a different mode of transport to get here the other day.
The ‘Ride to The Open’ charity cycle saw 14 riders pedal from Wentworth in Surrey to Birkdale as part of a Golf Foundation initiative which raised £34,000 for youth mental wellbeing.
The cycling theme was carried on by the diarist in our local hostelry when I asked the barmaid for a cheeky half after the bell. “On yer bike,” she roared.
