A Round Above the Clouds: On the Sanctity and Sacredness of Cleeve Hill Golf Club
by Ed Chambler
You will struggle to find a better kept secret anywhere in the world than the ancient golf course that lies atop the inland links of Cleeve Hill. Perhaps it is because it is hidden in plain sight, or perhaps it is because it is so out of place. An Old Tom Morris design with rumoured later revisions from Dr Alister MacKenzie, on public hillock land in the middle of Gloucestershire sounds both too good to be true and like the work of a video game designer. I can assure you, it is as real as it gets.
A month ago, on my way back up to St Andrews from a week at home in Dorset, I took a detour to play a late morning round at Cleeve Hill. I’d heard about it from the Cookie Jar boys and various promotional content on Sounder Golf’s Instagram feed. It seemed unassuming and stoically simple, like the kinda track that I’d enjoy walking with a half set rig in my MacKenzie bag as a rejuvenating break from what would otherwise be a rather long and tedious drive. Unlike the week prior, the weather had cleared up and an almost perfect bluebird day greeted me as I arrived. There was a feeling in the air that the afternoon was going to be a particularly magical one. The drive up to Cleeve Hill had wound its way past quaint hillside houses and small, picturesque looking villages until the oak tree canopy suddenly opened up as the climb ascended through the tree line, giving me the the first glimpses of the stunning panorama that I’d been eagerly expecting.
Situated to the north-east of Cheltenham and Gloucester, Cleeve Hill itself has both a rich and varied history that dates back centuries. It has long been a site of agricultural importance, mythical rumination and local fascination, and its historical significance is particularly evident in the remnants of ancient settlements found in the area, suggesting human habitation since the Iron Age. Nowadays, it is home to public footpaths, grazing sheep and 18 outstanding holes of golf. I told you that it sounds too good to be true.
My tee time was at 11:20, and I had arrived with little time to spare having hit some mid morning traffic on my drive up. I parked the car and grabbed my sticks. A gate on the left of the clubhouse took me to a quaint outdoor seating area with views of the hill and a charming putting green, both enclosed gracefully by a grey stone wall on all sides. I caught the first glimpses of the course from this vantage point with the first tee box standing proudly on the left and the 18th green tucked away down the hill to the right.
I propped my MacKenzie up against the fence and walked toward the pro shop along the creaky wooden veranda that lines the back of the clubhouse. I checked in with the friendly starter who informed me that I was next up. The shop had the feel of a grass-roots art gallery mixed with the office of a hipster start-up. Plain white painted floorboards and walls gave it a clean and tidy aesthetic, and the merchandise on display was organised and well curated. Much to my joy, all of the clothes on sale were made by one of my favourite UK golf brands, Sounder Golf. I spent what little time I had left checking out the kit and trying a few pieces on. In fact, the pro shop experience at Cleeve Hill is one of my most memorable check-in's to date. Uncrowded, subtle and calming, both the shop and the energy it exuded set the tone for what was going to be a very special round. Eager to get off, I picked up a scorecard and a pencil on the way out.
I walked back past the putting green and through a second gate in the encompassing stone wall. A short walk down the gravel path brought me to the first tee box: a raised plateau facing a domineering left sloping hill with two simple, white tee markers framing the ridge over which the fairway cambers forward and to the right. A blind tee shot to start a round is never the most pleasant way to commence, but it seemed like an apt way to calm the nerves and settle into the 18. The 565 yard hole demands a committed tee shot to which I duly responded. I pumped a three metal over the marker post with a slight draw and sent the ball tumbling down the right side of the fairway. The area around the box was bustling with dog walkers and families, creating what felt like an amphitheatre of spectators. I was both relieved and fired up to get my ball away with such power despite the long drive and hectic arrival. The round had certainly begun!
The magic of Cleeve Hill is palpable as soon as you starting venturing away from the house. It is both a contradiction yet somehow an axiomatic truth that Cleeve Hill is so far from what one expects from a golf course that it starts to become the epitome of what the game should be. As I walked down the first fairway to find my ball, I was overcome with feelings of gratitude, astonishment and happiness in what I recall, was equal measure.
My ball had come to rest on the right side of the fairway and was severely above my feet. Cleeve Hill might not be the longest of golf courses, but it requires steady accuracy off the tee to find the elusive flat lies in the fairway. I laid up with an 8 iron to leave myself with a perfect gap wedge number. As I took my practice swings and envisioned my right to left shot shape accessing the left pin location, a baby lamb emerged from behind the green side bunker and sat down on the green. It had managed to wriggle under the electric fencing which perimeters all of the greens on Cleeve Hill (Cleeve Hill is not dissimilar to Brora in this way). I laughed and took a photo. The lamb was far from caring about my round of golf or my approach to the first. Rather boldly, I didn’t think I would be so inaccurate so as to hurt the little lamb that sat on the front edge, so I drew a gap wedge just long of the pin and spun it back to some 15 feet for birdie. A smooth 2-putt par on the first got the round going at a good pace.
The second hole asked for a tee shot back over the hillside adjacent to the first to a severe right sloping fairway that sends tee balls down to a collection area below where I had found my first drive. I hit a nervous three wood up the fairway and had a 7 iron into the green. I missed it right of the green atop the hillside that lies above, leaving myself a short sided chip some 15 feet down hill. I was realising that accuracy was to be the name of the game today.
I managed to stabilise with my tee ball on the third, a short par 4 some 290 yards with a blind first shot over another small hill. Once again, I had sheep both on the box and on the fairway in front of me, which demanded that I flushed a 3 iron over them and the marker post where I was aiming. Perfectly executed, the ball went sailing out of sight as I reached down for the broken tee lying at my feet. For those who know me well, I love nothing more than a short par 4 where a precise long iron is needed from the box. The third at Cleeve Hill was one of the finest examples in my recent memory.
As I walked round the path to the fourth hole, you become suddenly aware of the expanse and the magnitude of the Hill and its surrounding land. The wind was swirling and straight into when I looked down the long, arrow straight fairway to a green which seemed light years away. Errant tee shots are caught by the raised fifth fairway on the right and yet dropped by the cliffside that lines the hole on the left. For my metal-wood cut, it didn't seem like too much of a problem, but it still presented a particularly daunting challenge that afternoon.
One of the standout and almost unbelievable features of Cleeve Hill is the fluorescent yellow gorse which was blossoming in patches everywhere I looked. Perhaps it is my sheer ignorance, but the number of gorse bushes I’ve seen south of the Scottish border are few and far between. It was like they had all been freshly pulled out of East Lothian ground or the hallowed turf in Fife and flown directly here. The areas around the fifth and sixth green seemed overrun with these treacherous gorse patches which make for very difficult approach shots in the unpredictable winds. I was happy to come away with two pars and made my way to the 7th.
Another blind tee shot required the driver swing of the round in order to give myself a chance at birdie with the wind stiff into breeze. Despite being struck well, the ball started to move toward the right side of the fairway at its apex and disappeared over the ridge line. I had found the deepest rough on the course and spent a while looking for my ball. The downhill elevation change made it hard to judge how far it had flown and in amongst the reeds I managed to find 5 other golf balls, none of which were my own. Funny that. You win some and certainly lose some. I took a lateral and made my double bogey. The sun was beating down relentlessly through the small clusters of wispy clouds above and it was clear that the final 9 holes were going to be a slog. I had left my water bottle in the car and had just finished the last sips of the isotonic drink I had bought at a service station on the way up. Fortunately, I found some renewed energy on the eighth green having chipped in for birdie and was overall distracted by the increasingly impressive views and aspects that presented themselves to me. I was finding a rhythm and we were cruising along.
Severely downhill and cambering to the left, I roped a drive down the right side of the ninth hole which sent the ball bounding down the slope to the flat plateau. Cleeve Hill was asking questions of my golf game and I was starting to respond in eloquent fashion. I sized up my approach shot, again with a gap wedge, and decided to play it pretty full. I flushed it clean with a perfect deep divot, sending it fizzing high in the air. My ball came down with intent and hit the flagstick with a clatter, leaving me a few humble feet for a tap in birdie. I stood there for a while admiring both the shot I had just hit and the perfectly shaped hillside divot that lay next to me. Funnily enough, the only spectators watching what I thought was a rather impressive golf shot were a cluster of sheep on the right side of the green chewing away on the grass, unamused. Their nonchalance made me laugh again as I trudged up to the green for my unobserved birdie.
The tenth hole is a fabulous par three with 30 yards of descent from box to green. It’s one of those holes that makes you feel like a superstar. Following my pin point approach to the ninth, with wind off the right, I pulled a 6 iron from 225 yards. The night before, I had been watching Tiger Wood’s highlights from 2000 at Pebble Beach, distinctly remembering the commentators using the phrase ‘towering’ to describe his long iron ball flights. I imagined my 6 iron soaring into the sunny afternoon sky with towering focus, and landing softly next to the pin. I stepped up and swung with complete centeredness, sending my ball rising into the expanse in front of me with dead aim. The ball landed some 10 feet left of the pin and spun back a little. I looked at the divot and then back toward the hill. Something magical was happening.
The par 4 eleventh and twelfth holes were as enjoyable as the holes before, carding two pars on my way to the thirteenth box. In doing my research for Cleeve Hill, I had seen some photos and visuals of a mighty looking fortress green with stunning views back toward Cheltenham and Gloucester. In the heat of the moment and the courses’ winding routing, I had completely lost my bearings. I wasn’t sure where or when this green was going to emerge. Eagerly anticipating, I pumped a low drive up the thirteenth fairway, over the ridge and some 15 yards right of the marker post. Again, Cleeve Hill was demanding a committed blind shot from my game to which I’d now become more than accustomed.
One of the most exposed areas on the course, the thirteenth fairway lies adjacent to a particularly poignant looking tree to the left. A few years ago, there had been a movement to ‘save Cleeve Hill’ following news that the council had deemed golf on the hill ‘no longer financially viable’. Fortunately, outside investment bought the lease to the land and clubhouse which secured both the future of the golf club and the future of the course it plays upon. I realised that the tree to my left is the new logo of the golf club and was printed on the beautifully simple scorecard I had grabbed from the pro shop. I stood there for a while to reflect on what it would’ve meant if Cleeve Hill had not been saved, and the course to which I was now dotingly falling in love with was no longer. I remember feeling very lucky and blessed that I was playing upon its turf.
For those that know the tree in question, it is an extremely fitting choice for the logo of a club which will now hopefully endure for a long time to come. That afternoon, as I stood there looking at the tree, I was struck by a permanence in its energy and a persistence to its branches. Much like the Cleeve Hill Golf Club that it now represents and despite the turbulent winds and other natural forces trying to pull it down, it too, endures. It all feels very fitting.
As I walked over the crest of the ridge line, searching for my ball up the right hand side, the green I had been waiting for came into view. Framed in the distance by the surrounding ancient mounds, built by hand by the Iron Age settlers, it looked fiercely enticing, so much so that it slightly rattled my nerves. It looked both approachable and daunting, causing me to question my lay up shot for quite some time. Fortunately, and for reasons I cannot quite articulate, I felt like a wedge approach from the fairway would be a more meaningful experience than testy chip from the reedy collection area over the back of the green.
The view that I had been awaiting did not disappoint, either. The green perfectly frames the lengthy panorama with a sense of beauty that almost took my breath away. The location and choice of both green site and Iron Age settlement made total sense to me as I walked down the fairway to my ball. What would the ancient settlers have thought if they knew in a few short centuries their township would be long gone and replaced by a flat grassy surface onto which crazed game players would be hitting small plastic balls with metal clubs?
The surrealness of such a question snapped me back into focus as I eyed up my 98 yard approach shot. The pin was tucked on the left side of the green behind the left mound guarding the entrance, and required a steeply descending wedge with pin point accuracy. Despite my good intentions and otherwise pretty looking practice swings, I watched perplexed as my wedge shot went sailing over the green with a hop and disappeared into the long grass. It must’ve been the adrenaline, I thought.
Fortunately, my lie was favourable and an out-of-the-box up and down secured me the par. I took a while to appreciate the green I had just played to and the views that extend as far as the eye can see behind it. It is not very often that we look forward to particular architectural aspects of a golf course or hole as part of our golfing experience. Perhaps at old and fabled courses, courses that we see on television or in YouTube highlights. But even then, we are looking forward to them because of who or what we have seen play on or over them. To appreciate a green, for example, not for the putts that have been made over its surface or the major championships that have been celebrated around its fringes, but for the very green itself, and its surrounding features, is a very rare thing indeed. Admittedly, I do not do it enough myself either. But having played at Cleeve Hill last month, I have tried to take the time in every round to pick out a feature that I would otherwise have overlooked. It adds a childlike appreciation to the golfing playgrounds we walk around and takes the edge off the rounds that are running too hot under the collar. I would highly recommend.
The fifteenth and sixteenth holes, the signature holes at Cleeve Hill in some regards, are absolutely mind blowing. Committed tee balls are sent flying over jagged ravines of quarried landscape to greens perched on level ground atop the other side. During my round, the first of these was playing some 140 yards with a slight helping breeze to which I sent a pitching wedge safely onto the putting surface. Having lipped out my birdie putt, I walked briskly to the next which, like the hole I had just played, asked a similar question but asked it about 40 decibels louder. I could make out the raised green site some 200 yards away over doubly as much treacherous quarry-land and there were bunkers either side of the putting surface. The two holes are like brothers, I remember thinking. You are first greeted by the little one which you can play over with ease and with a healthy smattering of courage and fortitude. However, upon arriving at the tee box of its older brother, you are required to muster all the strength you have left.
Like the tenth hole, I pulled out a 6 iron from my MacKenzie having evaluated the playing yardage to be about 190 yards. Despite the helping wind, the shot was by no means straight forward. I struck the ball well with a high cut to make sure it got all the way back to the pin. It came to rest just in the fringe and with a sigh of relief, I hiked my way to find it across the otherworldly scenery in between. A couple of pars on these holes is no missed opportunity and I was happy to come out of their jaws unscathed.
From the seventeenth box, I could see the clubhouse in the distance to the left. It seemed miles away. But heading for home at a course like Cleeve Hill also has a way of reigniting one's fire. Both the remaining par 4’s looked gettable and the downhill tee shot on seventeen was perfectly framed for a pure three metal. I don’t know what it was that came over me on that box, but everything seemed to align itself just right. A high draw shot shape both suited my eye and worked perfectly to maximise distance down the sloping fairway. I took a stance that aligned itself to target and my eyeline locked itself onto a small bush on the right hand side. I swung the club with a welcome clarity and forceful connectedness, sending the ball screaming into the blue sky ahead with a soft draw. There was a family sitting on a bench to my right who must’ve been mystified when they saw me perform what can only be described as the most aggressive club twirl anyone has ever done. Had they not known otherwise, they might’ve thought I was playing to win the Masters or force a playoff at the Open in St Andrews. But for those once in a season swings, c’mon, you would’ve done the same.
In fact, it dawned on me as I was walked down the penultimate fairway how much of a theme the 'public' aspect of Cleeve Hill had been. Whilst playing, you are distinctly aware that the course you’re playing on meanders over public land. It is bustling with dog walkers, families and grazing livestock the whole way around, especially on a day like that afternoon where the sun was out in abundance. It’s a rather strange experience to play golf in front of people like that on land which doesn’t explicitly scream ‘golf course’. It is both fun and exciting, yet anxiety inducing and frightening. However, it is the very public nature of Cleeve Hill that makes the golf so exciting and the course to infinitely fascinating.
Generally speaking, municipal golf is an equilibrium between value and quality. On the one hand, the lower green fees and better accessibility are extremely attractive. But on the other, it often means that both the quality of the course and its subsequent maintenance leave a lot to be desired. This doesn’t deter us avid golfers from revelling in their quirky simplicity and enjoying a game at a lower price point. Far from it. I would even go as far to argue that municipal golf embodies the very spirit of the game and that a player can discover more about our beloved sport from the humblest of tracks than any private club, fancy new course or overpriced resort experience. But even in this regard, Cleeve Hill is an a league all of its own.
The course asks demanding questions of even the longest hitter with a playful cheekiness if obliged and menacing bite if left unanswered. It is, by definition, unassuming and approachable, yet it can strike fear in the best of us ball strikers if we stand on the box uncommitted or unsure. Kindly though, both the course itself and the hill on which it lies reminds us to laugh at the bad shots and to humbly enjoy the good ones. For golf is a game we play for fun and a game we play for discovery. Cleeve Hill Golf Club forces you to keep your eyes open and appreciate all there is to love about a course and ones playing over it. Having hit my drive on the eighteenth, thoughts such as these came flooding to my mind. It is the very reason I love this game and the reason I continue to painfully toil at getting better.
Amusingly, much like the first hole, and in some otherwise eerily cyclical device of karma, a small lamb bounded up onto the green as I eyed up my short iron approach to the final putting surface. I had a brief conversation in my head that perhaps it was the same little guy that was lying on the front of the first green all those hours before. I came to my senses and realised that it couldn’t’ve been, but it was a fitting reminder that we share the course at Cleeve Hill Golf Club with everyone, from the dog walkers and local families on its peaks and the small lambs and sheep in its hollows.
My ball fell into the hole on the last with a bookmark clattering that marked the end of a magical round on the hill. I looked down to mark my scorecard for the final time to find printed in the middle of the page ‘PLEASE RESPECT ALL OTHER COMMON USERS AT ALL TIMES’. If I were a more daring individual, I would get that phrase tattooed on my left forearm, for I have never heard a better and more appropriate philosophy for both golf, and for life itself.
