Dai Davies – AGW Member 1968 – 2008 | Association of Golf Writers

Dai Davies – 22 October 1938 – 19 May 2008

There was a wonderful turn out of members to support Patricia and the family at Dai Davies’ funeral at St Michael’s Church, Boldmere and afterwards at Whittington Heath Golf Club. This was despite a number of commitments elsewhere including the Curtis Cup at St Andrews and Ryder Cup activities at Celtic Manor; Mark Wilson represented the European Tour.

Dai, who passed away on Monday 19 May having been diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus at the end of last year, wrote on golf for over 40 years, principally for the Birmingham Post and The Guardian. He had been a member of the Association since 1968. A highlight of the service was the wonderful music, selected by Dai himself, including wonderful hymns, a superb rendition of Old Man River by Mike Osborne and a DVD of the Vees Gees, the barber shop group that Dai was involved with.

The eulogy was delivered by two-time Amateur champion Peter McEvoy: I knew Dai Davies for nearly 40 years. We first met at Handsworth Golf Club in 1969 when I was playing in the Warwickshire Boys Championship and he was the golf reporter for the Birmingham Post. Many times in that 40 years we travelled together or met in golfing environments in far flung corners of the world. He was a wonderful companion.

Bill Robertson, Dai Davies & Chi Chi Rodriguez .. Dorado Beach, Puerto Rico, Nov 1981, The 7th Annual Chi Chi Rodriguez International Festival of Golf. Photo taken by David Johnson, 24 Fitzgeorge Ave, London.

It is hard to know where to start when trying to describe Dai. He was a man of great complexity. On the one hand, many may remember him as a bear of a man, belligerent, argumentative and of course, as all of us who knew him well will testify, this was quite true. If you fancied a good argument, discussion or debate then Dai was your man. Any subject and indeed any side of the argument was good enough for Dai and he had the ability of being brilliantly dismissive of others views.

But that first impression disguised a man of great passion and sensitivity. I think that was best demonstrated in his beautiful relationship with Patricia. I was lucky enough to have been present at the moment they met – at the Eisenhower Trophy in 1980 at Pinehurst, North Carolina. Strangely, for some reason, I can even remember the moment, quite clearly, when Patricia told me that Dai Davies was due to arrive. They were the only British Press there. Three years later they married at Portstewart and I remember well Dai being so overcome by happiness that he wept undisguisedly.

Apart from his family and Patricia, golf and writing were his life. He was a good enough player in his early days to score in the low 70s around Boldmere Golf Club, but he would be the first to admit that he always fought an over-fast swing. I played a lot with Dai over the years. Some days were good – some not so good. I remember his joy at the effects of large headed metal woods when he enjoyed a sustained bit of form – swinging his “wok” as he described it. As a player his regret was not winning the Golf Writers Championship. Mind you, he might have had more chance if Patricia hadn’t kept on winning it! However, when form wasn’t quite so good he could get a little temperamental. I recall his striking the bottom of his carry golf bag in frustration once at Moor Hall GC shattering the hard plastic and shedding clubs as he made his way up the 16th fairway.

Dai Davies, golf writer, circa 1998. (Photo by Phil Sheldon/Popperfoto via Getty Images/Getty Images)

But Dai had a real feel and passion for the game and its traditions and that came out in his writing. This passion was best illustrated once when we played about 10 years ago at Royal Porthcawl one winter’s day. Porthcawl was one of his favourite places – it is in Wales, after all. It was a coldish, grey day, bit of rain in the air, bit windy. We got to the top of the hill at the 18th and looked down at the green with the grey sea crashing behind it. I’m sure many of you will know it. Looking forward to tea and toasted teacakes, we took a moment to agree that we felt sorry for those poor misguided souls playing in the sunshine in Dubai or Florida or the Costa Del Sol and thinking that they were enjoying themselves and experiencing real golf.

You see Dai felt the game and this was so obvious in his work. He also wanted to contribute in whatever way to the folk lore of the game. His immense presence made this inevitable. He had a habit of creating his own traditions. Firstly, if one of his “parishioners” got to the quarter-finals of the Amateur Championship, he took them to dinner. He did it with me on the Thursday night of the Championship quite a few times and I know Trevor Homer was similarly treated. While at the Post he held mid-winter dinners for those of his circle who did well the year before. I remember Sandy Lyle, Terry Shingler, John Mayell and me enjoying such meals. They always had a theme – usually based around alcohol. While he made his own traditions he deeply respected others too.

Dai Davies wins 1988 AGW Henry Cotton Salver

I have seen him described as a “Colossus of the Press Room”, and he was, but he was a kind and sensitive companion and friend too. He will be sadly missed by us all.

Dai rather scooped us all with his moving farewell published in last month’s newsletter, which was reproduced on the order of service. Numerous tributes have appeared in the media and are collected in the attached file or as a hard-copy supplement for those who are not on-line. Included here is a piece written by Colm Smith:

The untimely passing of David “Dai” Davies on Monday 19 May, 2008 was for me, and I’m sure many others, the end of an era. I was with Patricia and her sister Maureen on that afternoon and while it was an extremely sad occasion there was some comfort when he was laid out in preparation for his final hole. Dressed in the red shirt of his beloved Welsh Dragon he looked at peace. He was very proud of his Welsh heritage.

Patricia gave us a good laugh when she said that his final audible utterance sounded just like “shush”.

We met first sometime in the mid seventies when he greeted me with a grunt but we quickly forged a long-term friendship. I was in his house in 1982 when he opened the letter informing him of his successful application for the post of golf correspondent for The Guardian.

He promptly opened a large chest of assorted booze and poured two healthy glasses of Scotch whisky. “But Dai you said you never drink whiskey.” The reply was typically curt, “I do now.” I believe it was his last drop – wine was to become his chosen beverage and he professed to be something of an expert. He was also part owner of a vineyard in Australia.

A few years later we were to form a long lasting fourball relationship between Dai and Patricia and Helen and myself. We shared many great occasions in both our abodes and also in the private houses at Augusta sourced by Dai during the Masters.

He was a great host and a great house guest. We were never short of wine but one thing always intrigued me. He would buy the best of wines but he often set aside one special bottle to which others were not privy. Another quirk of his character?

Life around Dai was seldom dull particularly when he began to pontificate. The arguments would start and the decibels would rise but never in anger. Behind the façade he was just an old softy – at times.

I recall an occasion when Dai and Patricia were preparing their book Beyond the Fairways and he called me on the phone. “Tell me something I don’t know about golf in Donegal.” I skipped the obvious courses and proceeded to offer some hidden gems but my efforts were dismissed as he professed to know them all. It was time to put him down.

“Ever heard of Cruit, pronounced Critch, Island,” said I. “There is no such place. I know all the courses,” said he. I told him to get in his car and drive to the little village of Kincasslagh, birthplace of Daniel O’Donnell, on the right you will see Iggy Murray’s pub. Drop in and sample his fish platter you have never sampled better.

Take a right turn at the pub and along the way I’m sure you’ll meet a man on a tractor. Ask him where the golf course is and he will tell you to keep driving till you can go no further. That’s the golf course.

He called me on one of those ancient A and B pay ‘phones. There was no thank you, no apology just the words, “Why have you been keeping this place from me all these years?” That’s Dai. Like the great crooner Frank Sinatra, “I did it my way.”

Let his epitaph be writ thus: “I have lived the life I always wanted to, working for a newspaper I always wanted to, going to lovely places around the world, populated in the main by people I would have chosen to be with. I fulfilled my dream of playing my last round of golf at Royal West Norfolk. Surely no journalist could ask for more.”