“I shall never forget the wind, On this benighted coast, It works itself into the mind, Like the high keen of a lost, Lear-spirit in agony, Condemned for eternity.”
This is Belfast poet Derek Mahon’s reflection on having his hair ruffled by a Portrush breeze. Ah the wind. There’s always a wind. Often it’s a gale. Occasionally it is insufferable. To put it simply, there are few ‘good hair days’ in jolly wee Portrush – population 7,000 hardy souls, many of whom punch way above their weight. Much like the town itself, which, as a child on holiday, I thought was the most wonderful place on earth.
Now here comes the biggest punch of all, the 148th Open Championship. The excitement is ratcheting up another notch each fleeting week at…