It’s one of my great regrets that I’ve been unable to share their passion, having convinced them early on that no amount of coaching would ever eradicate the faults on a swing that could be measured in instalments. Having a dad who lived a twilight existence as a journalist with awkward social skills was bad enough; but one who couldn’t hit a golf ball without falling over would have been embarrassing. It was so bad that latterly, in the throes of acute desperation, I’d taken to constructing an absurdly short backswing. That way, I thought, there was much less that could go wrong.

Nevertheless, I was delighted that they’d taken to the golf. It kept them occupied and reduced the prospect of them and their chums running about the streets with bams. Brendan, the older of the two, now runs a company that specialises in identifying young talent across the UK and giving them the opportunity to access golf scholarships in the US college sector. Yet, he’d never have been able to build a career in the game he loves had it not been for years of playing at Linn Park municipal course on Glasgow’s south side.

Brendan McKenna first played golf at the now-sadly neglected Linn Park golf course in the south side of Glasgow (Image: Mark Gibson)

Yet, ‘The Linn’ as it was fondly known locally is no more. Following Covid-19 Glasgow City Council quietly shut it down and it has since become nothing more than a professional dog-walkers’ paradise. The closure of Linn Park is part of a depressing pattern emerging across the country in recent years. Scotland could once be proud of our public golf courses. In other countries, golf is regarded as an elitist sport requiring significant cash outlays to meet astronomical green fees.

Scotland’s municipal courses, though, were a rebuke to this and few more so than Linn Park. For starters, it’s located adjacent to Castlemilk on its northern edges and to Cathcart and Queen’s Park on the other side. Few other golf courses are situated in the midst of the urban sprawl as much as this one. The decision to close it down and let it diminish has been a tragedy for golfers – young and old – who simply don’t have the finances to pay the fees at the seven private clubs which perfuse Glasgow’s south side.

The influential golf magazine, Bunkered, has initiated a campaign to raise awareness of how these local community treasures are disappearing from Scotland’s civic landscape with few politicians sufficiently interested to save them for their original intended use.

An editorial in a recent issue of Bunkered outlined the extent of the loss and why it matters. “These courses are the entry point to golf for an unquantifiable number of people; people who would prefer to take their first tentative swings in a more relaxed, casual environment, free from judgement or embarrassment, as well as those who perhaps cannot afford the upfront costs required by private members’ clubs.

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“However, due to funding cuts and other external factors, a growing number of public courses are finding themselves increasingly vulnerable to the risk of closure.

“Indeed, in recent years, Glasgow has lost multiple such courses, whilst earlier this year Dundee City Council voted to close the two tracks at Caird Park, leaving Scotland’s fourth largest city – the city closest geographically to St Andrews, the internationally-renowned ‘Home of Golf’ – without any public golf provision.”

And so, piqued at this hidden stealthy land-grab by cost-cutting local authorities, I invite our Brendan to accompany me on a walk round the place that shaped his youth, sparked lifelong friendships and led to his future career.

It’s been around 20 years since he last walked these fairways and this encounter enkindles happy memories. For me, it recalls a time when I’d slip him a few quid for the modest green fee or pick him and his mates up to either bring him home or – if it was a Saturday lunchtime – ferry us both to Parkhead to see the Hoops.

Gradually, though, and horror of horrors, Celtic would soon be playing second fiddle to junior golf competitions. Sometimes he and his friends had to run a gauntlet when at Linn Park, owing to its proximity to some of Castlemilk’s edgier arrondissements. “I remember often being approached by young lads,” he recalls. ‘Excuse me, can I borrow your clubs, big man.’ But you knew that would be the last you’d see of them. He points to a sport behind some trees where you can still trace the outline of what used to be a green.

Women golfers at the 18th hole at Linn Park in 1957 (Image: Herald)

“There’s a part of the course down there near one of the streets in Castlemilk. There were a couple of the holes that you might need to miss because there would be a wee party going on. The first time I’d ever smelled marijuana was over there. There’s a wee bridge that went across to the 12th and you might just give it a miss as there was a barbecue going on up ahead.

“This was the first golf course I ever played. I was about 12. This was pre-internet search engines and me and my pals just stumbled on it. It was only three quid to play on week-days, but I could only play at weekends or bank holidays.

“I remember getting dressed up in smart clothes to match the way I saw professional golfers off the telly dress on a golf course, but I needn’t have bothered. Shell-suits or football shorts and trainers would be just fine. Sometimes I’d come down myself after 6pm and play six holes when the starter had finished his shift.

“We lived across from Williamwood golf course, but I was always getting told there’d be four and five-year waiting lists. If it hadn’t been for the Linn I’d never have got into golf as you couldn’t play it.”

I refrain from telling him that some of the biggest rockets and roasters I’d ever met socially were all members of very exclusive golf clubs and all seemed to embrace the no-women rule.

What immediately strikes you about Linn Park is how majestic it still is. This place gives you some of the clearest views of Glasgow right across to the Campsie Hills. Its tees and wide, sweeping fairways haven’t yet been fully reclaimed by the surrounding woods. It’s a place of great natural beauty that’s beginning to shed its summer green and slip into its autumnal rust and gold. Nowhere says ‘dear green place’ more than this.

Linn Park golf course has panoramic views (Image: Mark Gibson)

The old changing-rooms, resembling an amateur football pavilion still look solid and serviceable. It’s currently the venue of a Celtic v Rangers graffiti war between the Green Brigade and the Union Bears. If this was Edinburgh in August, they’d probably get a grant.

“You could easily turn this into a nine-hole course, at least,” says Brendan, “which would mean the maintenance costs would be halved. Since I was at school, successive Scottish governments have talked about getting as many children as possible to play sport. It’s inexplicable why local authorities are letting this happen.”

In 2014, Scotland was preparing to host the Commonwealth Games and the Ryder Cup. Then First Minister, Alex Salmond was pictured on countless golf courses and there was a programme called Club Golf which was taking the sport into schools. “I remember Alex Salmond saying he wanted every primary school child to have a chance to play golf,” says Brendan. “What happened to that? Linn Park could easily wash its face and it would be such a community asset.”

The scandal of Scotland’s disappearing public courses is being discussed in world golf’s most hallowed dwellings. Earlier this year, double US Open champion, Bryson DeChambeau lent his support to the campaign to save Dalmuir Golf Club near Clydebank. In a video shared by tour caddie, Craig Connelly, who lives near the course, Mr DeChambeau said: “I’m here to tell you how important golf is to the eco-system, not only golf, but the community. If you don’t have golf courses like Dalmuir and a community like Dalmuir, it’s difficult to grow not only a sport, but a community.”

Kevin McKenna is Scotland’s Feature Writer of the Year