Although I don’t do it nearly often enough, I love to golf. And golfing in Italy, which I also do not do nearly often enough, is particularly enjoyable. There’s something about the light, the fresh air and the simplicity of the game in Italy that is completely appealing. And even if you play poorly, the food in the clubhouse is quite a bit better than what you’ll find back home.

The other day Pete and I decided to fit in a round at Golf Club Perugia, the area’s nicest club, located about fifteen minutes from Perugia and less than half an hour from the villa. Although it is a private club, we have worked out an arrangement with them to play at a daily rate, which was a modest €25 per person for nine holes. I have played there a handful of times, each time vowing to play more often, meet some of the members and become part of the Italian country club set. Perhaps some day.

This round would be different from our past rounds at Perugia for today we would be taking caddies with us. When I had mentioned several days earlier that Pete and I would be golfing later in the week, Marco, having never played before, volunteered to caddy, although he had little idea what it entailed (other than carrying the bag). Sounding like a good idea, we asked Alessandro, the young boy who has been helping Marco take care of the property this summer, if he’d like to come along, too. He eagerly assented.

So early on Thursday morning we loaded the car with a set of clubs I had carried over a couple of years ago, threw in a couple pairs of golf shoes and braved the morning rush hour around Perugia. I had discovered a couple of years ago that while greens fees were not particularly high, renting clubs and buying shoes (golf shoes are mandatory) did add up, so I scraped together a couple sets of clubs from the rejects that were gathering dust in my closet back home. And I amassed an Imelda Marcos sized collection of golf shoes (most of them in my size) to lend to villa guests who wished to play. But with only one set of clubs between us, Pete still had to rent a set, which he did by visiting the Caddy Master, a mullet headed fellow who owns a corner in the basement of newly expanded and renovated clubhouse. In the cavernous caddy shack there are dozens of bags and carts and within minutes Pete was outfitted with a complete set that happened to be a wee bit too short for him.

Not to worry, as the day was not so much about the golf as it was about the experience. With our trusty caddies in toe, we marched to the first tee and proceeded to tee up, where one drive went long and true while the other ricocheted wildly to the right and into some bushes. It was a pattern that was to repeat itself with painful regularity over the next nine holes, the only variable being which of the two of us would unleash the stream of curses after the errant shot. We certainly were giving our two novice caddies a crash course in the game of golf, particularly golf etiquette.

But despite the consistent inconsistency from the two fifteen (more or less) handicappers, we hit the occasional good shot, just often enough to enable us to take our minds off the game and let it wander to and linger over the business at hand, soaking in the atmosphere of a golf course in Italy. For Golf Club Perugia, while not a typical American styled manicured course, is a thing of beauty. It is hewn out of a natural landscape, not at all links-like except in its oneness with its surroundings. And over the past several years it is apparent that the club has invested in a good irrigation system and a top flight agronomist. The fairways were much lusher and more consistent than in the past and the greens firm and true. It was quite pleasant to play here.

I have played golf a handful of times in Italy, ironically mostly in the company of Pete. Decades ago, when we were travelling around Europe together after graduating from college we had played at a little goat track outside Florence called Ugolino. There we had stunk up the joint but discovered how fun it could be to strap on a pair of spikes in a foreign country and try to convert meters to yardage. I recall a certain commotion behind one green and peering over a hedge to discover crates of pheasant, bound no doubt for someone’s dinner table. Mark me down for a birdie.

And on a visit to Puglia in southern Italy several years ago we had rented some clubs and played a round on the course that ran behind our hotel rooms. There, situated just a little bit inland from the coast the Mediterranean stretched out into the distance, while in the foreground a strip of sandy beach turned into scrub which met the lush green golf course in a grove of silvery olive trees. A sea of shimmering silver leaves waving from massive brown gnarled trunks. And there the two of us duffed our way around nine holes, enjoying the solitude of the setting.

On this summer day in Perugia the sun beat down from above with just a hint of a breeze, while a canopy of trees, a veritable arboretum in their diversity, provided shade and plenty of eddies of cool crisp air in the shaded spots. It is what the Italians call fresco. And it means more than what we call fresh. It is pure. And as we walked off the third tee I asked Alessandro what he thought of the game of golf. His reply? “I like it. It is relaxing.” E vero, Alessandro. E vero.

And so, after nine holes of relaxing, of introducing our Italian friends to this strange Scottish game we walked off the ninth green an over to the driving range. There we gave our caddies the opportunity to swing a club (and to let them understand first hand just how difficult it is to hit the ball, offering Pete and I a bit of redemption in their eyes). The game of golf and the golf swing are oddities, even for people who grow up watching it and following its stars. Such is not the case in Italy, where soccer dominates televised sports and a very privileged few ever step foot on a golf course. Watching Marco and Alessandro on the practice tee swinging and missing, at first more often than a AAA baseball player, and then with increasing confidence and competence one could perhaps see the beginnings of the addiction that has afflicted so many weekend warriors back home. And when Alessandro later asked Pete how much it would cost to rent clubs we knew the sickness had taken hold within. We had done our male duty. We had spread golf DNA and given it another foothold in a remote outpost where it might flourish some day.

Pure. Natural. Simple. Uncomplicated. While our golfing prowess on this day left much to be desired, the game and the experience did not. Golfing in Italy was all of those things and yet another affirmation that even the most familiar experiences, when they take place abroad, have a different meaning, intensity and reward.

Ci vediamo!
Bill and Suzy