Midnight Golf at Brautarholt

The rain here is biblical and my photographer has food poisoning. It is karma, for dodging my responsibilities and accepting a last minute golf trip. But when the opportunity for midnight golf in Iceland courtesy of Icelandair crossed my desk last week, I was too greedy to turn it down. Now, I’m paying the price.

Thankfully, the rain dissipates, and with it goes my cynicism. We’re on our way to Korpa just outside Reykjavik for an amuse bouche of Icelandic golf. The front nine, “Sea”, takes us down to the Atlantic coast before the “Forest” nine takes us between the pines on the inland side of the course. Winding streams bubble along the rough line where the iconic bright purple Alaskan Lupin soften the banks. Across the road on the other side of a tall green metal fence, footballs loop high into the air, their flight framed by an indoor handball facility.

They’re obsessed with sport here. Golf, handball, football, gymnastics. Remedies for dealing with harsh winters and making the most of brief, beautiful summers. My host, Gisli, points across the bay into the distant mist where the low lying clouds hug the towering mountains of Enjes. Just beyond them sits the football phenom town of Akranes: with a population of 6000, it has produced over 40 top level footballers, Eider Gudjohnsen to name just one. Sport is serious business here. We meander round to the 18th and head into the clubhouse for dinner.

***

Earlier that morning I travelled to Brautarholt Golf Club and wandered onto a puddle laden fairway as the rain hammered down. A round of golf looked unlikely. A wader-wearing greenskeeper confirmed my fears from between his cinched rain hood: the course was shut. “It may clear this evening" he shouted as I jogged back to my taxi.

***

As I scoff down my last mouthful of fish pie, I look to my phone to check the time. Its 9.30pm now but daylight isn’t a concern during the Icelandic summer. The greenskeeper’s words are ringing in my ear. I’m going.

My 6”8 blonde haired taxi driver wants to move to Columbia, the women are less materialistic there. I’m happy with Iceland for now. In fact, I’m mostly concerned about arriving to the course too late to pay for my tee time. The car screeches off the road and onto a black dirt track that winds through rolling fields. Curious rock formations extend into the dark water to the left. The daylight flirts with dusk but won’t dare take a step further.

As we pass the modest entrance gate, the golf course comes into view. A small contemporary box shape clubhouse is nestled next to an undulating green where a red pin flag exhales in the evening breeze. Framing both is a miniature Hobbit sized U-shaped valley: the grassy embankments are littered with staffs of rock that protrude from the turf like a mouthful of bad teeth.

I rush indoors, eager to display a British sense of punctuality, to find the course manager with his feet up watching a rerun of the 2012 Ryder Cup. Justin Rose storms in a 40 footer across the 17th green and my host slowly rises from his chair. There’s no need to rush when the sun sets at 1am. My breath slows.

It's 10.30pm now but you wouldn’t know it looking over the course. The slight sting in my eyes tells me it might be time for bed, but as I round the hill to the first tee I’m jolted to attention.

Below me, a winding fairway extends 500 yards towards the water’s edge. Perfectly circular bunkers flank its edges at the 250 yard mark beyond which a green juts out onto a shelf of rock. The airspace above the green is populated with swooping gulls.

I’m grinning ear to ear. A few people told me not to bother coming: ‘there’s one good hole, the rest is average’. My gut told me otherwise and this is vindication: if the first hole looks like this, I’m in safe hands.

I spring down the slope to the fairway like a footballer jogging to the centre of a stadium. The scale of the landscape is exaggerated from down here. The red of the flag comes into view more clearly and there’s a magnetic pull drawing me towards it. I sling a fading 2 iron around the cambering cove and on to the front edge of the green. Across the bay to the north, 6 more holes are being constructed.

The hill to the left takes me up and over the mound of rock that frames the opening green. The view from the second tee reveals the next 6 holes. Dark Atlantic waters swoop around the curving headland in front of me. Across the water in the distance, the industrial lights of Reykjavik flicker like a candle in a gloomy hallway. Alien looking tentacles of stubborn grass extend outwards onto the rocks.

The fifth hole knocks me flat. The group ahead have come into view now, the headlights on their buggies are snaking around the green that sits across a black sand bay. To the right, the sleepy seawater laps against sturdy angular rocks. My lazily struck 2 iron creeps over the hazard onto the front edge of the green.

The colours are muted under the fading light, heightening my senses. In the middle of the black bay a stream flows from the turf below me on to the beach. The water trickling through the pebbles makes the definitive running water sound. I feel like I’m inside the Headspace app.

Something catches my vision to the left, it’s approaching at a friendly pace. A small, automated hoover is winding through the semi rough, trimming it back whilst the greenkeepers rest for the night. The device reaches my ankle and swivels away to continue its duties. In places, they have been programmed to cut in perfect circles. Dotted along the fairways are flawless rings, 2 yards in diameter where the grass has been brushed in a circular motion. I glance from the crop circle cuttings to the black monoliths planted in the bay. There’s a chance I’m on another planet.

From here the course heads back inland. Curving water hazards line the fairways, reflecting the distant industrial lights. It's 20 past midnight when I step on the 10th tee. Over the green, a white wooden clad house is perched at the foot of a large dark lake. I’m straining to see my ball land now, but the feeling is that of a straight shot. I draw my attention to the flag and see the ball fall just to its left. It's easy to play well when the outcome of the shot bears no resemblance to your enjoyment of the round.

I pick up the pace to finish before the 2 hours of darkness sets in. As I wander up the final hole headlights whizz along the driveway to my right. I tap in to complete my round and squint at the clubhouse a few hundred yards away. My large blonde Icelandic friend has returned unprompted to drive me back to my hotel. I slump into the back seat like a 6 year old after a long day at the park and fall asleep.

Taking the elevator to my hotel room I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The bags under my eyes suggest I’ve been out on the town, the golf bag on my shoulder and the crystal clarity in my mind suggest otherwise. I check my phone, I’ve got a flight in 4 hours.