Buggies, Bunkers and Burgers in Quinta Do Lago

We are a proud lot, us British golfers.

I believe it must come with the territory. Golf is Scotland’s greatest invention, narrowly beating out whisky, the bagpipes and the battered Mars bar for the honour, and it seems that the rest of the UK has assimilated that heritage through a very specific kind of geographic osmosis. 

Like a brother basking in the reflective glow of their siblings’ talent, the whole of the British Isles lays claim to a kind of collective spiritual golfing origin story. If really pushed, we may grudgingly admit that Scotland is the “real” home of the game, but we are, unless that Nicola Sturgeon has her way, a united sovereign state. We share borders and language. And therefore it only feels fair that we share the burden of golfing history.

It’s not like England, Wales and both our Northern Irish cousins and Irish neighbours lack for golf courses steeped in history. We have the goods, the talent to back the talk up. It just so happens that Scotland is just that smidgeon older.

We are the Phil to Scotland’s Gary Neville. We’re our own man. We have had a solid, if unspectacular, record. We made our way into the national team on merit alone. And we’ll fight anyone who claims otherwise.

With that history, pride and heritage, of course, comes tradition. And we Brits bloody love a bit of tradition. Lovely, comforting, inexplicable tradition. The only reason I own a tie is for club lunches, and I have never, and likely will never, understood why my socks must cover my ankles. One must assume that the sight of an uncovered ankle might cause an epidemic of homo-erotic, Victorian sexual frenzy within a club, and while I often am loath to spend inordinate sums of money on elongated white socks for which I have utterly no use outside of the fairways of a golf course, I am British. I respect the rules. And I can’t abide anarchy, sexual or otherwise.

There is, however, one tradition that does irk me. And you won’t find this one written down in the R&A’s Rules of Golf. You see this tradition is not so much a rule as a cultural norm, an idiosyncratically British form of golfing snobbery.

I am, of course, talking about the utter contempt that we Brits have for the golf cart.

We’ll just about abide a Motocaddy, but only if you’re over 50. And have a doctor’s note excusing you because of severe gout.

But a buggy? It’s simply not cricket - another game invented by the British which involves zero motorised transportation. Unless someone breaks a leg.

They do exist in the UK. I’ve seen them, bloody rows of the things at some clubs. I’ve even seen them traversing the fairways. I’m yet to meet someone who confesses to driving one, but people must do it. I’m assuming it’s a little like dogging. We are all aware that some people do it, it’s just that we’ve never met someone who actually admits to it. 

Which is ridiculous really. Not the dogging part, that’s quite understandable. Golf takes a long time, and involves carrying a heavy weight on one’s back while walking a fair old distance. It’s pride that’s the issue here. Too proud to cart, that’s the British.

Which is why I love playing abroad. Once clear of the UK’s borders, free from the shackles of tradition, one can buggy (I’m assuming that is the correct verb) with utter abandon. 

And where better to indulge in a spot of guilt-free, four-wheel abandon than Quinta Do Lago? The resort in Portugal’s Algarve is something of a golfing Mecca, drawing golfers from across the globe with the promise of three courses, the North, South and Laranjal, that more than scratch both the golfing and the carting itch. While perhaps most famous for the aforementioned golfing nirvana, the resort has also invested heavily across the sporting gamut, with The Campus, a brand new sports complex that includes a nylon woven grass football pitch, tennis and padel courts. Personally, I refuse to get out of bed for a football pitch unless it has nylon woven into it, and I can personally attest that padel (a confounding tennis-squash hybrid) would be a truly enjoyable game for anyone with the ability to hit moving objects. Years spent focusing on a stationary white ball, however, seems to have rendered me utterly unable to make contact with their larger, yellow cousins.

All of this is just a short cart ride away. That’s the fantastic thing about Quinta Do Lago, it’s all just so darned buggy accessible. 

The golf, it goes without saying, is sublime. And it’s here, of course, that a buggy really shines. The South is arguably the slightly superior golfing challenge of the three courses, but the true buggy aficionado must be drawn to the North. In terms of perfect drives, nothing beats the brief sojourn from clubhouse to the opening hole, a plunging, twisting helter-skelter of a journey that includes one of the best tunnels you could hope to experience. It’s carting bliss.

One might expect to pay top dollar for such experiences, and for those inclined to spend big, opportunities abound at Quinta Do Lago. Those looking for a more affordable base, however, are more than catered for with the recently renovated Magnolia Hotel. With interiors by London’s Bryan O’Sullivan Studio that conjure the glory days of 1950’s American motel and Palm Springs chic, a particularly Cafe Del Mar swimming pool and one of the best burgers I have ever tasted from a menu overseen by Tom Briggs, formerly of Soho House, the Magnolia is an affordable, comfortable and stylish alternative to some of Quinta’s more pricey options.

So the next time you’re flagging on the golf course, when your shoulders are aching and the blisters are starting to sting, perhaps picture this: The sun is out. The shorts are on. And the wind is rushing through your hair. You’re sitting atop 11.4 horsepower of limited but earnest electric power. And you’re happy. Damn pride. As Jane Eyre (an unexpectedly rich source of golf-cart related wisdom) famously said; "I would always rather be proud than dignified”.