After a couple of waggles, I coil back, hoist the club high above my head, and make a violent swing-like lunge at the ball. Poetry in motion? I think not. Jerky gibberish might be a more apt descriptor. Nonetheless, I strike the sweet spot and my ball hangs in the thin mountain air for a long, long time. I admire this. That is, until my ball airmails the green and lands in Never Never Land way, way, way past the target. An overachievement, of sorts. In the true sense of the word, it’s something every golfer who tees it up in the Kimberley and Cranbrook region will experience. Read More