A Course Called Ireland

aIn this cheerily self-deprecating work, Coyneaan Irish-American Philadelphian who never knew much about his roots and avoided exerciseadescribes how he undertook a wildly ambitious plan to spend four months playing over 40 golf courses in Ireland and getting to them by walking. Coyneas tiredness quickly translates into hikeras euphoria; however, he has a tougher time facing the Irish breakfast every B&B owner serves him (sausages, rashers, beans, soda breadaaan afternoon of wincing regreta). Having already written a couple of books on golf (e.g., Paper Tiger ), Coyne knows his way around a course, but more importantly, he also knows better than to bore readers with monotonous accounts of hole after hole. His style is more that of the travelogue, as heas bowled over by one astoundingly beautiful and windswept course after the next. By the time Coyne gets to Ulster, itas clear that golf is by far the least interesting thing for him, as the author packs his humorous narrative with historical tales and travel anecdotes about the small towns he passes through and the many pubs he stops in along the way.a <br> a Publisheras Weekly <br> aForgive fellow golf writers their resentment of Tom Coyne. His well-reviewed first novel, A Gentlemanas Game, was adapted into a well-reviewed film, co-scripted by Coyne and starring Gary Sinise. (Player haters would note it went straight to DVD; more generous observers would admit theyad contract the yips for such success.) <br> Coyne turned to first-person nonfiction with Paper Tiger, which saw the former standout junior golfer devote two years to his game, securing top teachers, mind-game gurus, trainers and technology in a quixotic attempt to earn aTour card a an idea that every grass- and ink-stained wretch has had but which Coyne (an occasional Golfweek contributor) somehow parlayed into a publisheras advance. <br> At first glance, Coyneas new book, A Course Called Ireland, should drive his brethren batty. The concept: Play every links course on the Emerald Isle, land of his forefathers. If this sounds less like a pitch than a mogulas dream vacation, there is a twist: Coyne would walk the 1,000-plus miles between courses. <br> This deal-cinching trope would make even the most jealous of us think twice about, well, following in Coyneas footsteps. The author himself takes pains early on to explain his ambulatory approach. <br> Itas something to do with toughening a body and lifestyle gone soft, reconnecting with the gameas basic nature and so on. Whether you buy this justification or sense a whiff of blarney, it hardly matters, because the real reason to envy Coyne, and to buy this book, is that his writing outstrips even his salesmanship. <br> Coyne takes what could have been a numbing travelogue and jams it as tight as his lone knapsack with insight and humor. One memorable scatological incident in a quaint B&B will leave the reader doubled over; even better, when the event takes a serious turn, Coyne shows the intelligence, here as elsewhere, to extract larger meaning. Golf proves the authoras vehicle, not his ends. There is plenty of substance, about the courses and the game, yes, but also about a rapidly changing Ireland, for starters. <br> Still, Coyneas greatest strength remains his writing style, light and conversational. On his walking shoes: aThey were brown leather with important-looking straps, a big black rubbertoe that announced their wearer as a person on his way to a place more timid souls didnat go. That, or as a sucker who paid far too much for a pumped-up pair of Docksiders.a Coyne must work hard to make his prose read so easy. <br> Given Coyneas centrality to the action, the only surprise, and disappointment, is that we donat learn enough about his life. His wife makes a few cameos but, like their relationship, remains in soft focus. Is she unusually independent? Supportive? Deferential? Hard to say. Money concerns are alluded to but not detailed. The back cover, and only the back cover, raises the issue of possible fatherhood. Itas a credit to the writer that after four months in his company, teeing it up, drinking Guinness and running from stray dogs, we still want to know more.a <br> a Golf Week