Dear Harvey,
Two weekends ago, Cathy and I took the train from Richmond UK to Taunton, changing at Reading. Our good friends, Ruth and Dean Franks, drove down from their family farm in Newark and met us there, right on time. From Taunton, it was about an hour to The Pig at Combe—small, winding roads lined with tall hedges that made every turn feel like a secret waiting to be uncovered.
The Pig at Combe
We’d booked the weekend using a generous gift certificate from our daughter Sally and her husband, Taylor, choosing The Pig at Combe and, within it, the Stream Cottage. The Pig is a boutique hotel chain with nine or so locations scattered around beautiful England.
The Stream Cottage was described, as “just as perfect for two as it is for four.” The cottage sat above the babbling River Gitt, with a porch, a sitting room dressed in warm fabrics, and a little galley kitchenette. Upstairs, the four-poster beds looked like something from another century, and the freestanding roll-top baths completed the spell. The main house was a three-quarter-mile walk away—a gentle ramble through the trees—or, when we felt lazy, Dean drove us back and forth.
Continuing our tennis battles
Saturday morning took us to Exmouth, to the indoor courts at the Exmouth Tennis and Fitness Centre. A slight mix-up with our court time meant we headed off for a nearby beach walk before tennis. Exmouth’s beach runs wide and golden, the kind of sweep that makes you slow your step without meaning to. At low tide, the sand stretches nearly a mile, smooth and firm underfoot, with shallow pools that mirror the shifting sky. To one side, the River Exe meets the sea, its estuary busy with gulls and kite surfers; to the other, red cliffs mark the start of the Jurassic Coast, crumbling into rust-coloured dust when the light hits just right.
After a walk and a coffee, the four of us squared off—Team Franks versus Team Singletary—our laughter ricocheting off the walls as if to remind us we weren’t on tour. Team Singletary had worked hard on their game, but it was not enough! We had some fun points and felt like we were competitive, though the scoreboard revealed a good whipping of the Americans!
The Cellar
That evening, Ruth and Dean treated us to a private dinner in the old wine cellar beneath the manor. The Cellar is tucked away within the original wine vaults of the 16th-century house. It is intimate and secluded, set apart from the busy main house.
The room, all stone and candlelight, was built for stories. The menu was titled Doubles & Trouble—a nod to our morning match and our friendship. Ruth and Dean have been among our closest companions in our new world, and we are super grateful for their friendship. They are both exceptional.
Five courses, each more generous than the last: monkfish with habanero butter, West Country lamb with smoked marrow, a chocolate slice softened by foraged blackberries and an old port that could hold a conversation. The sommelier worked with quiet precision, pouring like a craftsman—no hurry, no waste. You would have liked him, Harvey.
A Sunday morning hike
Sunday morning, we hiked through the woods behind the house. The air was damp and green; the kind of air that makes you slow down to breathe it properly. No rush, no scoreboard—just the rhythm of footsteps and conversation that drifted in and out like light through leaves. Follow the pig!
The Art of the Boondoggle
It struck me, Harvey, that staying in the game isn’t just about grip or stance or how long we can keep the rally going. It’s about still caring enough to show up—with good friends, a bit of wind in the face, and curiosity in the tank—tennis indoors, dinner underground, walking through Devon woods—each its own kind of practice. The older I get, the more I think The Little Red Book could have had a chapter called The Art of the Boondoggle. Because sometimes, the best way to keep your edge is to set it down for a while.
Yours always,
gPage
“Millions of people were charmed by the homespun golf advice dispensed in Harvey Penick’s Little Red Book, a sports classic that became the best-selling sports book of all time. Yet, beyond the Texas golf courses where Penick happily toiled for the better part of eight decades, few people knew the self-made golf pro who coaxed the best out of countless greats — Tom Kite, Ben Crenshaw, Betsy Rawls, Mickey Wright — all champions who considered Penick their coach and lifelong friend.” – Kevin Robbins, author of Harvey Penick: The Life and Wisdom of the Man Who Wrote the Book on Golf.
