St. Enodoc was home to the decesased poet laureate John Betjeman who is buried in the 12th century church by the 10th hole. He wrote a eulogy poem to a former club secretary Mr. E.A.R. (Ned) Burden that is one of my favorite poems I've ever read.. The first and last stanzas are my favorite.
The Hon. Secretary
By John Betjeman
The flag that hung half mast to-day
Seemed animate with being
As if it knew for who it flew
And will no longer be seeing.
He loved each corner of the links
The stream at the eleventh,
The gray-green bents, the pale sea-pinks
The prospect from the seventh;
To the ninth tee the uphill climb,
A grass and sandy stairway,
At the top the scent of thyme
And long extent of fairway.
He knew how on a summer day
The sea's deep blue grew deeper,
How evening shadows over Bray
Made that round hill look steeper.
He knew the ocean mists that rose
And seemed forever staying,
When moaned the foghorn from Trevose
And nobody was playing;
The flip of cards on winter eves,
The whiskey and the scoring,
As trees outside were stripped of leaves
And heavy seas were roaring.
He died when early April light
Showed red his garden sally
And under pale green spears glowed white
His lillies of the valley.
The garden where he used to stand
And where the robin waited
To fly and perch upon his hand
And feed till it was sated.
The Times would never have the space
For Ned's discreet achivements;
The public prints are not the place
For intimate bereavements.
A gentle guest, a willing host
Affection deeply planted--
Its strange that those we miss the most
Are those we take for granted.