When in Wentworh

There’s a feeling that comes when the gates of Wentworth swing open in front of you - part invitation, part intimidation. The drive snakes through ancient trees and manicured lawns, past houses that don’t so much sit on the estate as preside over it. You don’t just arrive at Wentworth. You approach it.

Inside, breakfast feels more like a ceremony than a meal. Waiters move quietly, the smell of coffee and fresh toast drifting beneath ceilings that have heard everything from Ryder Cup tactics to weekend fourball gossip. Eggs arrive precisely cooked. Plates warmed. A glass of something cold, maybe celebratory, maybe not - you’d be forgiven either way

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