The fortnight it takes to determine the various champions of Wimbledon, one of the classiest sporting events worldwide, is likely on every true sports aficionado’s bucket list. Wimbledon is the equal of the Masters golf tournament and the Kentucky Derby in class.
Not even John McEnroe and Ilie Nastase could sully the atmosphere and traditions of Wimbledon.
While the competition is as good as it gets – and you are intently smitten by the skill of the world’s best tennis players – you just can’t get enough of the setting, the traditions, and the environment. The excitement and anticipation start building when you board the train at Waterloo Station, named for the Battle of Waterloo, which tweaks your intellect. You can’t wait to discover the details of Napoleon’s military blunder.
You disembark at Wimbledon Village and weave your way through Grand Slam tennis fans and locals who don’t seem to be bothered by the heavy foot traffic that occurs them for two weeks.
It’s all good for business and the economy, which makes everybody in Wimbledon happy. Many residents make room for out-of-town guests, offering plentiful bed-and-breakfast options. On my first trip to Wimbledon, Furman Bisher, the late sports columnist of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, introduced me to a lady whose address was 66 Church Rd., just a short distance to Wimbledon stadium, officially known as All England Lawn Tennis Club.
A writer who had previously covered Wimbledon found lodging with her first, then recommended Furman, who did the same for me. Elizabeth Robins owned a two-story house with a lovely garden, twin cats, and a conservatory.
She was a widow with three daughters, one of whom we sat out back with, sharing a bottle of vigorous white wine for pleasant conversation in the most compatible of weather – to say nothing of the becoming environs.
Elizabeth had friends in Sarasota, Fla., and expressed fondness for Americans. She was well-read and concerned about South Africa and the Middle East. I don’t know if she is living today, but if she is, her concerns are most likely even more troubling than when I met her.
On my second night, I took Elizabeth and her daughter, Charlotte, to dinner at a delightful pub near Wimbledon Common for fish and chips and several pints of lager.
Sometimes, when you travel, you meet the nicest people, most of whom are hospitable, courteous, and delightfully engaging. Enjoying the best in competition at the most celebrated venues in sport and pairing it with local hospitality makes for the best possible experience.
In 1978, I was fortunate to begin an annual excursion to Great Britain to play the British Open in the third week of July. COVID ended my travel routine, and around the first of July, I began to experience pangs of regret that it had come to an end.
Seeing the best golfers in the world play the famous venues in Scotland and England (and lately, Portrush, Ireland) and bringing about the best in competitive drama is never taken for granted.
There is so much more to experience. Europe's sports calendar in summer simply overwhelms. Beginning the first of June with the French Tennis Open at Roland Garros in Paris, a big event or two follows each week through the end of July.
After Roland Garros, there is the Henley Regatta, then Wimbledon, and the Tour de France lasting for three weeks, starting around the first of July, and if you are up for it, you probably can squeeze in a day at the “Feast of San Fermin” the first week in July. You know, running with the bulls at Pamplona.
The third week in July is reserved for the world’s oldest golf championship, the Open, which, like Wimbledon, offers the ultimate in tradition and history.
If you have the good fortune to spend June and July at any of these exciting venues, just remember to also give priority to getting to know the people and bend an elbow with them.
You won’t regret that you came their way.