He dreams golfing dreams, of course, and while selling the links course he built with his bare hands is an emotional wrench, he walks away with the satisfaction of knowing that his wife and five children can put money worries aside. The Mayo-born and Sligo-raised golf writer and course architect leaves with the satisfaction of knowing that The European Club will remain a golfing Mecca, whatever the new owners have planned. The European Club will remain a golfing Mecca, whatever the new owners have planned for the storied links where Pádraig Harrington and Rory McIlroy were championship winners and Tiger Woods marvelled at the "great optical illusions" carved through the dunes. “We didn’t reach the €40m target,” the irrepressible Ruddy tells me on the phone from his golfing Xanadu, where he is working with three of his children – Gerry, Sidon and Patrick – to move out, lock stock and barrel by mid-June. “That’s all I can say. The guide price was €35m, and in excess, but the final price is a private thing. “When we retreat, we all retreat together as a family. “We’re on the way, and while I am conflicted, it’s joyful in a way. It’s so much better to leave with saddle bags … comfortable than retreating looking for the price of a dozen balls.” Anyone who has played golf in nine decades will inevitably become acutely aware that Father Time waits for no man, no matter how indestructible they may feel. So while Ruddy loves the course he crafted with his bare hands, he knows it’s time to let go. “I feel conflicted,” he says. “But to retire is obviously the sane thing to do at my age. I retired first in 1972 from the Irish Independent, and I have never stopped working since. “So, I had to learn how to retire. But obviously, leaving the culmination of your life’s work is hurtful as well. But then you’re not going to bring it with you in the casket, eh?” The story of The European Club is one of the most uplifting and romantic tales in world golf. “I first saw the site in 1981 or 1982,” Pat says. “The late Bobby Brown mentioned it to me. He had been looking at it for some other client, and I liked it greatly, so I went for it. “There weren’t many links available at the time or at any time. I had come upon it by helicopter, surveying the whole country, looking for a site for my own golf course. “It was a joy all the way. Even the hardships were a joy because you were following a thought that started in 1954 with the Champions Golf Club in Texas that was built by Jimmy Demaret and Jackie Burke. "Why not build a golf course of your own? What a good idea, I thought. Now, it proved a costly idea in terms of life and energy, because the thought wouldn’t let go, you know.” Ruddy had been obsessed with golf from childhood, and while he was writing about golf for the Evening Herald and his own publications, his dream was to build and own his own course. “My first personal effort was down in Sligo in the 1970s,” he recalls. “I built a very nice nine-hole course with the river running through – a lovely, romantic situation. “But I got up one morning and the flags were all you could see on it. The river had flooded it. I got a university degree in drainage right there. “So I then hit the road with my wife and the five kids in the back of the van, headed back up to Dublin with whatever could fit in there and started again.” Many offers were made for the links over the years, but Ruddy resisted all comers. Like Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster who goes on a quiz show and is offered the choice between the million-dollar prize and a plate of cookies, he always went for the cookies. If he sold, he’d have money. But all he wanted was a golf course, and he’d have to start again. Inevitably, it became increasingly difficult to contemplate selling something that felt like a personal work of art. Having spent nearly 40 years adding a brushstroke here and a dash of colour there, the thought of seeing one’s creation altered became another mental challenge. “What screwed me up is when the price of the banana went to $6m,” he said of the prices fetched for Andy Warhols and other modern art masterpieces. “That got me.” As he approaches 80, he realises he cannot worry about what the new owners might do. “No, you have to be adult in these matters,” he says. “If you sell your house to people, it’s their house then. But you have to hope that you’ve been good enough and extracted most of the good from it, and I’m pretty confident in that. “But you have to let go because you’re not going to rule it from beyond the grave anyway.” While he is retiring and will no longer design courses for a living, he won’t be idle. “I’m touching 80 now – within the month,” he says. "I’m not going to design more golf courses, except perhaps for myself. The temptation is always in you. A dog barks to the grave, you know.” He does not fear for the future of The European Club under new owners or even fear global warming. “The course will be here for some time. There’s no question because we’re in a benign sector for climate,” he explains. “It’s the sunny southeast, and it has been sunny for me. “I have mixed feelings about letting go, but the sanity part of my brain says to keep going. This is the conflict of mind, you know, but the decision has been made, so onwards we go. “It has all worked out. The family is well catered for, and that gives me the peace of mind to act the eejit again. “In essence, if you told me at the start that, in Irish terms, I’d be one of the biggest money-winners in Irish golf, I’d be delighted!”