The SOCIETY Newsletter #77

What exactly is a Claret Jug?

The Claret Jug: A Symbol of Elegance and Tradition and Maybe the Wrong Trophy

The claret jug outside of the famous trophy of the Open Champion is a distinguished piece of tableware that has graced fine dining tables for centuries. Designed to serve claret—the British term for red Bordeaux wine, from Southern France —these jugs are and were typically made of glass or crystal with ornate silver or silver-plated mounts, handles, lids, and spouts.

First popularized in 18th-century England, the claret jug evolved as drinking wine became a fashionable ritual among the upper classes. Early examples were simple in form, but by the Georgian and Victorian eras, they had become increasingly elaborate, often reflecting Gothic, Rococo, or Neoclassical styles. Crafted by some of the finest silversmiths of the day, these jugs became prized possessions, sometimes given as presentation pieces or trophies to the Upper Class.

Beyond their decorative appeal, claret jugs served a practical purpose. They allowed wine to aerate, softening its tannins and enhancing its aroma and flavor. The hinged lid protected the contents from dust, while the spout ensured smooth, controlled pouring. The handle kept hands from warming the wine.

The claret jug’s legacy extends beyond the dining room. Its most famous incarnation is The Golf Champion Trophy—better known as The Claret Jug—awarded to the winner of The Open Championship since 1873, modeled after the elegant wine decanters of the Victorian age.

The famed Claret Jug of the Open Championship was jointly designed and paid for by the clubs of the first Open Rota; Prestwick, the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers at Musselburgh and the R&A at St Andrews as a trophy for the Champion Golfer. The trophy was made by Mackay Cunningham & Company of Edinburgh for £30.

In a hint of irony, a claret jug might have made perfect sense for a prize to the upper class, but the majority of the golfers contending in the Open and all of its winners until 1890 were of a different class system. The traditional drink of choice for the Open winners would have likely been beer or whisky, certainly not a Bordeaux wine.

Today, the Claret Jug stands as a timeless symbol of refinement, celebrating both the artistry of wine and the Champion Golfer of the Year. But back in 1873, one can’t help but wonder what those early professional golfers thought of their new prize – a vessel designed to hold a drink that few of them ever partook in. To them, it may have seemed a curious choice: a trophy rooted in aristocratic tradition, awarded to men whose daily lives bore little resemblance to the refined rituals of claret and crystal.

The Emerald Crown: The Story of the First Irishman to Win the Open Championship

The sea mist clung to Royal Liverpool like a woolen shawl on that July morning in 1947, the kind of damp haze that turned fairways into whispers and galleries into shadows. Among the field of hopefuls, one figure stood quietly apart—not by stature, but by presence. Fred Daly, a modest man from Portrush in Northern Ireland, wore no aura of destiny. Yet, by week’s end, he would walk away as a legend.

Daly was no stranger to golf’s grind. A club pro from the Antrim coast, his swing was unhurried, his demeanor almost bashful, but his will—unyielding. He had come close the year before, finishing tied for third in 1946. That taste of glory had haunted him all winter.

Now, standing on the windswept links of Hoylake, Daly faced a field stacked with post-war giants—Henry Cotton, Norman Von Nida, and a fleet of hungry Americans. But Fred had something they didn’t: the soul of a man who had learned to play in gusts off the North Atlantic and the patience born from years spent giving lessons rather than taking them.

His rounds were steady, composed, unfazed by gust or gallery. By the final round, Daly held a narrow lead. But as pressure mounted and challengers surged, Fred faced a critical moment at the 16th hole—his approach into the wind fell short, trickling into a greenside bunker.

Silence fell.

He stepped in, eyes calm. One fluid motion later, the ball popped, kissed the fringe, and curled to two feet. The gallery roared. He tapped in, parred the final two holes, and posted 293—one shot clear of South African Reg Horne.

It was done.

Fred Daly had become the first Irishman to win the Open Championship. More than that, he had become a symbol. In a nation still marked by division, Daly’s triumph stirred something rare: shared pride. From Belfast to Cork, people raised glasses not to royalty or revolution, but to a quiet man with a beautiful swing and an iron will.

Years later, when asked about that week, Daly simply said, “I just played the golf I knew. The wind was familiar. The moment… I suppose I made it mine.”

And so he did. The man from Portrush, who played through fog and expectation, had etched his name in the Claret Jug—and in the heart of Ireland forever.

If you haven’t listened already here is our latest podcast on the History of James Braid with special guest Simon Barrington.

Thank you for taking the time to read the SOCIETY Newsletter. We have a lot of things brewing with the Society of Golf Historians as we pass the half point of 2025. A formal website and membership is in the works, the first ever Society of Golf Historians Annual Meeting is being scheduled and we are forming a company to acquire and restore Golden Age Golf Designs. Thank you for being a part of our success.