Golfadelphia

“It is one of the most hauntingly beautiful places in the world, the history is fascinating, the men are handsome and the whisky is delicious.” – JK Rowling

252nd hole in 7 days. We’re above the fairway with the clubhouse beyond the green. The shores of North Berwick are off to the left. The parking spots just to the right of the fairway and very much in play off the tee, are all full. It’s a splendid day as far as days go. My time in Scotland is at an end. We finish this hole, get in the car, drive to Edinburgh, stay there overnight then head home. 36 holes a day for a week. I was ready for all the golf so my muscles are up to the task but joints and ligaments are something else entirely. Left knee has essentially been a flat tire the last few rounds, a cut on my right middle finger resting on my grip radiates pain with each swing. And an overall fatigue has set in. My body is starting to wonder if all it will be doing now is walking and hitting golf balls. I relish every minute. Sure there’s tiredness, grumpiness, frustration all tied in to the rest of it in the moment but all of it is relished. What I’ve seen and learned over the last week is immense, invaluable. My relationship with the game evolved in all kinds of unspoken.

This last day at North Berwick my swing will not be summoned. Instead, it will come and go as it pleases and I will thank it for any such courtesy. It knew better that the Redan was a command performance and I bargained with it at the Thirteenth, seeing fortune had smiled upon me as my approach sauntered through the wall opening on to the green. But the second round was one with less and less visits from the swing. It appears that even it felt was time for a break. I some how managed, essentially inventing different ways to move the ball onwards. As I stood at that final tee, I pictured it in my mind. End with a bang. Hit the green. Anything left comes out now. I stood over the ball and felt great. My body knew what to do. The impact cracked and I knew it was good. Then I looked up. I watched in horror as the ball defied me and started sneaking to the right. Then held its line as it soared above, yes, the line of parked cars. It seemed forever as it hung in the air and it was only a matter of time before we heard some calamity. And yes, then we did. Perhaps I wouldn’t be leaving Scotland after all. We searched and searched for the damage, looking every car over and couldn’t find anything. While it apparently happens all the time and the club incorporates insurance for it within the green fees and member dues, the wave of horrid shame washed over me. Yes, of course I finished the hole. And in time, I’ve realized that in my preternatural thirst for drama and tragedy, I subconsciously knew that fate would have me hit one of these cars as soon as I stepped out of my own that very morning. My psyche needed to make sure I had the proper motivation to return, to get it right.

“I’ll get there one of these days.” Like most of us, that’s what I said any time Scotland was mentioned. It seemed like a good deal of planning and well, one has to consider the weather, the kids’ school and sports, what’s going on with work, tidal cycles and oh, I need a check up and teeth cleaning and . . . it all went out the window that December morn when I received that e-mail. I was selected to play the Old Course in Reverse. I had a few days to let them know if I was in or out. One of these days would be coming much sooner than I thought. The line up of golf courses came rather easy. It was really premised on my very purposeful not planning on going to every course I wanted. There would be no Muirfield or Elie or Dunbar or Gullane or Musselburgh. Or Kilspindie. There was no way to play every single one but most importantly, I wanted to make sure I returned; that it wasn’t just a one time thing. Kingsbarns twice, New, Duke’s, Lundin, Castle, Ladybank, Old Reversed, Old, Leven, Carnoustie, Panmure, North Berwick twice. The was the line up after a few weeks of discussing and plotting.

I waited for my kids coming home from school before I left. The day had been slow and relaxing but I knew as soon as I stepped outside, things would move much quicker. And they did. Very little sleep and not a very smooth red eye to Heathrow, I struggled to figure out where my connection was even flying out of. I finally spotted an airport employee in one of those neon green vests and was about to ask him when some weathered old Irish man felt he earned the right to talk to him first and told me, “don’t even think about it.” Too tired to care, I waited and the employee told me some series of signs to follow. Heathrow is a labyrinth of trains, buses, stairs, escalators and hallways and it feels very much like a rat race. I some how followed the wrong signs and one thing led to another, I found myself outside of the airport. I found another neon vest and she told me, “Oh dear, you have to go through security again.” Wonderful. I willed it, some how, and made the connection. At the baggage claim at Edinburgh, I get the e-mail, my clubs didn’t make the flight. Easy enough, I report to the desk and ask that the clubs be delivered to Kingsbarns, where my first two rounds will be. My friend picks me up and before I know it, I’m walking along the gorgeous coast with the first round underway. At the Fifth, I get a voicemail. It appears someone accidentally has my clubs and is apologizing profusely, we have the same travel bag apparently. I call him back and ask, “are you in London or Edinburgh?” He’s in Edinburgh and returned to the airport. He hands his phone to some airline employee, who tells me they can’t deliver my clubs until tomorrow night. I tell him to just hold on to the clubs for heaven’s sake, we will go back and get them after our round. A long detour but my friend doesn’t complain and I take care of dinner at the Italian place we find in St. Andrew’s. I finally set my head on the pillow that night and as always happens, wake up momentarily at some point forgetting just where it is I am. It feels like years since I saw my kids the day before yet my time in Scotland had just begun.

There’s swinging well, scoring well and then there’s golfing. Scotland certainly helped focus these as distinct and over there, I came to learn the soul sings loudest when it is golfing. There was the day we drove to Leven in the morning and had one of the first times out. With a member and his friend, it was the first round of the trip I golfed. I paid attention to the land and how to move my ball about. I talked and listened and laughed, looking out to the sea. Then the hillside and town. I didn’t think about my swing or the good shots or bad. Or my score. I just enjoyed the moment and the course, nothing else. The member asked what I shot after the round and I had to add it up. It wasn’t all that good but I was indifferent. Who fucking cares. Look at that view and look at those rumpled fairways. This wasn’t misery insurance, this was understanding why we should be out there. It stayed with me when we returned to the Old Course that afternoon. We played it in reverse the day before, now we would be playing the normal routing. I was indifferent when my approach went into the burn at the First, just as I was indifferent as I rattled off six pars in a row and knew I was close to my personal best round. I didn’t add it up. The back nine heads back into town and the sun was shining on us as the town grew closer and larger. A peace had fallen over the group. Tranquil golden rays amidst the emerald corridors and vivid pops of yellow gorse, birds in pleasant spots of song. It seemed to last forever as we took our turns hitting our balls this way and that. It was then I fell in love with Scotland, as with the Old.

A lot more to come but some brief thoughts on each course played.

Kingsbarns. I really like Keith Phillips’ work and have no hesitation declaring him one of the better architects of modern links. Kingsbarns is a very good modern links, its simple figure eight routing along the coast varies from strategic to challenging to fun in an artful cadence. It’s sculpted and brawny and gorgeous, like a thoroughbred horse. It demands touch and thought and yes, some muscle. It was built as a destination, yet I felt more like a tourist around parts of St. Andrew’s than I did here.

New. Where the course fell in progression during the trip is helpful for context as our experience grew and evolved. The New was our first round in St. Andrew’s after two rounds at a relatively quiet time at Kingsbarns. Blood-curled shouts of “Fore!” frequented the soundscape as the group of college somethings littered ahead of us while the round slowed to a crawl. The course was magnificent, even if I wished I played it under more ideal circumstances yet you get what you get. Delightfully playful and varied, the golfer can’t help but look to the ground on several shots and it was readily apparent knowing the course was a significant advantage. Teasing in its cleverness, the golfer always feels like he would have scored better if it just wasn’t for this random misfortune or another, without ever suspecting the course is the culprit. I was glad we played this before the Old as an introduction to the grounds.

Duke’s. Up in the hills overlooking St. Andrew’s and the North Sea, the course on sprawling land and presents on a larger scale. It’s challenging, for its length and accuracy demands and stern recovery character while very scenic and serene with its setting. I thought the bunkering was very well done with its rugged shaping and how it stretched out the holes. It certainly caters to those who have traveled here for golf and offers the high level service one gets at the likes of Kingsbarns. It most closely resembled golf in the Northeast and that includes the round of golf it offers up. Some will like it here a lot more than me, and I liked it fine enough. But one needs to play more than Duke’s while here.

Lundin. The beach directly next to the club and playing those first holes along the coast reminded me of Maidstone. You continue along the coast until you reach a stone wall (called the Mile Dyke). On the other side are more golf holes but that’s Leven Links. Lundin and Leven used to be one course, with most of the holes along the coast, but they separated into two clubs with a growing demand long ago. The clubs have a tournament called the Macdonald Trophy where the original course is played and that course would be among the world’s best if it stayed that way. As for Lundin, their added holes are very good, as it uses more of the lower coastal land before heading up to the bluffs for a few holes, then winding back down for a thunderous finish. The Sixteenth is the template for the Leven hole utilized by Macdonald, Raynor, Banks, among others. The strategy was very intricate and subtle. It wasn’t until after I finished the hole that I realized the ideal sides or angles, as well as where you were absolutely stalled out. It’s charming with an idyllic setting, close to the beach then getting views from high above. Control of the ball with a wry sense of mischief is the best way to play a round here. I could play it several times over without feeling the need to stray.

Castle. I really wanted to play here before the trip. The manner in which Kidd created randomness and the strong divisive opinions from those who played it were enough to attract my curiosity. Having played it and having both hated and loved it from hole to hole and shot to shot, there are a few inalienable truths about it I will share with you all. How one receives the Castle largely depends on their frame of mind. If score matters to you, this course isn’t for you. If you can’t deal with unfairness in the game, this course isn’t for you. If predictability or standard norms excite you, then the course isn’t for you. It’s bold, extreme, severe, gorgeous and torturously fun. You will get mad and lose balls whether because of the wind, some ludicrously quick contour or both. There’s an insane amount of randomness and yes, unfairness. But it makes you take chances and try shots you never had to hit before. The ball just seems to keep moving and careening, usually to places that are no good at all. There’s only one shot that is intimidating and could be considered difficult and that is the Seventeenth. But it’s the most exhilarating and beautiful hole on the course. I like it and hate it depending on the hour but I would highly recommend it to anyone.

Ladybank. We played Castle in the morning and Ladybank in the afternoon, making quite the contrast. A heathland among the Annsmuir Woods, the course unwinds in classic refinement. Heather, hardwoods, steep faced bunkers and rumpled fairways are artfully arranged in symphonic feng shui. That classic refined design plays superbly, striking a melodic balance of strategy, challenge and a touch of haphazardness. A wave of fond familiarity washed over me the first couple holes with all the heathland and parkland I have visited over the last year, yet the structure of play is distinct in how each hole is presented in a good deal of isolation. It’s a well known course in Scotland yet not as well known on our side of the pond but it should be. It shows an entirely different character component to golf in Scotland from links golf, splendidly.

Old Reverse. My first round on the Old Course was in reverse. Teeing off from the First and walking down the storied fairway, I couldn’t help but get a little emotional finally just being there. The sentimentality ended quickly out of necessity, my next shot was to the Seventeenth green and the Road Bunker. My third shot was from the road. My approach shot on the second hole was a full send hybrid that yes, was into the wind and had to carry the hotel. And so it went. Blind shots and hidden bunkers and furtive greens. I would look to my caddie for guidance and he would just shrug his shoulders in a, “we’ll see.” It was a bit chaotic but fun in how raw it was. I knew I would understand all of it later so I let go through most of it and just enjoyed how the shots came and went. My first time on the Old Course and not once did I think there was anything boring or flat or nondescript about the place. The greens were large with intelligent contours, the bunkering wild and varied while the gorse smartly inopportune. Having played the Old both directions, I would say the Reverse is more volatile in variation yet the routing is such that the ending is more of a gentle fade. With all said and done, I now know just how fortunate I am to have been able to get to know the Old in both manners. An old hunched over man followed our group most of the way, just observing. I watched as one of my approaches sailed into the North Sea yet magically jumped back over my head. Some Good Samaritan walking the beach threw it up. My par putt at the last looked perfect the entire way, then caught an edge and circled around the entire hole before spitting a centimeter outside the hole. That was a perfect ending to the round.

Old. The course has several personalities but we happened to visit while it was romantically elegant. The tee shots were a little easier to dictate than the Reverse but not by much, yet the greens presented themselves with much more sophistication. There’s a range of strategy I haven’t encountered before where yes, you must address whether to approach from one side or the other but then these decisions get much much deeper depending on how much the golfer knows and understands of the course. The history and romance of the place cannot be denied, regardless of the weather or personality your round happens to fall on. Underscoring its supreme versatility is its receptiveness to so many different playing styles. If one is comfortable in the sand, then how he gets around could be much different than the other who relishes lag putts. The greens are likely one of the best sets in the world. Their depth of character is primarily how the Old has managed to become invaluably timeless. There’s certainly a mystic aura to the place, perhaps collected from the hundreds of years and millions of rounds hosting our game. Time is surely on its side as it keeps cultivating the course. It will continue to do so, long after you and me are gone. I got my par at the last this go around and we then retired to the Rusacks rooftop bar. The sun was setting and its corridors of light grew longer by the minute as the North Sea branched infinitely beyond. I noticed a lone golfer on the Old, making his way through the back. The course to himself. Likely the most fortunate among us at that point in time. Darkness descended and the Old slowly dimmed. It would be the last time I laid eyes on the course, until the next.

Leven. We did not play Lundin and Leven on the same day yet played it after Lundin. In general, the holes further away from the coast dictate the individual character of each as those are the holes added on when the two separated. Conversely, the holes closer to the coast share a common bond and were some of my favorite holes of the trip. Leven starts on the side of the sea yet stays just below the bluff of the beach, turning slightly inward or outward to the greens. It’s a lot of below ground structure, which again distinguishes itself. And there’s the gorse. More than any other course visited this trip, the gorse is a prominent feature, especially off the tee. It is known as the more challenging of the two courses and I suspect that is due in large part to that beautiful, fucking annoying, gorse. The Eighteenth is a brute, just like Lundin, yet even more so. With the wind against, only a rare few will be able to think about the green on their second shot. I could see how the original combined holes of Lundin and Leven would make for a global power of a course yet I thoroughly enjoyed both courses on their own. Leven is sporty and gentle yet firm. Much more challenging than one suspects and when all is said and done, an outstanding course.

Carnoustie. I have written about John Sabino before and his impact on my early learnings of course architecture. There was a time when Carnoustie was simply a name, a famous one at that, and all I understood was that it was a difficult course. I became infatuated with the place after discovering Sabino and his thoughts, which went well beyond its challenge. The point that hit home the most was that the course cannot rely on surroundings or setting as a crutch; its design must be splendid or it will be completely exposed. And that design was excellent not just because of challenge but because of strategy. This was over a decade ago but that concept has stayed with me and is certainly a cornerstone in course architecture. Surroundings and setting are secondary to the design and structure of play. The roses and sea are nice and all but what of the course. Carnoustie did not disappoint and deserves all of its accolades and stature. The variety of the holes and shots, as well as the amount of thought one must put into each one was remarkably distinct and addictive. The wind was whipping about, which added to the adventure and thought. One feels alive at Carnoustie and the golf one plays is unmatched in many ways. It was my favorite just behind the Old yet really different course identities altogether. Other than Pine Valley, it is the one place that will conjure the best and worst shots from your game you will ever see.

Panmure. One of the tougher decisions of the trip was whether we wanted to play Carnoustie twice or get over to Panmure. The more rounds one plays at a particular course, the better, and Carnoustie is certainly worthy of repeat play but I eventually decided on heading over to Panmure because of its unique links structure amidst the hillocks and Scotch pines that starts hinting of the highlands further North.. While it is most famous for hosting Ben Hogan as he readied for the Open at Carnoustie, it’s an excellent course and unlike any where else we played. There was a strong familiarity to Prairie Dunes as the holes made their about a series of jutty hills, the green sites placed brilliantly within. Their variety is also notable, some uphill, some pushed up, perhaps a couple slightly down and certainly some at grade. This is the round both of us wondered whether we might have scheduled too much golf as we hit the wall. The round was mostly silent as we walked to our ball and hit it, putted and reached in the hole for the ball and so on. Yet the course didn’t worry about that and shined anyways. Its superior use of those hills and routing were splendid.

North Berwick. The final day of the trip was two rounds here, a crescendo if there ever was one. The opening hole signifies the tone of the round with the beach close at hand and the blind green upon a coastal bluff. The collection of par 3’s might have been the best we encountered, the Redan at the highest. Perhaps sacrilege so be it yet I found it similar to the Castle in certain respects. Craggy randomness and blind shots at both, fairness no consideration. The setting is gorgeous and there are a handful of holes here that are as good as any where else in the world. Timing is indeed important and I wished we came upon North Berwick sooner. It represents a lot of why I love this game yet I just couldn’t get along as much as I thought I would. That’s almost irrelevant, the course is excellent besides. There is timeless quirk and unabashed use of the unique coastland one needs to study, learn and become friends with. Very much exposed to the wind, I noticed the Scots handle with a controlled low fade that seems to burrow through it. The greens are notable for their movement and inaccessibility from certain angles, again urging the golfer time and knowledge are sorely needed to understand. Yet again, timing is everything. I can’t imagine a better day to send off from, the course very much messaging, welcome to the first of many in your education of our land.

This sunset found me within the streets of Edinburgh. My B&B off Lanark Road, pronounced just like my club, a sign home was at hand. The city fits in to the hauntingly beautiful description JK Rowling so artfully quipped. Large spired towers decorated the sky as the streets winded, climbed and plummeted. There was an ancient knowing within its walls that took precedent. One last whisky as a send off and then walking down the dirt road to my room, the quiet Scottish night giving one last moment of peace.