The saga of St. Andrews
The recent British Open at the iconic St. Andrews course in Scotland reminded me that I hadn’t commented on golf in the Enterprise for a few years (re: “Golf is a Four-Letter Word” in 2011 and “Golf is Still a Four-Letter Word” in 2013). I mentioned my experience playing St. Andrews in the earlier articles, but Australian Cameron Smith’s incredible victory this year brought back some memories I thought I would share.
As some of you know, St. Andrews is a quaint Scottish village located northeast of Edinburgh on the western edge of the North Sea. In addition to the normal rustic differences between Scottish and American courses, the Old Course’s location in a northern latitude near an icy sea can make golfing a whole new experience — one becoming more of a survival effort during certain months of the year.
In 1982, while flying F-15 Eagles in Germany, two of us intrepid fighter pilots flew to St. Andrews on a cross-country “training” mission, and it was one of the most memorable trips I made while in the Air Force. A flight commander at the time, another pilot in my flight and I thought it might be great fun to fly to Scotland, sample as much scotch and beer as we could and maybe play golf on arguably the world’s most famous course.
One of our mistakes was going on this boondoggle in mid-May. A Scottish course near the North Sea in May portends some ugly conditions for golf: high winds and bitter cold temperatures while playing on challenging turf and, in our case, nonprofessional golfers who were hungover from the night before after visiting bars in the quaint village. (My head hurts just remembering the day.)
The Old Course at St. Andrews is also known as the Old Lady or Grand Old Lady and was established in 1522, so it has a romantic quality just in age. The clubhouse is majestic and sits near the 18th green, and its medieval architecture is in itself impressive to behold. Typical of Scottish “links” courses, there are no trees, just undulating fairways flanked by horrible “rough” (much of which is covered with heather, a God-forsaken plant that is pretty to look at but deadly to reach into for errant balls, unless you like bloody arms from the plants’ sharp leaves).
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