The workweek had finally loosened its death grip, and as we set out on our journey north, there was that unmistakable buzz of a Scottish golf weekend on the horizon. The A1 stretched out before us like an open invitation, with sheets of rain pounding down in torrents, reminding us that nature—much like a links course—can’t be tamed. Still, there’s something about the rain up here; it’s not an obstacle, it’s an initiation. By the time we reached Eyemouth, the downpour had transformed into a surreal calm, the sky giving way to a moonlit ocean—a dark, shimmering mirror of the adventure ahead.
Eyemouth. A humble harbor town carved by fishermen, battered by the North Sea, and seasoned by centuries of survival. This isn’t a postcard village; it’s a place that wears its scars proudly. The kind of town where life and death dance on the edge of each wave. We parked overlooking those cold, moonlit waters and made our way through narrow, cobbled streets that felt like they belonged to another time—another world.
A local pub welcomed us, its walls soaked in maritime lore. The kind of place where the wood creaks, and the air smells of frying fish and malt whisky. You know you’re in the right place when the regulars have faces as weather-beaten as the boats in the harbor. We found a corner, ordered fish and chips—because, really, what else do you order in a place like this?—and settled in. The batter cracked like a rifle shot, the fish inside so fresh you could still taste the salt of the sea. We washed it down with some of Scotland’s peatiest whisky, the kind that hits your throat like a campfire, filling your lungs with smoke and memories.
This wasn’t just a meal—it was a moment. The calm before the storm. The perfect introduction to what we knew would be a weekend of golf that was as much about the journey as the game.
The next morning, we were greeted by the early light of dawn, casting a pale glow over Scotland’s eastern coast. North Berwick was our first stop—a town that feels like it was built by the sea, for the sea. As we walked along the beach, early-morning golfers dotted the horizon, swinging against the backdrop of the North Sea. This was golf in its purest form. No pretense, no grandstands—just the sound of waves, the smell of salt, and the click of a well-struck ball.
After a breakfast that could only be described as “sturdy” (coffee strong enough to slap you awake and food that sticks to your ribs), we pressed on. Musselburgh. Edinburgh. Places that pulse with life and history, but today they were mere stops along the way. Our goal was clear: we were chasing golf’s soul, and we knew we’d find it further north. Crossing the Queensferry Crossing Bridge, the Firth of Forth sprawled out beneath us, a reminder that Scotland’s beauty is never far from the brutal.
We hit Kirkcaldy for a quick charge (both car and body), stretched our legs, and continued the journey. The rugged coastline guided us to Elie, a place we’d never been but instantly felt at home. It’s not flashy—it’s raw, real, and honest. We walked along the coastal path, windswept but grinning like idiots. There’s something about the Scottish coast—it doesn’t just invite you in; it dares you to leave.
But the real treat came in St Monans, where we indulged in some of the freshest seafood we’d ever tasted at East Pier. Octopus, lobster, seafood pizza—everything sourced straight from the cold waters lapping at our feet. Sitting outside, as the sun began its slow descent into the sea, we didn’t need to speak. The food, the view, the moment—it all said enough.
And that was just Friday.
Saturday began in Leven, but the heart of the day, the real prize, was St. Andrews. You don’t just visit St. Andrews—you experience it. Before we even got there, we made stops in Pittenweem and Anstruther, taking in the local flavor—literally and figuratively. Fishing villages that wear their history on their sleeves, where every step along the harbor feels like a page out of a storybook.
Then came Bowhouse Market, a surprise that knocked us sideways. What we thought would be a quaint farmers’ market turned out to be a full-blown celebration of Fife’s finest food. We stocked up on everything from artisan bread to craft beers, fueling ourselves for the afternoon ahead.
Crail came next. Cliffs, harbors, and views that punch you in the gut with their beauty. This was the calm before the storm—the perfect prelude to the sacred ground of St. Andrews.
Arriving in St. Andrews, we somehow managed to snag a prime parking spot—free electrical charging at the clubhouse felt like winning a small lottery. The Himalayas putting course was our first stop, a brief but intense round of putting under skies that alternated between blue and black, wind and sun. After, we strolled the Old Course, watching others tee off, their nerves dancing on the air as they stepped into golf history.
A caffeine hit from Spoiled Life and some book shopping at Topping & Co later, we found ourselves with ice cream from Jannettas, exploring the cathedral ruins like kids discovering a new world. The day ended back at the Old Course, watching the last golfers of the day, sharing pints at the One Under Bar, and ending the night in style at the Dunvegan, where the staff in Augusta-style white boiler suits served up Guinness as we watched the Masters unfold on TV.
Sunday. Kingsbarns. The stuff of dreams.
We arrived early, excitement buzzing through us like a second cup of coffee. The bacon rolls were a small but perfect prelude to what we knew would be an unforgettable round. The course was immaculate—every hole a postcard, every fairway a runway to golf nirvana. The morning was crisp, the skies clear, and the drives were perfect. Well, mostly.
Bogeys came and went, but the magic was in the moments. The gorse claimed a ball or two, but the views—my God, the views—made every lost ball feel like a worthy sacrifice. The back nine was pure bliss, with holes along the coast that made you stop and stare, golf clubs forgotten in hand.
We finished the round with sandwiches and drinks in the clubhouse, reliving every shot, every view, every moment. As we made the long drive home, the Masters playing on the radio, it wasn’t just a weekend of golf we were leaving behind—it was a piece of Scotland.
Scotland doesn’t just linger; it sticks to your soul. And as the light faded on the drive home, I knew I’d be back. Because golf in Scotland? It’s not just a game. It’s a way of life.