A couple of years ago, under the capricious Scottish sky, a pilgrimage unfolded. Not to the holy land, but to the hallowed ground of another kind: the Old Course at St. Andrews. The invitation, a gift from one of our generous customers, Brian, set the stage for a day etched long in our memory, a blur of sun, rain, wind, and laughter that transcended the elements.
My golf partner-in-crime, my cousin Ben, and I embarked on this journey with a mix of trepidation and excitement. The Old Course, the “Home of Golf,” was a mythical beast, whispered about in hushed tones by golfing aficionados. Could we possibly live up to its legend?
The pilgrimage began not on the hallowed turf of St. Andrews, but with the quiet hum of the A1 motorway stretching endlessly north as we ploughed through the latest season of the Chasing Scratch podcast. Ben and I, two golf-obsessed souls, embarked on the overnight journey, anticipation simmering with each passing mile. Arriving in St. Andrews just before 9pm, the town felt eerily empty. Out of term time, the usual student buzz was absent, replaced by an almost sacred hush. We parked near the R&A clubhouse, drawn like moths to a flame, and walked towards the 1st hole. Bathed in the golden glow of a streetlamp, the sight, normally bustling with golfers, was ours alone – a silent promise of the adventure to come.
St. Andrews felt familiar, even though it wasn’t. The Jigger Inn, the Swilcan Bridge, the Old Course Hotel – each landmark whispered stories of golfing legends and ignited a spark of recognition within us. At our B&B, sleep came easily that night, the anticipation as comforting as a warm blanket.
Dawn painted the sky with hues of orange and pink as we teed off, the crisp air carrying the invigorating scent of the sea. The elements, ever-present guardians of the Old Course, threw their challenges – sun, rain, wind, all in quick succession. But none of it mattered. We were playing St. Andrews! The iconic landmarks were no longer postcards, but living, breathing testaments to the game’s rich history.
The morning called for a trip to the pro shop for some memorabilia before heading to the putting green for a warm up and to take in our surroundings. Then there was our caddy for the day, Doug, a walking encyclopaedia of St Andrews lore, his wit as sharp as his knowledge of the course and a seemingly unending supply of cigarettes in his pockets, keeping him supplied for our round. He regaled us with stories of golfing greats, pointed out hidden landmarks, and offered sage advice that helped us navigate the complexities of the Old Course.
Walking onto the 1st tee, all previous thoughts of planning and calmness went out of the window. My first tee shot, a nerve filled driver in front of the small crowd that’s ever present on the 1st hole. My driver, somehow managing to make contact with the ball, sent it sailing down the fairway with a big sigh of relief. Staying dry it left a short iron into the green that led to an opening birdie, unfortunately it was downhill from there for my scorecard. The day unfolded in a whirlwind of emotions. The sun, a welcome visitor, battled with sudden downpours that tested our resolve. The wind, a constant companion, sang its own tune, adding a layer of unpredictable challenge to each swing.
Amidst the changing weather, a constant thread of joy ran through. Lost balls were mercifully absent from the 17th, the infamous Road Hole, as our drives took aim over the famous hotel. From the notorious Road Hole bunker Ben conjured a shot worthy of the golfing greats, leaving his ball inches from the hole. A smattering of tourists, drawn by the spectacle, gave a light round of light applause, showing their appreciation.
And then there was the 18th, where a wayward drive (not mine, thankfully) may or may not have met an unfortunate fate with a parked van. Thankfully, Doug a towering 6ft6 giant of a man, with the booming voice of a foghorn and the wit of a seasoned storyteller, intervened, his booming Scottish brogue sending the bewildered builder packing. Thankfully, I managed to keep my drive safe from the iconic parked cars alongside the fairway to leave myself a tricky 7 iron in to the iconic green.
Yet, amidst the awe of the moment, walking down the 18th fairway, with an obligatory photo on Swilcan bridge, a moment of pure golfer’s satisfaction flickers bright.
On the 18th green, facing a 10-foot par putt with a light smattering of polite tourists watching from the side lines, I sank the putt. A wave of elation washed over me, followed by a cheeky cap wave to my impromptu audience. It was, in my wildest dreams, the closest I’d ever come to feeling like a pro, the roar of the crowd replaced by the gentle applause of impressed onlookers. And in that moment, under the watchful gaze of the Old Course itself, it felt like enough.
The memory, a tiny diamond glinting in the vastness of the day, is a reminder that sometimes, the greatest shots are not just about distance or accuracy, but about the magic of the moment, the awe-inspiring surroundings, and the shared love of the game, etched forever in the heart of a grateful pilgrim.
The truth is, outside of my booming drive on the first (and subsequent birdie), the adrenaline-fueled laser on 17, and the near-disaster averted on 18, the specifics of each shot fade like mist on the morning dew. The Old Course, it seems, was determined to etch itself not just in my scorecard, but in my very soul. Each hole, a masterpiece of strategic design and historical significance, demanded my full attention. The undulating fairways, the ancient stone walls, the rippling burn – they were all part of a living, breathing tapestry, whispering tales of legendary golfers and epic matches. I was a student in the classroom of history, each swing an offering to the game’s rich past.
But perhaps the most memorable moment wasn’t a birdie or a perfectly executed shot. It was the sight of a seagull, a feathered bandit, making off with Ben’s sausage roll straight from his bag straight after his purchase from the half way house. The ensuing chase, the laughter, the absurdity of it all – it encapsulated the spirit of the day: a blend of challenge, humour, and the sheer joy of being present on this historic golfing ground.
As the Sun began to dip below the ancient clubhouse, casting long shadows across the links, we knew our pilgrimage wasn’t quite over. The Dunvegan, a beacon of warmth and merriment nestled beside the 17st hole, beckoned like a siren song. Stepping inside, the thick air hummed with post-round chatter, the clinking of glasses a rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet murmur of golfers recounting their day’s triumphs and tribulations.
Sinking into well-worn stools, pints of crisp local ale in hand, we relived the round shot by shot, each swing and putt tinged with the golden hue of shared experience. Ben’s near-ace on the 11th, the audacious (and near-disastrous) drive on the 18th, even the seagull’s daring sausage roll heist – each memory unfolded with renewed amusement, punctuated by the comfortable silence that only deepens between close companions. Laughter echoed off the low-beamed ceiling, blending with the stories of other golfers gathered around the crackling fireplace. In that moment, time seemed to melt away, the weight of the world replaced by the simple joy of camaraderie and the shared love of the game. As we raised our glasses for a final toast, the Jigger Inn felt less like a pub and more like a sanctuary, a haven where the spirit of St. Andrews lingered long after the last putt had dropped. And as we stepped back into the cool night air, the warmth of the pub and the shared pint remained, a comforting ember to carry with us until our next pilgrimage to the Home of Golf.
And so, the dream persists. A return to St. Andrews, to face the Old Course once more, armed with the lessons learned and the memories held dear. To walk those hallowed fairways again, caddy by our side, and create a new chapter in this ongoing golfing pilgrimage. Until then, the wind whispers tales of our adventure, urging us to return, to answer the call of the links, and experience the magic once more.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, a pang of longing settled in our hearts as we loaded up the car for the long drive back home to reality. We were leaving a part of ourselves on those hallowed grounds, but the memories, like precious gems, would forever remain.