Millions of footprints and spike marks have left a lifetime of invisible impressions on the tight links turf at St Andrews.
This tiny town, on a neuk of Scotland’s eastern coastline, has a golf course as revered as any place of pilgrimage in Western Christianity or Islam.
Pilgrims do not come to pray, they come to play. One tee-time is desired above all others, a round on the Old Course.
Arriving by train into Leuchars Station, you’re certain to hear the sound of forged and cast clubs clanking, fast rolling wheels and animated chatter. The drive into town on the A91 is a thrilling journey, much like the moments before long distance lovers are reunited.
Helicopters hum overhead and land in secluded spots near wealthy enclaves, hotels and country houses. Whoever they are, and however they arrive, they come for golf and for this place.
The glory and majesty of St Andrews infuses the salty sea air and glides like sea fret around elegant architecture, curling smoke-like into cobbled wynds and narrow alleys intersecting and adjoining North, South and Market streets.
Every sight and sound in St Andrews roots you in the present while simultaneously transporting you back to a thrilling past.
The 18th green is endlessly fascinating, a magnet for gathering and people-watching. Whenever I return, I head straight there. It’s liberating and limitless.
Standing by the picket fence my imagination is set free, each and every time.
It conjures Seve, fists pumping. Costantino Rocca, prostrate and tearful, lying in the Valley of Sin. I see Nicklaus’ putter fly skyward and Doug Sanders recoil as his ball cruelly refuses to drop.
Hairs stand on end. If a golfer can fall deeply and inexplicably in love with a place and an ideal, then it happens here – by the picket fence at 18 – with West Sands Beach as witness. There’s a feeling it will last forever – this new exciting union – with the Grand Old Lady of golf.
The truth is different. Her heart beats but never races. She is constant, like the turning of tide, or the eternal rock beneath the Common land on which she stands.
As the years roll by, faces come and faces go. Posed and smiling on Swilcan bridge, in front of the high windows of The R&A clubhouse or happily lost in The Dunvegan’s warm genial embrace.
Every five years, give or take a pandemic delay, cheering crowds swell like waves off West Sands only to disappear again, as a final roar rises and a silver Claret Jug glints in thinning shards of July sun.
The scaffolds and scoreboards, TV towers and power lines make way for student gowns, ambling dogs, day trippers, scampering surfers and jilted souls surrendering to heartbreak.
Many feel her heart belongs to them. Old Tom Morris gave a lifetime and a deserved legacy. Bobby Jones was a most gracious and charming suitor, loved by the people as well as the links.
Tiger, a brooding force few courses could resist and Jack – all blonde hair and brawn – arguably the greatest of them all. John paid no heed to tradition or reputation, in play or aesthetic, while Louis and Cameron – far from home – were moved to play their greatest ever game.
Her holes are like stories lovers share and places they claimed as theirs.
Beautiful in name, simple and straightforward in calmer climes, but quick to temper in the worst Scottish weather. Hell, Ginger Beer, Coffins, Strath, The Beardies, most famous of all – Road Hole – apt in every way, for all that come must go someday.
None of them have claim, for the heart of St Andrews belongs to golf. To each and everyone that has taken a stance and poured their hopes and dreams into two turns and a swish.
EDITOR’S NOTE
The author lived in St Andrews from 1997-2001 while studying History at the University. He, like so many before him, left a piece of his heart and many footprints on the links and the town’s magical streets.