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Just down the street from Muirfield, where the best women in the world are pegging it on one of the best courses on the planet, there is the old Ladies Links. It’s nine holes, each around 60 to 100 yards, and has hosted golfers for over a hundred years. From members of the North Berwick Lady Golf Club, back in 1888, to Luke List and some other restless Tour pros during last month’s Scottish Open. Today, it goes by ‘The Wee Course’ and, naturally, it hosted the wee lads and girls Saturday morning. 

“This is one of their, uh, majors. There are five of them,” said proud dad Tom Halliburton. His 11-year-old son, Aedan, won this event in 2020, and was back for more. It’s called the Malcolm Cup, an under-14 competition, played every year on the Wee Course, with five different trophies up for grabs across the field of 29.

Before the 11 a.m. shotgun start, under a grey, cloudy sky, boys and girls covered the tiny practice green. Some grinded over 8-footers; others practiced their birdie celebrations. Moms carried clubs, dads carried scorecards. Grandparents delivered an extra sleeves of balls, just in case.

North Berwick is the type of tiny golf community that enriches itself just by being itself. Great golfers will grow up here, because of the above paragraph. But others in the field came from across East Lothian, and even the Lane-Fox family from Oxford. They’re summering up in Scotland for a few weeks, staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s, just off the 9th tee. 

Harold Lane-Fox and his brother, Walker, were late additions to the field. Harold joined Aedan, little Harvey Blair and another older boy, Luke McLaughlin. It was seven threesomes and two foursomes, and because of that, tournament officials reminded players to play quickly. They gleefully obeyed. Within seconds of the starting horn, little Harvey had already slapped an iron up over the hill on the 1st. 

There was running between shots, because why not? 

Players complimented each other constantly, even from other groups. Ooh, unlucky when a putt missed the hole. They learned that from their dads. It was a nice reminder that, although the people most keen to “grow” some to-be-determined corner of “the game” are the professionals who took mega-million appearance fees, the first golf coaches are always Dad or Mum.

The occasionally unfortunate truth is, professionals matter a lot, too. And you can see it in the mannerisms at the Malcolm Cup. The kids plumb-bobbed like pros, marked their balls meticulously, and stepped back off their ball, visualizing shots. Luke raved about watching Catriona Matthew. Aedan’s favorite player is Justin Thomas. Harvey was among the lucky few to meet Rickie Fowler during a clinic at the Scottish Open last month. He was still wearing his Scottish Open hat Saturday morning. 

I couldn’t get a favorite pro out of 9-year-old Harold — he couldn’t decide — but his favorite course is Gullane No. 3. He and his brother, Walker, play off the forward tees. The Lane-Fox family has a favorite game: three-ball sixsomes. That is, alternate shot played by three two-man teams chosen at random between Mom and Dad, Harold and Walker, Grandma and Grandpa. No sport accommodates generations like this one. 

Mom, Chrissy, grew up in Kansas, but now has one of those split accents that comes from many years abroad. She never played golf growing up, but she does now that she lives in Scotland. She attributes it to the barrier-free nature of golf here. They call this nook of the country the “Golf Coast.” It’s cheap, social, and all are welcome. 

“You can play with men in their 50s, and older ladies in their 80s,” she said. “And you can always have a good game.”

She’s right.

Chrissy carried Harold’s bag and was the unofficial chaperone of the group, teaching pace, reminding who had the honor, keeping track of who was keeping track of each other’s scores. They whipped around fast as they could, 75 minutes of birdies, pars, bogeys and doubles. Before long, every competitor and their toting parents gathered around the starter shed to hand in their scores. The top eight would advance to match play. Anyone else who wanted to keep playing would be grouped up for separate nine-hole rounds. There were still four more trophies to give out. 

The tournament official began reading the names of the lucky eight advancing to match play. Aedan’s name came first. Luke’s came next. Harold and Harvey waited next to each other, anxious to see if their score was good enough. Finally, Harold’s name was called, followed immediately by Harvey’s. Their faces said it all — a blend of Wow, I made it and Hoo boy, here comes match play. All four players from the group had made it through stroke play, and now they were about to compete head-on. They grabbed their scorecard and bags and eagerly turned to the 1st tee. 

The author welcomes your comments, concerns, and any other notes at sean.zak@golf.com.

NEWSLETTER

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Corona is Crocker’s drink of choice and the Dunvegan, locally known as The Dunny, is his pub of choice. As he showed up on Sunday, the chalk board at the entrance was ready for him: “Congrats Sean Crocker,” in yellow chalk. “Hero Open Champion!” How could he walk past that? Truth is, Crocker never walks past The Dunny; he always gets sucked in. At least that’s what he told me Sunday evening, a couple hours after Corona No. 1.

The 25-year-old DP World Tour star has had many good nights in there. Some of them he’s paid for later. But there was plenty that was endearing about the champion celebrating in town among the fans. He was doing exactly what you would be doing, right? None of us really know that winning exhale he’s feeling, the one that consumed him on TV right after he sealed the deal. But we’d all like to. 

“Winning a golf tournament is not easy,” he said, minutes after the final putt dropped. “And Eddie [Pepperell] did not make that easy for me, either. Hoo. I’m lost for words here.” 

Crocker hasn’t celebrated a win in a long time, so you can understand him not having the words. This is one of the rarely talked about aspects of pro golf. Players like him win in junior golf all the time. They win a bunch in high school and win scholarships to universities, just like Crocker did to Southern California. But the higher up you go, the less winning there is. 

According to Wikipedia, the unofficial documentarian of golfers outside the Top 100 in the world ranking, Crocker snagged a win at the 2016 Monroe Invitational in upstate New York. Then he added a 2017 win amateur event in Italy. Since then? Nothing. As he said, winning golf tournaments is hard. 

A handful of giddy pals encircled Crocker at the Dunny, including his caddie Steve Pettit, and Ewen Ferguson, a Scot and fellow DP World Tour player. Ferguson got his first win in years at the Qatar Masters in March. It was his first win since his days at the University of Texas, alongside Scottie Scheffler, who notably hadn’t won on Tour before February — after which he won again, and again, and again. These wins, they’re not easy. Which is why we celebrate with Coronas. Scheffler celebrates with Burger House, his go-to spot in Dallas. He beat Crocker back in the 2016 NCAA Championships, 1 Up.

Crocker was born in Zimbabwe and is based in West Palm Beach but spends most of his professional year traipsing Europe. We laughed when I pointed out that you can take the boy out of America but you can’t make him drink Guinness. “This is the only thing I drink, but the funny thing is everyone is drinking it,” he said.

He began his evening on one of the stools at the bar but was there long enough to move to a four-seater in the middle of the pub. His Marlins cap was pulled tight, but with the blonde hair flowing out the backside, everyone knew where the winner was. I asked him what’s his next stop was after tonight. “Wales, next week,” he said. The show goes on. “But that might be a rough week. Expectations are low.”

We’ll see about that.

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I was naturally a bit startled when, as my personal putting competition turned me back toward town, I found that I now shared the putting green with local resident Tom Kenmack (Ken-mahhk with a Scottish accent). He had driven his scooter a couple hundred yards down the hill from his retirement home. His scooter was not the kind that gets mistaken for a moped, but rather the assisted-living variety. Four wheels, hard plastic exterior, wire basket on the front. Hanging off the back was a wooden cane and an old, mallet putter. 

Kenmack is 91 years old and has never actually played golf in the way you and I love to. If he could stand up straight, he’d reach about 5-foot-8, but he can’t stand straight anymore. His best is a bit hunched over, with his chin hanging out over his toes. He’s never made a par or felt nervous on a tee box. Instead, all he does is practice putting at Anstruther.

His system is delightfully simple. He gingerly plucked a lime green plastic bag, unveiling four mismatched golf balls, which he dropped onto the turf in a row.

“Do you come here often?” I asked. 

“Agh, no. I just started a fortnight ago.” 

(That’s two weeks, for those like me who never knew what a fortnight meant.)

Kenmack had tried full-swing golf many, many years ago. Back when he was worked on a farm down in Edinburgh. He worked hard as students from the nearby university would visit the farm and plot out imaginary golf holes on the field. They’d compete in their own made-up golf games and occasionally leave a ball behind. Over the years, Kenmack had collected 10 of those second-hand golf balls, and one day decided to see what the fuss was all about. He grabbed one of his father’s old hickory clubs hanging up in the barn and imitated the moves those student golfers made. Within an hour, he said with a belly laugh, all 10 balls were lost.

“That was the beginning and end of my golf career.”

Once he was finally ready to begin his putting session, Kenmack sized up a 15-footer. He played six inches of right-to-left break, curling his first putt of the day crashing into the flagstick, down into the hole. Of course.

I burst out in laughter, and even he had to chuckle. “Aye, aye,” he said, smiling as he lined up the next. He took off some speed with the second attempt and came up woefully short, barely making it halfway. 

“Ack — it was a fluke!” he said, quickly moving onto his third try, which also curled into the cup. 

“Ah, no t’wasn’t!” 

Three putts was all it took for Tom Kenmack to win 100% of my attention. 

Travel

Back in his fitness prime, lawn bowling (a cousin of bocce ball) was Kenmack’s game. Scotland is the home of golf, but it’s also the unofficial home of lawn bowling, and there are common threads between the two. There are golf clubs and bowling clubs. The competition can be balanced between genders. Yes, they can be played indoors, but their purest forms exist outdoors on tight, dry, firm turf. It makes sense why Kenmack enjoys his putting. 

We spent the next 15 minutes swiveling around the green, aiming at whichever cup felt right to him. One putt for me, four putts for Tom. He rocks a baseball grip, a wristy stroke and a Ram Zebra putter from the 90s. It was gifted to him by his nephew, a much better golfer, who visited him during Open week.

Soon enough, it began to drizzle — what locals call a “light piss” — and Kenmack finally stood up as straight as he can, scorning the sky and telling Mother Nature, “I’m not going to stay out here if it’s going to rain.”

Like me, he was displeased with the conditions. Like me, he thought Rory McIlroy would win The Open. Like me, he enjoys the riddle that is putting. Like me, he has spent this summer in a new home. Kenmack lived in Edinburgh for more than 60 years before moving to that Anstruther retirement home six months ago. Now that the Scottish summer has arrived, he’s making the most of consistent temps in the 60s.

“I do it for amusement,” he said. “It gets me some fresh air. I do it for an hour, and that’s enough for me.”

That’s not enough for me, if I’m being honest, or most golfers. But I sure hope I can drive the equivalent of a scooter down from my retirement home in 2083, when I’m 91 years old. As I readied myself for the real golf course at Anstruther, Kenmack retied that lime green bag of balls. I asked if he’s learned anything about putting in his two weeks of practice. 

“Aye, that it takes four tries to find the road.”

Got an idea for a Summer in Scotland story? — I’ll hear them all! Just send a note to sean.zak@golf.com. 

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There were those 1st-tee boos that Ian Poulter received. There was the ovation Tiger Woods received, which he admitted made it feel “like the whole tournament was right there.” He was right: everyone was right there, and when Phil Mickelson came through two hours later, barely anyone was there. There was the roar of the week on Saturday, when McIlroy holed out from the bunker on 10. We’ve learned that he has one of the easiest names to chant on repeat. And then the sound of brooding acceptance when Cam Smith saved par on the 71st hole. 

But now? Well, the seagulls have gone from background noise to lead stars once again. There must be more seagulls than humans in Scotland, and they’re back circling the R&A clubhouse, spying on the sandwiches of unsuspecting golfers below. St. Andrews is quiet once again — the way it should be. Just ask Caleb, who was disappointed to miss the Open, but enjoyed reading Ulysses from the first row of the 18th grandstand.

Monday was always going to be an exhale, reserved by the R&A on the off chance that weather would force an extra day of competition like it did in 2015. Mastercard is a major sponsor of the tournament, so it enjoyed the spoils of corporate tee times. Some golf tour groups benefitted as well, finishing up as dusk moved in. All that means is The Links, the road that tens of thousands of fans crowded onto along the 18th hole, is now extremely back in play. And so are the vehicles parked on it.

The loudest tee ball of Monday evening came just after 9 p.m., crashing onto the roof of a white sprinter van and nearly hitting Paul Azinger and Mark Rolfing, who were enjoying one final night in town with their wives. “They’re all in the same group and one of the guys jacked one and hit their own van,” Azinger said excitedly. A handful of people standing around had pulled out their phones to document it. One of them even kicked the ball back into play. If the amateur in question doesn’t read golf.com, he may never know that there’s an asterisk on his finishing par. 

There was incredible anticipation for this Open. The Old Course’s once-every-five-years pattern for hosting The Open was delayed one year to align it cleanly as the 150th championship. Then it was nudged off pace another year when the pandemic canceled The Open in 2020. The R&A expected 290,000 spectators as a result of that pent-up demand, which put a strain on the town. Nigel Snow, a local taxi driver, called this year “like the 2015 Open, but on steroids.” Most local shops extended their hours, knowing more people is good for business, but at some point there was so much business that restaurants had to turn people away. If this was a major city, they’d all be staffed differently, but St. Andrews is normally home to just 17,000 people. Jahangir, a popular Indian restaurant, doesn’t have much for natural light, and its manager simply didn’t want to keep the staff indoors all day and night.

The St. Andrews pubs made valiant efforts to host so many boisterous fans — this is a drinking country, after all — extending their footprint out into the sidewalks and around corners. The Central Bar, which was shoulder-to-shoulder, chest-to-back during Open nights enjoyed a softer crowd Monday evening. Just a dozen guests, all of them enjoying the hottest day of the summer on the patio. No one was inside, and the lone bartender enjoyed the peace. The only disruption was an overserved Celtic FC fan softly mumbling his squad’s favorite cheers: 

Scott Brown won the league,

Scott Brown won the league, 

Scott Brown won the league at Rugby Pahhhk.

The Dunvegan enjoyed a comedown, too, which is to say it was busy, just not overflowing onto North Street like it was for seven consecutive nights. Sheena Willoughby, the owner pictured all over every interior wall, was back at work, too. Life goes on after the Open and she knows it well, this being the sixth she’s attended.

On Tuesday, the tear down commenced. The NBC Sports desk, where Live From the Open was broadcast all week, was in about nine different pieces, set to be recycled somewhere else, some other time. The special suites that R&A members enjoyed fine dining and drinks in were among the last buildings to go up and the first to be torn down. They’re impressive tents when standing, but really just a mangled gob of plywood, plexiglass and plastic when not. “They take us three weeks to build, and about four days to tear down,” one worker said.

Everything had been ripped up from the player training facility, save for two things: dirty towels and an epic print of Rory McIlroy pitching a wedge. The looming, gold leaderboards still hovered above this tournament ghost town, but even they had been picked apart. A number of letters were missing, as well as one particularly valuable nameplate: WOODS. A local student had braved the climb and snatched it when no one was looking.

Out on the Open’s practice range, which was borrowing grass from the Jubilee Course, divots from Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday remained unfilled. Finally, maintenance staffers started to even out the deep brown scars with much more appealing tan seed mixture. 

“Hopefully we’ll have it fully back to normal by early September,” he said. “Just in time to get beaten up by the Dunhill.”

Got an idea for a Summer in Scotland story? — I’ll hear them all! Just send a note to sean.zak@golf.com. 

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They will no doubt hover around the Old Course, taking in their fill of the golf. But when the golf is done, there’s plenty more to see and do in town. How much fun can you have in St. Andrews with £100? As it turns out, quite a lot. 

James Colgan joined me in a trek all across St. Andrews, starting at Munch for a bacon roll, ending at Jannettas for ice cream eight hours later. In between we visited the R&A Museum, bought plenty of gear, saw the seals at the Aquarium, bumped into Justin Rose on the Old Course and downed a couple pints.

Check it all out in the video below. 

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Whether it was nerves, the beers, or the fact that his rather meaningless match had suddenly gotten really tight, he made his worst swing of the day, a weak cut that kicked and ran on the firm turf crossing into the car park. It came to rest about 15 inches from a silver sedan, the car’s body directly in his path to the hole. 

His solution was preposterous: Sting a long iron punch shot underneath the vehicle’s underbelly, racing up the valley and onto the green. 

That, of course, failed. When the ball emerged unsuccessfully on the other side of the hatchback, List picked up his pride, punched the next shot into play, and made double for 67. His creative spirit earned a round of applause from the members enjoying dinner and pints on the patio. Among them was Keith Mitchell, who had moseyed his way over for a pint in the sun with his sister, just hours after finishing his third round at Renaissance Club, four miles away.

You missed Luke trying to pla—

He cut me off. “Oh, believe me. I saw that,” he said with a chuckle. 

Sitting around the corner was Brian Vranesh, a former Tour player and Si Woo Kim’s caddie, who played the course three different times this week. In List’s group was Joel Dahmen, the people’s champion golfer of the year, who won his match as a result of the vehicular double bogey. Chris Kirk and his family stopped by, headed to dinner in town. And not long later, the same from Russell Knox, headed home from dinner. Such has been the case this week for some of the best players in the world, enjoying North Berwick, the perfect golf community. 

How often does a scene like this take place in regular Tour life? I asked Dahmen.

“Never,” he said. “Luke obviously isn’t playing the local country club after a missed cut at the John Deere.” But Scotland is different. Just ask Max Homa, who shot 71 to make the cut at Renaissance Club Friday morning, only to then loop all 18 holes Friday afternoon at North Berwick.  

Just a lob wedge away from the real thing is the West Links Putting Green, open to the community. They’ll supply you putter and balls, if you don’t have any yourself. With a solid pace of play, the 18-hole loop will take just 30 minutes and cost just £3.5. The Stimpmeter need not apply here. Charming cottages across the street make you consider an immediate downpayment.

In the opposite direction is the Marine North Berwick hotel, where most of the field stayed the week. It looks out over the West Links, the body of water known as the Firth of Forth, and the Wee Course, perhaps North Berwick’s greatest gift of all. The rules are simple: this 9-holer is for juniors. Admission for adults is okay, too — greens fee: £5 — but only when accompanied by a child. (Yes, a handful of restless broke the rules one night, playing a three-hole loop after midnight and multiple beers.) Earlier in the day I crossed paths with Jim Nantz, out for a stroll. He had two things on his schedule: call the third round of the Scottish Open, then return for dinner and a 9 p.m. trip around the Wee Course with his 6-year-old son, Jameson. About eight hours later, Dad snuck down the stairs with putter and wedge, holding up his end of the bargain.

Unlike Muirfield, the much more exclusive club up the coast, North Berwick allows visitors six days out of the week, every day but Saturday. And the going rate of £200 is as affordable as any of them get. Martyn Huish, the head pro, is bound to greet you. His father was the head pro before him, keeping North Berwick in the family for more than 40 years. His grandfather was head pro at nearby Gullane, another course pros have been testing out in their off time this week. 

If you get lucky during your visit to the West Links, you’ll stumble upon Catriona Matthew, 2021 European Solheim Cup captain who calls North Berwick home. She could have watched List’s finishing double from her living room. Her husband, Graeme, loops for anyone and everyone at the West Links, including Keith Mitchell earlier this week, just for fun. Head pro Martyn went to grade school with Catriona. Everybody knows everybody, it seems. 

As I inspected the starter shack, I wondered aloud to Martyn if he seemed to understand it the way I did. That there’s something incredibly special about a big course and a tiny course and a community putting green. About pubs like The Golfer’s Rest and The Ship Inn that stream the golf every weekend. I wondered if Martyn agreed that golf communities elsewhere should be jealous.

He shrugged with a smile.

“That’s just life here.” 

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“It makes us prove our worth,” Austin Gaugert told me a couple years ago, when he was caddying regularly for Alex Noren. Eighteen holes into looping at the Scottish Open, I can tell you with absolute certainty: it’s true. 

Everyone thinks they can be a caddie. And they’re not totally crazy for thinking it. Carry a bag, step off the yardages, exude confidence. In America, at the PGA Tour’s typical stops, that might be enough, too. But in Scotland, where 20 mph winds are normal and the ball never stays where it lands, the course becomes a 300-acre chessboard. 

Joel Dahmen, whom I have the privilege of looping for this week, put a 2-iron in the bag this week for the first time. Links golf is all about the ground game, right?

Right! 

Dahmen hit that 2-iron well in practice. So well that with the 1st hole playing downwind, it felt like the only option. We’d agreed on the 2-iron days ago. But then Brandon Wu stepped in Wednesday and told Dahmen he thought the astute play was to take driver up and to the left, over the bunkers. Was 2-iron the move? We stuck with it, and Dahmen blocked his opening tee ball out to the right. In an instant, we were one over.

Tournaments

If you want to be a good caddie in Scotland, you had better be a good player. Dahmen’s next hole left him with a choice between a low 5-iron and a high 4-iron. 8-handicaps like me — we don’t know what we don’t know. And there’s a lot we don’t know. How could I possibly weigh in on which shot shape was better? He chose 4, I said I liked it, and he hit it to 20 feet. Easy stuff. 

A few minutes later, Dahmen hit his drive on the par-5 3rd a yard off the fairway. His ball came to rest on a slight downslope, short of a bunker. From 50 yards away, I thought the tiny mound above the bunker might come into play. But is that the sort of thought to inject into your professional hitter’s head? I thought not. We agreed a 2-iron on the ground would roll and skirt onto the green. Worst-case scenario, it would kick to the left of the green and leave a long two-putt for birdie. 

Unfortunately, what followed was an ugly combination of thwack-thud. The ball skipped off the mound and toppled forward another 115 yards. “I didn’t see that happening, Sean,” Dahmen said, immediately after impact. Perhaps he would have seen it coming, had I opened my mouth! To open one’s mouth or keep it shut — that is the caddie question.

Dahmen didn’t have his best stuff Thursday, and we saw that down the back-nine. A pulled short iron into the hay on 11, a slightly blocked approach on 12, a shot that was so good it went long on 13 and slightly heavy contact on 14 that needed to fly one more yard. Add it up and you’ve got a grinding par and three bogeys in four very quick holes. I barely blinked. 

What do you say when something seems off? Make sure you get it up there? Put a good one on it? Viktor Hovland’s caddie, Shay Knight, shared some timeless caddie advice for me Wednesday afternoon: Show up, keep up, shut up. 

When it was all complete, I asked Joel what I could have done better. He paused and thought about it. “Honestly, nothing.” He might have even been right, if not for the near-disaster on 18.

I couldn’t stifle a laugh to Joel as we walked up the 18th fairway. I’d been so locked in on our performance, I admitted, I had no clue how the other players in our group were scoring. Sepp Straka started slow and finished solid. Perhaps he was at two over. Same for the third player in the group, Mikko Korhonen. “I feel like he could be anywhere from one under to five over,” I said. 

“That’s interesting,” Joel replied. “He’s at two under, maybe three.”

Less than a minute later, it dawned on him.

“You’ve been filling out his scorecard, right?” he asked as we stood over his greenside chip on 18. I had been handed Korhonen’s scorecard more than four hours ago, and while I had kept good care of it, there were 17 unmarked boxes.

Was it my job to mark those tallies? Was it Joel’s? I hadn’t said more than a word or two to Korhonen all round long, let alone tracked his chips and putts. Thankfully, behind the everyman facade, Dahmen is hyper-aware.

He grabbed the card from me and rattled off every Korhonen score in about 30 seconds, all from memory. I was equal parts impressed and relieved. But I’d be lying if I didn’t think it distracted us from the up and down that awaited us.

Did Joel rush through his chip in the immediate aftermath of scorecard-gate, sending his ball skidding past the hole and off the green? Perhaps. Did I step in to stop him at any point? No. Would a veteran caddie have asked him to reset and take his time? Probably.

Joel’s par putt from off the green snuck onto the putting surface and his bogey try burned the edge. He tapped in for double to close his round. Seventy-six strokes, six over par. As the wind picked up in the afternoon and the cut line projections inched closer to two over par, that finishing double bogey felt even worse. 

That’s one feeling players and caddies of all levels can agree on: regret.

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Kidd may have had an impossible job, injecting something so new into an area where hundreds of years of golf, fishing and hunting had taken place. You learn what he was up against by talking with locals. The Castle remains a polarizing entity 14 years later. 

“It was a waste of an opportunity,” said Ronald Sandford the other day over breakfast at The Cottage Kitchen. After 45 minutes, I felt confident no one in the area knew golf like he does. Save for maybe his breakfast partner Jim Rait, whose first golf memory was watching Sam Snead win the 1946 Open. But I had played the course with a friend who essentially majored in golf at the university, and he tended to like the challenge. So did I, but once I shared, Rait jumped in to agree with his pal, saying that land was waiting for a great course, and didn’t receive one. 

The three of us had a lovely discussion about all things golf — The Open, Bryson, LIV, etc. — and were able to agree upon one thing about the Castle Course: it has one of the best views of town. 

The view from the Castle Course is so good, it’s literally the lead photo on the website for the St. Andrews Community Council. It captures the evening sun splashed against the St. Andrews Pier jutting out into the sea, and the remaining framework of the original St. Andrews Cathedral, rock laid more than 800 years ago. 

If it’s windy in town, I was told, you better believe it’s windier at the Castle Course. It was apt advice, and perhaps a core reason for any locals who dislike it. The course’s greens are unlike any other in the area, it seems, tiered and intense. In the firmness of summer, wedge shots with a slight breeze are rejected left and right. Perhaps that’s the point, but it can feel outright vengeful. Play it on a windy day and the Castle Course can be the toughest layout in St. Andrews, and maybe that’s why it’s so polarizing. The Old Course is as straightforward as it gets: if it ends up there, why’d you hit it there? At the Castle Course, not every good shot is rewarded with a good result. They’ve removed some grassy mounds from the middle of fairways as that was a contentious matter early on. It felt right when another friend of mine mentioned how it felt like playing Whistling Straits, America’s midwestern interpretation of links golf. 

There’s a challenge in that type of course that sickos like me adore — make me earn that 86 — and perhaps some locals despise. I implored Jim and Ronald with my obsession with the challenge, and we agreed on one more thing: any lingering distaste is washed away by the 17th and 18th holes, which reset the palate entirely. They’re an absolute treat.

Five miles up the hill, you’ll find an even more difficult course: The Duke’s. 

Few out-of-towners know much about The Duke’s — it’s just 27 years old, surrounded by centuries of history — but they’re bound to begin to. The course is owned by Herb Kohler and is connected to the Old Course hotel. Visiting town for a few days? The hotel runs a free shuttle up to The Duke’s. Key word in that sentence: Up. 

The Duke’s is a heathland course elevated up on the hills just outside of St. Andrews’ official town borders. Sean the 8 handicap has struggled mightily to break 90 from its men’s tees, which stretch to 7,000 yards. It has championship tees — named the Tiger Tees — that go back past 7,500, where, for a decade, the course record was 73, one over. Name another course whose record is over par.  

2021 Amateur Champion Laird Shepherd is a member, who finally took down that record last year with fresh Duke’s history: even par. Name another course whose record is even par. Shepherd plays out of The Duke’s for that exact reason. It’s hard, and it’s a middle ground between linksland and the more Americanized version of courses that pro golfers need to dominate in order to make a career. Winning the Amateur for a berth in this year’s Masters was a pretty good start. 

Like the Castle Course, it’s easy to get beaten up by The Duke’s. Fellas like me need to muster up some courage and play from a tee box (or two) up. But like the Castle, the 17th and 18th, again, are phenomenal golf holes. A par on either will set you straight with the prize of finishing being a simple as turning around to see the town and all its tanned rock bathed in sunlight.

St. Andrews thing I’m now obsessed with: No Ball Games

Among the relics of history littered across the residential portions of town are signs that say simply “No ball games.” No football, no kickabouts. No games that involve balls.

The signs confuse me to no end this time of year, when the sun doesn’t officially set until after 10 p.m., something 8-year-old Sean would have loved to experience in a neighborhood dominated by kickball. But here in Scotland, some green space is cherished and controlled.

Until it isn’t.

The signs have actually been a huge point of contention in various locales across the country as it stimulates a “no fun to be had” mentality for the local youth. According to the Scottish Government, these signs are no longer issued, and most importantly they cannot be enforced. Here, in Fife, they stay up in spots where they are asked to stay up, and brought down in spots where they’re asked to be brought down. Add it to the endless list of things that make life in St. Andrews simple.

Got an idea for a Summer in Scotland story? — I’ll hear them all! Just send a note to sean.zak@golf.com. 

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The post On Sundays, The Old Course at St. Andrews becomes a dog park appeared first on Golf.

I can see for hundreds of yards, uninhibited, and at the moment, there are eight dogs in the purview, prancing around the property. Behind me, there’s another handful, barking loud enough to be heard above the clanking grandstand construction. 

One of the dogs behind me, a black bulldog named Cato, has been enjoying his time around the 17th green, but just bounded onto the Swilcan Bridge, interrupting a cherished photo. “Get down here, Cato,” his owner said. “That’s a very special bridge, Cato.”

It is a special bridge, Cato, but thus goes Sundays at the Old Course, where pooches run free and owners respectfully keep them from causing too much trouble. Stretching to 45 acres, The Old Course on Sundays is easily among the biggest dog parks in the world. The only rules are obvious: 1. Please pick up after your four-legged friend. 2. Please stay off the greens. (The latter is only loosely followed.)

It was on the 15th green where I found Ziggy the 2-year-old beagle, named after David Bowie for his one blue eye and one brown eye. Ziggy had just taken on speedy advances from a couple of rambunctious greyhounds — George and Bingley — and was tuckered out. So Ziggy sat there on the edge of the green, right where some famous golfer will make a birdie putt in three weeks, ignoring the calls of his owners. Ziggy loves visiting the Old Course, but thankfully there is fencing up with the championship coming. Because Ziggy has taken interest in the driving range, in the past, and that’s much more dangerous.

Eventually, Ziggy turned to catch up with Mom and Dad. The walk, golfers know, is out and back at St. Andrews, three miles in total. It follows the shape of a shallow fish hook, which provides endless opportunity for rendezvous.

Geoff Shackelford got it right when he listed out his three criteria for a great golf course:

1. Do you want to play this course everyday?

2. When you leave this course can you remember every hole?

3. Is it a place you’d want to take your dog for a walk?

The Old obviously checks the box, but differently than its counterparts in America. In the States, these Sundays just aren’t possible, because in America, we live in overabundance. We love our Sunday rounds, and we love our courses green as possible, watered down and soft, so we can spin wedge shots backward on the green. Dogs tear that turf up, so keep them on a leash. Here in Scotland, where the turf is really only watered by Mother Nature, leashes are only a suggestion. The ground here holds sturdy under those canine claws.

All of this is possible because hundreds of years ago it was decided that there should be no golf on Sundays. It went against religion. And while the other six St. Andrews Links courses are open on Sundays, the Old is almost always closed, barring special events like the Links Trust Amateur earlier this month or, say, when Tiger Woods and the boys come to town in July.

For now it’s Ziggy Turfdust and the many friends he crosses paths with: Hamish the west highland terrier, Bailey the lhasa apso, Ava the cockapoo and Indi the golden doodle. All their owners are locals, with afternoon plans to visit the Jigger Inn, the pub that juts up against the 17th hole.

But St. Andrews on Sundays attracts dog owners from afar as well. Finn the English working cocker spaniel’s parents were in town on holiday, up from southwest England. Finn was invited to join because, well, “there’s nice places to walk around here in Scotland.” The West Sands Beach is the Old’s main competitor. Harris, a lhasa apso-bichon frise mix, was in town from Dundee, just 13 miles away. He’s named after the Scottish island off the west coast. “If you want to see Bahama beaches but with Scottish climate [the Isle of Harris] is the place to go,” his owner, Julie-Anne Alexander, said, launching a tennis ball with a “Chuckit!” stick. Harris’ dad, Kevin, is an avid golfer who plays out at Carnoustie, and was less focused on the dog, more interested in the shape of the greens ahead of The Open. But he was entitled to do as he pleased. This was Father’s Day, after all, and his son was waiting on his parents for lunch at the Jigger.

Around that time, a 10-year-old cocker spaniel named Maisie sat on the steps beside the 18th green. This was her first time walking the Old Course. “She’s beautiful,” her owner, Isobel Dallas said, stroking Maisie’s long, hairy ears. Maisie already had her run of the course, and looked out over it just like golfers do the other six days of the week. As she got up to leave, a shepherd launched past her, bounding down those steps — much like a golfer, too — leash off, ready to take on The Old.

Got an idea for a Summer in Scotland story? — I’ll hear them all! Just send a note to sean.zak@golf.com. 

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