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Fairways and greens,

Ed and Charles

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Upon arrival, we unloaded and headed into the locker rooms to layer up. Anyone who has been to Scotland’s west coast knows that even on the verge of summer, the skies can give you all four seasons in one day. Blustery in the morning, we knew we had to layer up, so Charlie and I opted for the Glenmuir Turtleneck in White with our Knox sweaters firmly on top. Fin and Nick wore slightly different combinations, but when we all rolled onto the first tee box with Glenmuir knitwear on, I knew we were well equipped to make the journey south towards the Postage Stamp.

Starting strong at Troon is critical, with the Firth of Clyde and the Isle of Arran off to one’s right, and a sea of bunkers to the left. Known as the WW2 course, as one typically goes out in 19(39) and comes home in 19(45). It lures you in with a false sense of security, with the overwhelming serenity which is felt as soon as you stand on the first tee. The first six typically play down wind, but deep down you know that the real battle lies in the six back and forth holes and the final test which is the final six, seemingly always into wind.

A few well placed shots early on will make you believe that you have a real score on your hands. Make one or two pars, hit a few good wedge shots, and keep the ball in play off the tee and you’re golden. Until, you reach the par five, sixth hole, known as Turnberry, which famously became the longest hole on the Open Rota last year, at a staggering 623 yards. It serves as a vast contrast to the eight, the famous Postage Stamp, which played as little as 98 yards during last year’s Open Championship. It is safe to say we were more prone to luck than skill, as we miraculously put 3 balls on the green on the Postage Stamp, walking away with two birdies and a near ace. However, anyone who has seen or played the hole knows the runoff to the right side is no joke, and there was also a snowman on the scorecard, proving that the most difficult holes do not have to be the longest. We did not fare as well on hole six, where strategically stringing three shots together was a much more difficult task.

As we made the turn, we dropped balls and teed it up from the championship tees on number ten, hitting up and over the huge mounds on the left side, not exactly knowing where the railway begins to cut in. We trekked up and around to the fairway and the infamous Scottish sun began to show itself. It was a nice gesture but in many ways a bit cruel, as the golf course was ready to show its teeth.

The eleventh hole was described as the most difficult hole on the Open Rota by both Palmer and Nicklaus, citing the gorse down the left and railway to the right, there truly is no room for error off the tee. The second shot does not get easier, typically with a long iron in hand and playing to a saucepan green. After making a big number, the course treats you to one last downwind hole, before heading north until you reach the clubhouse. Sixteen, seventeen and eighteen are a spectacular finish, offering one last scoring opportunity on the par five and then demanding one of your best shots of the round on the next tee box. Eighteen will still get your heart racing, requiring precision to avoid a pot bunker off the tee, and composure on the approach, as the main smoking room of the clubhouse sits a mere three paces off the back of the green. Right of the green sits the “Greg Norman” bunker, where Stenson was famously two yards shy of falling victim in 2016.

It is hard not to get into the spirit of the Open when playing Royal Troon, just knowing that the greats of the game have all graced these fairways before you. Palmer and Watson lead the list of historical greats, but the battle between Stenson and Mickleson dominate recent memory. At the end of the day, there are few places that rival this catalogue of history, and coming in off the course, taking the Glenmuir kit off, throwing on jacket and tie, and sitting down and sharing a drink in the lounge is the best way to debrief the round. Recapping our groups' best ball match induced many laughs, as we discussed holes which were won by scores of par and bogey, contrary to the final round of 2016’s Open where the leaders battled and halved holes in birdie. Nonetheless, the fun we had rivaled theirs, and it is safe to say that Royal Troon and the west coast of Scotland is any golfer’s paradise.

Our main objective, naturally, was golf. The Royal & Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews host the Local Clubs Gold Medal each year, boasting a field of the top golfers from the R&A, The New Club, The St Andrews Golf Club and the University Golf Club in the mens section. The date was set for Sunday 19th May and our eyes were on the infamous prize. Retelling the story is far less glamorous than we had hoped, but I’ll start at the beginning.

I hustled across London to Kings Cross Station on Friday afternoon to catch the 6pm train to Leuchars. I wasn’t graced with a direct train so I was acutely aware that might change of train in Edinburgh would be a taxing affair. But high in spirits and fuelled by a pint of crisp lager at the station watering hole, the anticipation to return home was growing by the minute. Almost all high quality golf trips from London start at Kings Cross St Pancras. You’re either heading north to the motherland, or you’re heading south easterly to the pristine links at Sandwich. Leaving the west of London golf aside, it is the inevitable start line for golf adventures worth taking.

Some daring folk elect to fly up to Scotland from London City airport, dashing straight from work and arriving in Edinburgh in good time. I’m of the opinion that this method is all too quick. Within the first few sips of your gin and tonic on the plane, you’re already making your descent to Edinburgh. The 45 minutes of flight time doesn’t allow for the same level of contemplation, and the crescendo of excitement and day dream that builds ever slowly on the LNER service northward is an essential part of the grounding process.

Not quite a gin and tonic at cruising altitude, my 4 pack of Beavertown Gamma Ray American Pale Ale’s were hitting the spot nicely. As the sun made its way toward the horizon on my left I threw on some Open highlights from past championships at St Andrews to get in the Links frame of mind. I’d heard from the boys that April and May had been historically dry - some 28 days of unbroken sunshine and warm weather had dried the fairways and hardened the greens. Accordingly, I needed to get my expectations back to the right place. I was wearing my new Johnstone vest from Glenmuir, newly adorned with a rather nice white Eden ring logo. A judder on the tracks sent a can of beer spilling over the rim and down the front of the vest. It spilled off in little pellets and into my lap. I was glad to have tested out the waterproofing feature in an appropriately rigorous test.

We crossed the Scottish border in good time. The Open highlights had switched to the live coverage of the PGA at Quail Hollow CC as the night drew later, and I was reminiscing about my illustrious round there last summer whilst visiting Charlotte. It was hard then, it must be impossible now, I thought. Rough like cabbage eats up the ball and snarls back at you when you hopelessly attempt to retrieve your errant drive and put the ball back in play. It was shaping up to be a good championship. Knowing that the coverage would be on late into the evening in the Dunvegan made the prospects for the weekend extremely positive.

All good trips start with some form of setback. I like to think of these as delaying ones arrival in a way that keeps the giddy anticipation alive. As we trundled along the East Lothian coastline we came to a slow halt and the tannoy speakers itched out a cryptic message. Somehow, someway, there was a fire on the tracks between Dunbar (very apt) and Edinburgh. We could not pass through until the fire had been extinguished, we were told. Fortunately, I had booked a connecting train that allowed for 45 minutes of layover at Waverley station but as the night drew on, this layover was being eaten up. Once we hit the 30 minute mark of being stationary on the platform at Dunbar station, I’d started to think of backup strategies. Staying in Edinburgh for the night and catching the early bird train to Leuchars seemed like the most likely option - though it’s appeal was far from optimal. This setback was starting to look like a minor catastrophe in the minor scheme of things for the weekend schedule. Finally, after an hour, we got moving and pulled into Waverley station an hour and five minutes later. Comically, I watched from the window as my train to Leuchars pulled out of the station just as we arrived. It was the last carriage home for the night and this didn’t sit well with me.

Uber came to the rescue. Given that we were an hour late, we were issued a full refund for the train tickets and the reinvestment into a taxi seemed like the best idea at the time. Called, hailed and sat in the back of the Toyota people carrier, my driver and I were blistering out of Edinburgh with the Grey Toon in mind. Setbacks must not define a trip. I was making it to St Andrews that evening by any means necessary.

I pulled up to The Links, our proud ‘Eden HQ’, at 1:15AM. The fresh sea air was welcomed after a long evening of travel and the Old Course lay sleeping over the fence. Despite the lack of light, you could see the burnt grass and fast conditions clearly down the 1st and 18th, both catching some nightly respite from the ongoing barrage of the warm conditions. I dumped my stuff, linked up with the boys who’d kindly stayed awake for my arrival and we headed out to the bar. A Belhaven Best was the only solution to my tumultuous evening. The couch at 14 The Links, if you ever find yourself horizontal there, overlooking the R&A clubhouse and the 18th green is the perfect bed for a golf trip to St Andrews.

The decision to arrive the night before paid it’s dividends the next morning. We had a full day planned with two tee times, 36 holes on the agenda and a mission to film as much as possible. We rolled across to the Jubilee starter ready for our 10:36 departure. The sun was blazing and the beige fairways of the Jube looked even more slick than on the Old. Dotted amongst the brown carpet ahead, jade coloured greens, watered and healthy, stood valiant. Charlie and Will pounded long irons down the middle and I hit a fairway finding stinger 3 wood to start the weekend. More of that to come, I thought.

Buckle in, this is going to be interesting. Unfortunately, for the regular readers of this site and those currently reading this here article, you will not be getting the usual eloquent writing of Ed or the camera work of our dear Charles. Instead, you are going to have to strap into what will inevitably be a chopped up piece of prose that was sent back and forth, some 45 times, between Luis and Stuart. Either way – try to look past the typos and enjoy a look behind the gates at the Tree Farm.

To say we came in hot was a bit of an understatement. After a beyond raucous evening in Charlotte, involving a case of Miller Lite, two bottles of claret and a few unlucky ladies, Stuart and Luis crawled their way past the gate of the Tree Farm. We made our way down Tree Farms very own Magnolia Lane (this was actually a construction entrance due to the damage of Hurricane Helene) and the hangovers were subsiding as excitement kicked. As we wound our way through this temporary entrance, we caught a glimpse of 16 green and 17 through the windows of our rented truck. The anticipation was palpable as we rolled by the newly erected members’ cabins and toward the club house.

We pulled up to a flurry of activity. The traditional bag drop and attendant were replaced by a young man stoking a fire, another helping us unpack the truck and move our clubs onto a homemade pine tree bag rack. A caddy (obviously well versed in his DC golf) asked if we really had to come this far to play golf just because Chevy Chase was under renovation. The Pro Staff and a Starter were eagerly waiting at the door to show us the facilities and take care of us after our journey. The sense of open welcomeness was unmistakable and could only be described as one thing, Southern Hospitality.

Before I continue, I think it is important to reflect on the immense summer of golf the Eden boys enjoyed (specifically Luis & Stu). Visiting clubs like Rockaway, Piping Rock, Congressional, the R&A, Renaissance, National Golf Links of America, please see the appendix at the bottom. This felt like as much of a clubhouse or home to golfers as any of those, despite being only a tent. That is right I said a tent, well the kind people get married in, but nonetheless a tent. It was set up such that the furthest left side acted as a locker room for members and their guests, the centre was one of the most impressively stocked pro shops I may have ever seen. The right side boasted a healthily stocked canteen, prepared with the finest smoked Carolina barbecue. It had all the trimmings of a proper clubhouse and just as much spirit as the behemoths listed above. I know everyone on the trip felt beyond lucky to see Tree Farm at such an early stage and we are certain the membership at Tree Farm will fill their new clubhouse with the same energy.

After an unbelievable welcome, we settled into a fantastic catered lunch. Barbecue sandwiches, fried chicken, even banana pudding. The pro sat with us, told us stories and continued to bring four newcomers into the fold and the magic that is Tree Farm. Shortly after lunch the JD, the caddy master, made his way over to let us know that we could tee off whenever best suited. Immediately, we jostled our caddies, grabbed a fresh bag of balls from the Tree Farm Polaris and hit the range. With the first balls in the air, the hangover returned with a vengeance. Battling through the ‘seeing double’, the mild pangs of nausea and otherwise regrettable decisions, we managed to find a beer on the way first tee and got ourselves back in gear.

As you can see above the Tree Farm is littered with Yeti coolers. (Something we hope they never change), so you are never short of a water, beer, or Gatorade. Whoever put the coolers out that day probably also laid out the pins. We say that because the first beer cooler was immediately between the range and the first tee shot. A welcome 185yd tee shot over a raving to a short sided pin on a beast of a redan-esque par 3. The first is certainly a departure from the unspoken ancient Scottish tradition of designers implementing a ‘warm up hole’ (please reference the St Andrews New Course, Gullane no. 1, Muirfield, etc). Either way, the group got off to a strong start and got away from the first hole relatively unscathed, despite some dicey putting. One aside before this story continues, is that the operations team at Tree Farm is one of the best in the game. Warm welcomes, ice cold beer, top caddies, and freshly cut and rolled greens with new cups, firm lips and & painted edges. Given the immaculate conditions, you might be under the impression that our putts were dropping comfortably into the hole on the high side, with perfect pace and an intention. Believe us, and much to our dismay, it was anything but.

The second hole settles you into your round and starts to bring you into the rest of Doak’s fair but challenging design. The second relies on a deceptively daunting tee shot. What appears to be a prelude to Tree Farms signature risk-reward dogleg par 5 13th, is actually a fairly benign tee shot. You can even top your tee ball 160 years and still hit the green with a well struck four iron, not that I am speaking from experience. But this hole does set the tone for the remainder of the round. The course does not set out to eat you alive on shot one, the endearing cartoon logo ‘Tree Monster’ is not lurking behind every tee. Rather, the challenge Doak and Blair pose to the lucky few that loop Tree Farm is within the player. Each hole has an interesting and unique green complex. Naturally, good shots are rewarded, and well struck irons can yield plentiful birdies. Greens like the 6th can funnel pulled tee shots towards the pin, and the 12th’s Bearitz style green can help out the lucky player. The 5th hole incorporates, ‘Rye Brows’ (see comparison shot between our photo and Ed’s from Rye) or as they are locally known ‘Kye Brows’ which present a humorous but real challenge to the short sided player that prefers a putter over a wedge. However, for the same ambitious putter: most shots falling short of the green can be played with the flat-stick from anywhere within 50 yards. Back to the point about the challenge being within the player. It is not to be said that the course is easy or simple to loop. Unique challenges like the ‘Rye Brows’ and the intimidating eye-lines are part of the experience at Tree Farm. But the challenge remains within the player. The course is as hard as you make it. Short tee balls leave long approaches into interesting and challenging greens. Poor positioning off the tee can cripple a man until the next tee shot. The smartest players need only to rely on their caddies for the requisite knowledge to score.

This is the part of the round that makes the memories and changes scores, your caddy. It cannot be stressed enough what a difference the man you meet 15 minutes before your tee time can have on your round and the larger experience. Not to digress, but this phenomenon is apparent to anyone who studied at the University of St Andrews or ever held a links tickets. At every cocktail party, and every time you are engaged in a conversation about Scotland (or the unwelcome confusion with Ireland) the caddy comes up. Usually it is with a bad accent, but always with a big smile. Either way, the caddies at Tree Farm were top notch. Scott and Nick sherpa’d us around the property faithfully never missing a beat and never letting a bad shot slow the day. Most importantly, they give you the colour needed to make the course work. They opened us up to new target lines and quickly handed the group a new ball on 15 when it was time for everyone to reload.

That last anecdote brings us to the finish at Tree Farm which was nothing short of spectacular. Fifteen is another Redan type green, with a dramatic topological scene that cannot be captured with one snap. A ridge runs from the right side of the hole, across the green, and down to a deep bunker (comparable to Hell Bunker). Luckily, the tight grass face feeds arrant balls away from the edge of the bunker and towards flat lies for a fair shot at an up and down (ask Luis). The green is a special spot on the course and makes for an optimal photo before taking on the three hole stretch home.

It is hard to quantify if the last few holes of a course are better or just easier to romanticise, especially as the sun is setting over the Carolina Pines, expectations have been far surpassed and an appreciation for golf and its magic is firmly in mind. Sixteen and seventeen are nothing short of amazing. The sixteenth plays over a hill and down towards a very special punch bowl green. This is the same hole we saw through the dusty truck window as we drove in, what felt like a lifetime ago. Lipping out a few birdie putts left us salivating as we approached the tee on seventeen. A short gap wedge over the road to a tight pin felt like the perfect way to close out the round. A certain uneasy confidence over a short club and of course the ill placed hope for the ultimate hole in one. I can tell you safely that none of us hit a hole in one. None of us even scared it. But I think we all had butterflies over that tee shot.

The finishing hole is just amazing, reminiscent of 18 at North Berwick. It’s a drivable par 4 with a large backstop keeping the hardest hit balls from rolling into the future bar patio. Our group managed a few great tee shots, one even having a better look at the aforementioned hole in one. But it was undeniable – the group was grinning from ear to ear as we walked towards the end of our round. A few more shots were hit and jokes exchanged but by the time the 18th green was reached it was all over and we just enjoyed as we all watched Phill roll in a smooth two (four, if you count the mulligan).

Sure enough, the cooler man was wise enough to place the Yeti’s such that we could snag one more cold one as we walked back and added up the card. That walk in the South Carolina evening haze was a memory to behold. It is hard to put a great golf experience into words, whether it is recounting a Muirfield lunch or a round at Grove XXIII, but I can say with confidence that a round at Tree Farm is safely within that circle. Tree Farm might be new. It certainly doesn’t have an ancient history associated with its Links (or at least, not yet). But it represents a trend in golf which cannot be ignored, the very fact that golf is returning to its roots. I don’t mean that the game is returning to Scotland - it is far more impressive than this. Golf is re-democratising itself, back to the people, for the love of the game itself. It’s returning to the vistas, the camaraderie, the elusive pure strike, the stories and adventures, and the endless pursuit that it so greatly demands. Tree Farm is leading this charge, and we couldn’t be happier about it

A special thanks to my father, Dale Powell, and friend of Eden, Phil Norton, for coming along and making this trip even more special than the golf could’ve done alone.

As our arrival was late in the afternoon, the clubhouse had already closed for the day. Luckily, Ullapool primary operates by the honor box. I logged our names on the guest sheet, slipped a few notes in the metal box, pulled up my long socks, and headed to the first tee.

The first hole exhibits some of the track’s core features, being raised tee boxes, raised greens, and a short but tricky spirit. The dogleg left leads us away from the clubhouse and towards the water. Once the entry hole is completed, we walk through a short wooded path and the course quickly changes its tone. Unveiled to us is a downhill par three, hitting over a cliffs edge down towards a green at sea level. Thus begins the ‘signature stretch as we’ll call it. Seemingly short at just over 140 yards on the day, an unassuming breeze and elevation calculation becomes quite difficult, with both of us missing the green.

Moving along to the third, we’re met with a daunting tee shot: rocky beach to our left and a hillside of gorse along the right. In between the trouble lies a narrow fairway, 30 yards across at it’s widest point, and the 335 hole suddenly felt quite challenging. In predictable fashion, we found the trouble on both sides. My father had better luck than myself as his ball came to rest on a bed of seaweed and was able to play up from the beach. I, on the other hand, found the gorse on the nightside and was easily out of the hole. The green complex nestled nicely in-between the water and hillside and provided a sense of tranquility being sheltered from the wind. Climb the hill and we’ve arrived at hole four, another downhill par three with sweeping views of the loch to the north. This green is particularly interesting, with a central ridge running horizontal as the putting surface falls off on both sides, front and back.

Hole five offers true risk and reward, playing around 265 uphill in the other direction. Bunkers surround the small green, and I fell victim to the front left trap off of my tee shot. Unable to get up and down, I walked away mildly unsatisfied with a par.

The remaining holes snake back and forth as we make our way back to the clubhouse, and the surrounding scenery does not get old. What Ullapool lacks in length, it more than makes up in the dramatic Scottish countryside, views of the North Atlantic and the Outer Hebrides. In my eyes, the charm of 9 hole golf never gets old, and Ullapool exemplifies this. A perfect duration of golf and easy difficulty, Ullapool is as enjoyable as golf can be.

We arrived at Congressional Country Club, or ‘Congo’ (as it is gently referred by the membership, locals and other familiars), on a warm Saturday morning in August. Once again racing through the suburban DC traffic, we pulled into the gates at what you might call a ‘healthy pace’. To our right, CCC members lined the range bays that lay atop picturesque green turf like a battalion, bombarding the vast space outstretching with white morning missiles. Dew coated divots were popping up and rising into the air with a satisfying synchronicity and of course, a certain grace, that should only be expected at such a club. With a wave to our host, who was boldly leading the brigade in this impressive turf display, we headed for the clubhouse to change, freshen up and prepare for what lay ahead. In keeping with habits, we left little time for a session on the practice tee ourselves. Nor time for a lengthy warm-up on the enormous and undulating putting green, akin to Scottish surface, no less, and so it was that we were rather unacquainted with the slippery green-speeds that we were about to face on the course. With this error unrealised, and full of all the eagerness that days like this muster, it was onto the first tee with excitement, joy and gratitude.

On our way over, we were introduced to our noble sherpa for the morning. Stuart and I, with our muted pink, matching Mackenzie’s were given the honour of spending our day with Corey, a former US Marine turned caddy. I apologised for the weight of our bags, despite their small and slender profile. You can never have enough balls, I jested, to which Stuart chimed in, nor whiskey! With terrifying ease, he slung them over his shoulders and marched us onward to the first hole. We were in for a treat.

We elected to have a sociable two man Best Ball from the Gold tees, as ‘play well’s’ were circulated amongst the group. The first hole of the Blue Course at Congressional is a template handshake hole, measuring 365 yards in length with a defining ‘straightaway’ shape. Two bunkers eat into the fairway, a shorter left-side bunker and a glove-like landing zone bunker on the right, intent on catching the ball of any player who tries to hit a cut off the left trap. Both of these guards were firmly in my head as I teed up my ball, took a few shaky practice swings and prayed that my 3-metal would get airborne - early in the morning, its a case of going back to basics. Yet, quite against all odds, a piercing low cut danced off the face of my fairway wood, gently falling off the left bunker as planned and nestling up just long of the right-side sand. As we say quite often at Eden Athletic, it’s better to be lucky than good.

CCC has undergone a significant transformation of its Blue Course under the guidance of esteemed architect Andrew Green. The project aimed to elevate the course's reputation to match that of the club's iconic Spanish Revival clubhouse, a symbol for which the club is globally known. Green's work, completed in 2020, was not a restoration nor a modernisation, but rather a reimagining of the course into a "new-old" design that respects its historical roots while adapting to contemporary needs. The standout feature of these renovations was the excavation of some thousands of trees from in between holes, returning most of the intermediary rough to a wispy fescue, akin to many of the top courses in the US nowadays (think Erin Hills, Pinehurst No.2, Whistling Straits and the noble Greats up on Long Island).

However, the Blue Course has had a long history of ‘face-lifts’. It has undergone multiple changes since its original 1924 design by Devereux Emmet, and over the years it has seen modifications by Robert Trent Jones Sr and Rees Jones, among others. As a result, it has been the host to US Open Championships, PGA Championships, US Senior Open’s and soon to be Ryder Cups. In fact, the most recent renovations are so defining that watching highlights from McIlroy’s 2011 US Open Victory is almost unrecognisable, save from the glimpses of the characteristic clubhouse. Green’s recent overhaul has addressed a variety of pressing agronomic issues, stemming from the heavy clay soil and tree root overgrowth. Green’s work has expanded fairways, redesigned bunkers and introduced native fescue areas, creating a more open and natural aesthetic. This ‘culling’ was in pursuit of a singular aim, we were told: for players to be able to see the clubhouse from every hole on the course. You can only respect a club that has such a pride in their clubhouse that they would commit extensive efforts to make it the standout landmark. The redesigned Blue Course now boasts a more seamless routing, improved playability and strategic optionality that cater to all standards of golfer. Notable changes include a new short par-3 10th hole and the improved risk-reward of the outstanding short par-4 8th hole.

I walked up the first to my drive that sat atop the immaculate fairway turf. The number was 125 yards to a tucked, short right pin. Unsure of how much my wedges would spin, or how the greens would react to them, I hit a flighted gap wedge long and left of the pin. Without realising and definitely without my intention, the ball spun down the green and came to a rest some 12 feet from the hole. A putt followed by a second putt, and we were off to the races with a rather disappointing yet always welcome par.

The second hole is as hard as an early round par 3 as you will ever face. Dramatically uphill, framed by run-offs to the right, deep green side bunkers clustered like a shotgun spray on the left, the hole demands a committed long iron approach. I felt rather comforted looking back toward the championship tee box from the gold tees, where professionals have anywhere from 230-265 yards to hold the putting surface. It made our 205 number seem like a welcomed ease. Though, having flared my 6-iron short and left, I was immeasurably happy with my 2 putt bogey.

Turning back toward the clubhouse as we arrived on the third, it was clear just how successful Green’s changes had been. Our host began telling us tales of the auld Blue Course, where you would venture off into the tree-lined chutes that defined the previous iteration and not get afforded a glimpse of an adjacent hole almost the entire way around, let alone the clubhouse. With its terracotta roof and pearly white walls, that reflected the soft summer morning rays with a homely glow, it stands nowadays like a North Star. A reminder both of where you’re heading and where you’ve come from, and, helpfully, a useful starting line, aiming aid and finishing point where the hole orientation permits. I’d been chatting with another Congressional member some days before, on a Monday night of plenteous Italian food, about the history of the iconic house and the club more generally. During World War II, I was masterfully told, the Congressional Country Club was used as a training facility and billeting ground for the Office of Strategic Services (OSS). The OSS was an early version of what became the CIA and American Special Forces, and trained soldiers for covert operations such as sabotage, spying, and undercover work. From 1943 to 1945, more than 2,500 soldiers passed through Congressional. The officers lived in the clubhouse, where the grand ballroom was turned into a classroom and the dining room was a mess hall. Looking up from our plates of linguine, amateur club historian and unofficial head of bandwidth alignment, Mark, was pointing at a coat of arms that hung on the far wall. Clearly a relic from this period, it stands unmoved over the members casual dining room and is a permanent reminder of the Club’s clandestine past.

We ventured on, clipping through holes 4,5 and 6 at a healthy pace. Other than a saving interlude from the cart girl on the 4th green, both Stuart and I were being chewed up by the Blue Course and its notoriously hard greens. To give ourselves credit, we were playing decent golf from tee-to-green but just couldn’t find the pace through the opening holes. That being said, off the tee we were like two repelling magnets. If I went left, Stuart would promptly send one high and right - and I mean Right, capital R. Compensating, his next ball would go left and mine would inevitably go right. Talk about sociable golf, and it meant Corey was zig-zagging most holes in spectacular fashion. A transfusion from the drinks cart was all it took to straighten things out, and we were onto the par 5 6th! Akin to the old design, surprisingly, the 5th hole has a line of trees on the left side of the fairway and a heavy set of trees down the right side, at the edge of the property boundary. We chatted as we strolled up to our tee balls, drinks in hand. It reminded me of the 3rd hole at Chevy, with a blind tee shot over the hill to a lowered green over the other side. Had I played it as intended, it would’ve been a walk in the park, but I found myself way left over the trees in the long green-side bunker of the 8th. Our host and I both, chopping out over the tree line to try and salvage a score. It’s safe to say we left with a bruise on the scorecard and a head spinning with what could’ve been.

Blemishes are expected out looping the Blue, but we arrived at the scoreable 6th with a renewed vigour. Time to put the hammer down. Bending right off the tee over the hill, the 6th cambers back again once in the fairway to a tiny green-site dangerously moated by a water hazard. Images of the 7th hole at Quail Hollow come to mind and visions of a vintage Tiger roping a fairway metal onto the putting surface. Corey and I discussed these outcomes at length, to which my over-confidence was met with some resistance. But, in true badger fashion, we decided that today was not the day to layup and the 5-wood was unsheathed for the first time in the round. Sometimes, you gotta look back and remember the feeling of intention, the excitement of the unlikely idea of managing to find green and the appreciation of our gracious host for my daring play. I try and cherish these feelings because, as I’m sure you’ve already realised, this is not what transpired. I came out of the swing early and my precious Pro V1x went sailing right and further right still. So far right in fact that it managed to find its way to dry land on the far side of the river on a thick, severely sloped bank of fescue. I dropped another in case, and put a very similar, very shoddy swing behind it. Two balls into the cabbage, one heart broken. Corey was off after the first like a bloodhound, crossing the hazard with both bags on his back like an agile mule. Shaming myself for my lack of discipline (and or execution), I arrived to where the trusty sherpa was stood to find that he’d located my first ball buried deep in the rough. The golf gods exist, I exclaimed. He sternly told me to hold the celebrations and I soon realised why. I faced a 50 yard pitch over the river I had so waywardly cleared to a short-sided pin. Yet, the lie was so bad that praying to just get it out was what we resorted to. Out, up and a 2 putt lead to a rather unlikely bogey. We laughed, I counted my lucky stars. Oh to love golf!

The uphill par 3 7th couldn’t handle our barrage of well flighted tee balls, all of which found the surface and 8 putts later, we were onto the 8th with 4 pars on the card. I’d spied the 8th hole from the 4th fairway, and had been eager to see it first hand. Arguably the best hole on the property, the 8th is an invitingly short par-4 measuring a mere 280 yards. A triad of bunkers, triangulated in perfect alignment, deter you from laying up with a mid-iron. The green is as slender as toothpick and is defended appropriately, with an orientation perpendicular to the tee box. A short sided bunker guards the front. The bailout long and left sucks your ball into yet another bunker or, if you’re lucky, fescue grass and an impossible shot to hold the green. You don’t even want to know about the catastrophic effects of going long of the 8th green. It doesn’t bear thinking about. The ideal shot, Corey told me, was a 265 yard 3 wood short and left, to a small landing zone that opens up the green as much as is possible. We executed on this plan beautifully. The tee ball finished up its journey short of the long left fairway bunker and it was a brush of a wedge into the back pin. I think about the 8th at Congo most days, scheming up different ways to play it on my next outing. It is a phenomenal golf hole.

We made the turn and headed straight for the halfway house. Stuart and I had played the 9th quite nicely, but very much saw its teeth on the green. Both of us had hit it long of the perilously deep pin over the ridge and onto the adjoining practice putting surface. Mesmerised by this odd yet satisfying cool feature, our three putts didn’t carry much weight. They should really have a hard helmet mandate for those dialling in there gate drills or speed control on the latter. Guests like us unknowingly throwing wedges over the green onto the practice site must be a common occurrence, we thought.

My trip to the US this summer was bookmarked by many a chicken salad wrap at the turn. They are a staple of American golf and pair very nicely with a double tequila soda, we soon found out. Of course, in Britain we have the famed Sunningdale sausage sandwich and the pork and haggis sausage roll found at the Old Course, both of which are favourites of mine. But the chicken salad wrap offers an analogous joy when playing in the heat and humidity of DC in the summertime. We were grateful for the lubrication as we arrived on the newly designed 10th tee. The former hole included a carry over the lake to a green that lay a knee-buckling mid iron away. Fortunately for us, the renovation brought the green this side of the enormous pond and was only a flick of a pitching or gap wedge. Brand new bunkers hugged the green on all sides, and any tee ball that has a hang-time of more than a few seconds has the risk of finding the pond that was taken out of play, or maybe not as the case may be. My partner Dale drained a lengthy par putt from across the green to save our better-ball score and bring us back into the match.

The back nine paddock at Congressional has a different feel to the front, which is newly characterised by a total devoid of trees, save for the trees that line the back of the 8th and the side of the 5th. The inward half has much more timber, arranged in such a fashion that trees stand independently sparse. They serve a function of framing, allowing the tough tee shots to be contextualised by a visual nudge of hanging branches and leaves. The 12th, for example, bends blindly left over a scabland of sand-traps and native area. Without the large tree to the left, and the cluster to the right, it would be extremely hard to conjure up a tunnel through which to smash a driver. In this sense, Green’s restraint in not removing these vital course aspects has our full commendation.

As our match started to get interesting, we were swiftly onto the closing half-dozen holes. The triple tiered green of the 14th had us stumped. Fortunately, it brought Dale and I further back into contention with my clean up for an unlikely par. Over the crest of the fairway on 16, we encountered one of the more postcard views at Congressional, if there is such a thing. A small white chapel lies beyond the green. With its steeple rising over the dense tree-line, it’s an extremely calming juncture in the round. Approach shots, bunker splashes or chip-ins, in my case, seem to be guided by a higher power and a benevolent hand. We gratefully took our communion blessings with us to closing pair of holes and with a match all-square after 17, it was all to play for.

As was expected, the final test of the long clubs in my bag, on the par 4 18th, required as focussed a mind as I could handle. The fairway banks steeply to the left and boasts a sliver of a landing zone through which to hold the very left edge of the short stuff. Accompanied by the gently waving Stars and Stripes, hoisted high on the flagpole in the right rough, it wasn’t hard to find the inner strength required. I pumped a 3-wood onto the landing lights with a soft touchdown an airline pilot would be envious of. A flighted flick of a gap wedge brought my ball spinning back toward the flagstick and setup a closing birdie to win the match. The loop finished in the manner that it started, with a fairytale excitement and a joy to be playing.

Debriefing in the clubhouse’s (exceptional) basement pub afterwards, over a bowl of lobster bisque, I got chatting to an English lady at an adjacent table about our round, my prolonged visit from the UK and the Anglo-themed irony of the pub we were sitting in. At this point, Congressional started to really feel like home.

We arrived at Chevy Chase Club with little than 5 minutes to spare. Scrambling to put our golf shoes on in what can only be described as a mass exhibition of ‘trunk scratchers’ was apparently embarrassing to our host. Given his involvement in our present lateness, however, he quickly rest his case. We threw our Mackenzie’s over our backs, locked the car and ran to the starters hut. The soft wave of chaos we brought to an otherwise blissfuly calm June morning in Maryland was extremely apparent. The friendly starter looked rightly confused at our attempts to run onto the tee box as a group of members lined up to let drives fly. As it so happened, we had mixed up our tee time for a time some 20 minutes before our turn at bat. Woefully apologetic and to calm our nerves, we actually had an extremely productive 20 minute practice session on the putting green. Sometimes red lights turn green.

Organised in the fall of 1892 by a group of men from the Metropolitan Club of Washington, D.C., the Chevy Chase Club emerged as a haven for those with a growing passion for horses, sports, and recreation. It provided a much-needed escape from the rapidly expanding city's hustle and bustle, offering a tranquil social centre for members and their families. By 1894, the Club secured its first permanent location on a historic tract that included the Bradley Farmhouse, a pre-revolutionary frame guest house. Golf made its debut at the Club in 1895 with just six holes, coinciding with the founding of the USGA. By 1897, the Club had acquired the 9.36-acre tract where the Bradley House stood. Today, the Chevy Chase Club boasts an impressive array of amenities: an 18-hole golf course, a golf practice facility, 17 outdoor tennis courts, four indoor courts, seven paddle tennis courts, a fitness centre, three swimming pools, an outdoor ice rink, an eighteen-room guest house, a nature trail, and greenhouses. Dining options are equally abundant, with three clubhouse dining rooms, full banquet facilities, two seasonal sports canteens, and a casual dining Winter Center.

In 1924, Charles “Hugh” Alison, a key figure in Harry Colt’s design firm, left his mark on the course during his nine-year tenure in the United States after the Great War, where he designed and revised over twenty courses. Chevy Chase Club was one of his notable revisions. Following World War II, Robert Trent Jones introduced further modifications, with additional changes made by Tom Clark in 1990.

The famed Top 100 website entry for CCC included two excerpts which I could not leave out of an honest write up about Chevy, and they are thus:

“Chevy Chase is known locally for its charming clubhouse, unhurried atmosphere, and pleasant golf course set on gently rolling topography. The reachable par-five 10th, with its fairway leaning towards a hazard along the left side and cutting in front of the green, is one of those rare holes that technology has improved. More people can now reach it in two, making the second shot from the slightly hanging lie over the water exhilarating.
”

— Tom Doak, in The Confidential Guide to Golf Courses

J. Drew Rogers, a golf course architect, also added that:

“In the early ‘90s, Arthur Hills was brought in to address the course’s irrigation storage issues. Together, we aimed to restore the course more in the Ross style, making it cohesive. Squared tee boxes, refined green surfaces, and restored bunkering were key elements of our effort. We also planned a storage lake at the back of the property to collect surface runoff, reducing reliance on costly city water for irrigation. This lake’s placement required reconfiguring several holes, including omitting the par-three 10th, but it also introduced dynamic, strategic, and aesthetic elements to the course.
Today, the course retains some echoes of its past, though it has certainly evolved. The bunkering style could be more authentically restored if the Club so desired, which would go a long way toward recapturing its original character. Nonetheless, this golf course is a true classic in every sense, one that was love at first sight for me. The Club maintains a relatively low profile, making it a rare gem that you must experience if invited.”

Our turn at bat had finally arrived. With the speed of the greens firmly etched into our minds, we headed for the first tee, which lies adjacent to the practice green and alongside a quaint little tree. I forget of which type it is, but glancing back toward the clubhouse, with its grandiose and imposing oak tree that, unmoved, stands watch similarly alongside, over the course and its happenings, it is acutely evident that this little tree, adjacent to the first tee, has the very same function. Though small, it grants the first tee box some welcomed shade and privacy, as if you are teeing off from under some colonial veranda. A soft nod of good luck from the property, for the adventure ahead. A calm and piercing tee shot is sure to follow, and away we went.

The journey begins with three difficult tee shots down the chutes of three equally challenging par 4 holes. The first bends left, with an ominous bunker looming to the left of the fairway that narrows in the likely landing area of well hit drive. Downhill to a green, finding the dance floor is an imperative. The second is a straightaway drive over a blind ridge. A confidence for the correct line is mandatory, and a bailout to the right will leave you in a shallow fairway bunker, complete with blindingly white sand. The third plays just plain difficult; from the narrow tee shot to a right-to-left sloping fairway, to an inevitable awkward lie in said fairway, if at all you find it, to a raised, fast green with severe run-offs, bunkering and thick rough standing guard. If you get through these holes, unscathed, you are not out of the danger zone just yet.

The boys and I bombed and gouged. Warming up slowly but surely, and prepping ourselves for the challenge ahead. With the first 3 holes behind us, we ventured to the 4th tee box in need of water and a match update. A friendly 1-up was the state of play, yet what lay before us was set to at least rock the tables. Out of the frying pan and straight into the fire. The 4th hole at Chevy Chase Club, a magnificent par 3, might be one of the very best I’ve played in recent memory. With hints of the 11th at St Andrews, aptly named ‘High’, with a blend of Augusta National’s 12th hole, ‘Golden Bell’, which sits steadfast in the middle of the acclaimed, and locally inspired, Amen Corner, this 4th hole is as tricksy as it sounds. A flighted tee ball over a pond is required to carry the hazard, yet distance control is mandatory, for a player must hold an otherwise impossibly shallow green to avoid the heavy bunkers that lie behind. If the picture I am describing seems overly dramatic, let it be known that if offered a bogey on the tee box, we would’ve all taken it without question. If you make a par on the 4th, you’ve played it exquisitely. If, god forbid, you make a birdie, you better quit while you’re ahead. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.

Dropped shots, shattered egos and grief for lost golf balls can be well and truly rectified on the memorably short 5th hole, the lengthy par 4 6th and 7th hole and, if played strategically, the par 5 8th hole. Each with their own offering of challenge, be it a sharp dogleg to the right off the tee, or a punishingly angled green site.

We walked through the woods toward the ninth tee box with all the glee of little children. The match was being contested with trading blows, and the fun was far from over. A long par 3 back toward the clubhouse and its huddling adirondack chairs closes out the nine. Curious mothers, fathers in conversation and golfers finished for the day all watch on as tee shots are sent sailing toward the green, which sits nervously close to members having a quiet spot of lunch. Golf balls have been known to reach the fine china and glasses of sweet tea that sit upon the al-fresco tables, being savoured by those who, without casualty as of yet, sit so daringly close to amateurism.

The back nine starts in a lower paddock below the practice area, Winter Center and Padel courts, in a small nook at the side of the property nestled by trees. Tom Doak’s remarks about this hole are indeed true. The tee shot is unassuming and wide to the right, which grants you some time to build yourself up for the approach shot, which should be described as nothing less than utterly petrifying. It asked a question of us this day, a question that, if I recall correctly, only one of us firmly answered. I pounded a 4-iron, centre screws, off a hanging draw lie which sent the ball sailing high into the blue sky above. It came down with purpose, and, helped along by a healthy skip forward off the right fringe, nestled up to 20 feet. Never has a 3 putt been more regretful, yet a hole so fondly looked back upon.

Fresh from the starting challenge on the back side, the remaining holes at Chevy Chase are a tour-de-force of par 4’s that require the steadiest of nerves, as if gently placing the ball in the fairway off the tee. It need not be overpowered and it will bite back if you try. Despite the par 4 11th sending you back up the hill to the left toward the clubhouse, the 12th abruptly interjects and swiftly sends you back out toward to the outer left paddock of the property for the remaining holes. For the 12th, a par 3, with a seemingly square-green that sits just past a ridge-line of thick fescue grass, only a committed tee ball will land home true. A brief lapse in judgement, coupled with the obvious surrounding danger, can lead to the beginnings of a swing in the momentum of the match. My partner and I found this out the hard way.

If you’ve found a groove on the front nine, with its characteristic dog legs, blind tee shots and gentle nudges to stay patient, you will enjoy yourself immensely on the closing holes. The 16th hole bends to the right so drastically that it almost looks like it comes back on itself, with a green that eyes the tee box at an angle that has to be seen to be believed. The daring golfer might attempt to cut off some of this shape with a driver. In most cases, however, this strategy leads to a golf ball in the creek or worse, behind a tree hitting over a creek. Looking back, it is obvious that the correct strategy is a sensible swing to the edge of the dog leg with a fairway metal. From there, it is but a punch of a long iron to the left side of the green, where, by the mercy of the course and her gentle hands, you will find your ball being pulled to the hole by the natural contouring of the green.

The 17th and 18th favour the fader of the golf ball. But more importantly, those that have a steadfast iron game when faced with the inevitably hard approach shots to similarly angled greens that are found on the front side. From the crest of the 17th fairway, you are finally adorned with a full view of the main clubhouse and all of its plenteous amenities. The towering chimney, crested with the wickedly simple CCC logo, frames your walk up the last and appropriately guides you into the bar for a post round debrief. With a match tied up, and a morning adventure sealed in the record, the Eden boys couldn’t get enough of this place. Chevy Chase Club is currently undergoing a multi-year course renovation by the same firm that recently redid Congressional’s Blue Course. We didn’t think it could get any better, but given 18 months, it might just.

Early morning rounds are my most favourite activity. In particular, taking the first tee time on the Eden Course as spring is starting to arrive, is as good as it gets. The pace of play is as healthy as a champion racehorse, and the satisfaction of finishing your loop before the clock strikes 9:45am brings with it a joy that only true golfing badgers will understand.

Monday morning saw Charlie and I venture out for the 7:20 tee time, on one of these calm, humid mornings we get in St Andrews around this time of year. The low clouds hung to the eastern horizon like a light blanket, covering the seemingly shy sunshine from bathing us in its rays until the 2nd green. When the air is still over links-land, it can sometimes be quite eerie. The relentless winds that barrage the fescue for most of the year vanish, and in their place, a soft silence emerges giving you the impression that something quite special is bound to happen. For both of us, on Monday morning, this golden ticket emerged full of plenteous birdies and even better match-play.

A birdie and par at the first, followed by a pair of bogeys at the second, we were off to a predictably steady start. Score notwithstanding, the first handful of holes on mornings like these are experiences to savour. The dew lies thick on the ground and makes the fairways look bejewelled and royal. Divots fly up from the saturated, overnight ground with a soft flight, only to be replaced with a thud, a stamp and an sly smile, for they are part of the appeal of mornings like these. Steady golf continued until the 6th tee box, where the winter ‘up’ tees offer up the chance of glory. One of us made an eagle. Better luck next time, Charlie.

Eagles feel good, no matter how they come.

By the turn, the sun had risen fast and high. We quickly became aware that it is an impossible problem to dress and layer oneself properly for days like this. You stand in your bedroom at a strokes past 6:30am, looking at your closet with disbelief that the temperature gauge reads a stern 1 degree centigrade. You pick out what you think is appropriate clothing, only to find you’re dripping with sweat by the 10th hole. Note to self: be sparse and frugal.

Winding its way back toward the most inland part of the Links peninsula, the match was in a deadlock of Hogan pars and shared birdies. It came down to the 18th, as all good matches should, and where a 3 iron outdrove a 3 wood, to end in a tie. Neither one of us had the courage to put it away but I think neither of us wanted to. A draw summed it up, really. You’ll find us out there, from 7:00 to 7:30 most sunny Spring mornings if you ever want a game, a match or just a walk. It is after all, the Eden way.

I took a trip home this week for some respite, rejuvenation and some much needed sleep. Of course, in practice, this means travelling home with a duffel bag and my golf clubs, for an adventure on links land further south, toward home. A particular favourite of mine is a local municipal course near Guildford, where I play regularly when I’m back home and where I think the essence of the game is most certainly found.

Nestled in the lowland of the Surrey Hills a stones throw from Guildford and Clandon park, Clandon Golf might be the best value play we’ve ever found. Twilight times year round will set you back £17 for a full circuit. A bargain of the highest calibre. This public track seems both novice and unspectacular from the car park overlooking the temporary, understated clubhouse, if you could even call it that. It’s more of an outhouse with a desk. But don’t be fooled by these initial impressions, for the course plays both difficult and rewarding for a plethora of reasons at different points in the golfing year. In the winter, the soft greens and muddy rough can ruin an approach shot with errant flight or ‘de-greened’ nippers, and in the summer, the hard fairways and burnt greens make stopping the ball an impossible challenge.

It has both satisfying length and gettable opportunity, in what we’d consider a perfect harmony. The course doesn’t have some wondrous designer with a utopian vision for what golf should be. Instead, it lets you decide for yourself. Stroke-play will leave you bereft of energy following your toils to make birdies on supposedly ‘easy’ holes, and match-play will leave you just as exhausted with the rollercoaster ride of lucky breaks, un-makable putts and tough lies you surely would’ve encounter. It is an ideal setting for approachable golf, both in its culture and layout.

Despite this, however, its design has a simple charm that can’t really be described. It isn’t obvious nor hidden, it’s just there. It’s there for you to engage with and for you to help dictate. A handful of the holes play like traditional British parkland, whereas others have a Scottishness about them. The mixture is brilliant, diverse and never short of exclamation. The plot of land has only been a golf course for a decade and a half. Beforehand, it was a quarry that traded on the export of chalk. The chalk-based soil makes the course drain superbly well, and the fairways have a Links style density that is found nowhere else nearby, save the Surrey sand-belt. When I’m home from university, it’s like an impression of home; an impression of Scotland. Divots are clean and wide, have a natural squareness to them and leave sand in the grooves of your irons. It’s the way it should be. It’s the Eden way.

This time around, I played the course with my older brother James, who has recently picked up the game (and the obsession that follows along) over the last two years. In retrospect, I gave him too many strokes for this most recent battle, but in past conquests, our matches have been filled with all the drama you dream of when scheming up a friendly battle on the course. It didn’t disappoint. It never does.

If you find yourself in the area, with a spare few hours and a handful of change, go and check it out. It’s one of my favourites, and will continue to be for the foreseeable future.

P.S, A trip to Clandon Golf is complete without driving to the Queens Head, just 2 minutes down the road, for a quenching pint of Shere Drop.

You will struggle to find a better kept secret anywhere in the world than the ancient golf course that lies atop the inland links of Cleeve Hill. Perhaps it is because it is hidden in plain sight, or perhaps it is because it is so out of place. An Old Tom Morris design with rumoured later revisions from Dr Alister MacKenzie, on public hillock land in the middle of Gloucestershire sounds both too good to be true and like the work of a video game designer. I can assure you, it is as real as it gets.

A month ago, on my way back up to St Andrews from a week at home in Dorset, I took a detour to play a late morning round at Cleeve Hill. I’d heard about it from the Cookie Jar boys and various promotional content on Sounder Golf’s Instagram feed. It seemed unassuming and stoically simple, like the kinda track that I’d enjoy walking with a half set rig in my MacKenzie bag as a rejuvenating break from what would otherwise be a rather long and tedious drive. Unlike the week prior, the weather had cleared up and an almost perfect bluebird day greeted me as I arrived. There was a feeling in the air that the afternoon was going to be a particularly magical one. The drive up to Cleeve Hill had wound its way past quaint hillside houses and small, picturesque looking villages until the oak tree canopy suddenly opened up as the climb ascended through the tree line, giving me the the first glimpses of the stunning panorama that I’d been eagerly expecting.

Situated to the north-east of Cheltenham and Gloucester, Cleeve Hill itself has both a rich and varied history that dates back centuries. It has long been a site of agricultural importance, mythical rumination and local fascination, and its historical significance is particularly evident in the remnants of ancient settlements found in the area, suggesting human habitation since the Iron Age. Nowadays, it is home to public footpaths, grazing sheep and 18 outstanding holes of golf. I told you that it sounds too good to be true.

My tee time was at 11:20, and I had arrived with little time to spare having hit some mid morning traffic on my drive up. I parked the car and grabbed my sticks. A gate on the left of the clubhouse took me to a quaint outdoor seating area with views of the hill and a charming putting green, both enclosed gracefully by a grey stone wall on all sides. I caught the first glimpses of the course from this vantage point with the first tee box standing proudly on the left and the 18th green tucked away down the hill to the right.

I propped my MacKenzie up against the fence and walked toward the pro shop along the creaky wooden veranda that lines the back of the clubhouse. I checked in with the friendly starter who informed me that I was next up. The shop had the feel of a grass-roots art gallery mixed with the office of a hipster start-up. Plain white painted floorboards and walls gave it a clean and tidy aesthetic, and the merchandise on display was organised and well curated. Much to my joy, all of the clothes on sale were made by one of my favourite UK golf brands, Sounder Golf. I spent what little time I had left checking out the kit and trying a few pieces on. In fact, the pro shop experience at Cleeve Hill is one of my most memorable check-in's to date. Uncrowded, subtle and calming, both the shop and the energy it exuded set the tone for what was going to be a very special round. Eager to get off, I picked up a scorecard and a pencil on the way out.

I walked back past the putting green and through a second gate in the encompassing stone wall. A short walk down the gravel path brought me to the first tee box: a raised plateau facing a domineering left sloping hill with two simple, white tee markers framing the ridge over which the fairway cambers forward and to the right. A blind tee shot to start a round is never the most pleasant way to commence, but it seemed like an apt way to calm the nerves and settle into the 18. The 565 yard hole demands a committed tee shot to which I duly responded. I pumped a three metal over the marker post with a slight draw and sent the ball tumbling down the right side of the fairway. The area around the box was bustling with dog walkers and families, creating what felt like an amphitheatre of spectators. I was both relieved and fired up to get my ball away with such power despite the long drive and hectic arrival. The round had certainly begun!

The magic of Cleeve Hill is palpable as soon as you starting venturing away from the house. It is both a contradiction yet somehow an axiomatic truth that Cleeve Hill is so far from what one expects from a golf course that it starts to become the epitome of what the game should be. As I walked down the first fairway to find my ball, I was overcome with feelings of gratitude, astonishment and happiness in what I recall, was equal measure.

My ball had come to rest on the right side of the fairway and was severely above my feet. Cleeve Hill might not be the longest of golf courses, but it requires steady accuracy off the tee to find the elusive flat lies in the fairway. I laid up with an 8 iron to leave myself with a perfect gap wedge number. As I took my practice swings and envisioned my right to left shot shape accessing the left pin location, a baby lamb emerged from behind the green side bunker and sat down on the green. It had managed to wriggle under the electric fencing which perimeters all of the greens on Cleeve Hill (Cleeve Hill is not dissimilar to Brora in this way). I laughed and took a photo. The lamb was far from caring about my round of golf or my approach to the first. Rather boldly, I didn’t think I would be so inaccurate so as to hurt the little lamb that sat on the front edge, so I drew a gap wedge just long of the pin and spun it back to some 15 feet for birdie. A smooth 2-putt par on the first got the round going at a good pace.

The second hole asked for a tee shot back over the hillside adjacent to the first to a severe right sloping fairway that sends tee balls down to a collection area below where I had found my first drive. I hit a nervous three wood up the fairway and had a 7 iron into the green. I missed it right of the green atop the hillside that lies above, leaving myself a short sided chip some 15 feet down hill. I was realising that accuracy was to be the name of the game today.

I managed to stabilise with my tee ball on the third, a short par 4 some 290 yards with a blind first shot over another small hill. Once again, I had sheep both on the box and on the fairway in front of me, which demanded that I flushed a 3 iron over them and the marker post where I was aiming. Perfectly executed, the ball went sailing out of sight as I reached down for the broken tee lying at my feet. For those who know me well, I love nothing more than a short par 4 where a precise long iron is needed from the box. The third at Cleeve Hill was one of the finest examples in my recent memory.

As I walked round the path to the fourth hole, you become suddenly aware of the expanse and the magnitude of the Hill and its surrounding land. The wind was swirling and straight into when I looked down the long, arrow straight fairway to a green which seemed light years away. Errant tee shots are caught by the raised fifth fairway on the right and yet dropped by the cliffside that lines the hole on the left. For my metal-wood cut, it didn't seem like too much of a problem, but it still presented a particularly daunting challenge that afternoon.

One of the standout and almost unbelievable features of Cleeve Hill is the fluorescent yellow gorse which was blossoming in patches everywhere I looked. Perhaps it is my sheer ignorance, but the number of gorse bushes I’ve seen south of the Scottish border are few and far between. It was like they had all been freshly pulled out of East Lothian ground or the hallowed turf in Fife and flown directly here. The areas around the fifth and sixth green seemed overrun with these treacherous gorse patches which make for very difficult approach shots in the unpredictable winds. I was happy to come away with two pars and made my way to the 7th.

Another blind tee shot required the driver swing of the round in order to give myself a chance at birdie with the wind stiff into breeze. Despite being struck well, the ball started to move toward the right side of the fairway at its apex and disappeared over the ridge line. I had found the deepest rough on the course and spent a while looking for my ball. The downhill elevation change made it hard to judge how far it had flown and in amongst the reeds I managed to find 5 other golf balls, none of which were my own. Funny that. You win some and certainly lose some. I took a lateral and made my double bogey. The sun was beating down relentlessly through the small clusters of wispy clouds above and it was clear that the final 9 holes were going to be a slog. I had left my water bottle in the car and had just finished the last sips of the isotonic drink I had bought at a service station on the way up. Fortunately, I found some renewed energy on the eighth green having chipped in for birdie and was overall distracted by the increasingly impressive views and aspects that presented themselves to me. I was finding a rhythm and we were cruising along.

Severely downhill and cambering to the left, I roped a drive down the right side of the ninth hole which sent the ball bounding down the slope to the flat plateau. Cleeve Hill was asking questions of my golf game and I was starting to respond in eloquent fashion. I sized up my approach shot, again with a gap wedge, and decided to play it pretty full. I flushed it clean with a perfect deep divot, sending it fizzing high in the air. My ball came down with intent and hit the flagstick with a clatter, leaving me a few humble feet for a tap in birdie. I stood there for a while admiring both the shot I had just hit and the perfectly shaped hillside divot that lay next to me. Funnily enough, the only spectators watching what I thought was a rather impressive golf shot were a cluster of sheep on the right side of the green chewing away on the grass, unamused. Their nonchalance made me laugh again as I trudged up to the green for my unobserved birdie.

The tenth hole is a fabulous par three with 30 yards of descent from box to green. It’s one of those holes that makes you feel like a superstar. Following my pin point approach to the ninth, with wind off the right, I pulled a 6 iron from 225 yards. The night before, I had been watching Tiger Wood’s highlights from 2000 at Pebble Beach, distinctly remembering the commentators using the phrase ‘towering’ to describe his long iron ball flights. I imagined my 6 iron soaring into the sunny afternoon sky with towering focus, and landing softly next to the pin. I stepped up and swung with complete centeredness, sending my ball rising into the expanse in front of me with dead aim. The ball landed some 10 feet left of the pin and spun back a little. I looked at the divot and then back toward the hill. Something magical was happening.

The par 4 eleventh and twelfth holes were as enjoyable as the holes before, carding two pars on my way to the thirteenth box. In doing my research for Cleeve Hill, I had seen some photos and visuals of a mighty looking fortress green with stunning views back toward Cheltenham and Gloucester. In the heat of the moment and the courses’ winding routing, I had completely lost my bearings. I wasn’t sure where or when this green was going to emerge. Eagerly anticipating, I pumped a low drive up the thirteenth fairway, over the ridge and some 15 yards right of the marker post. Again, Cleeve Hill was demanding a committed blind shot from my game to which I’d now become more than accustomed.

One of the most exposed areas on the course, the thirteenth fairway lies adjacent to a particularly poignant looking tree to the left. A few years ago, there had been a movement to ‘save Cleeve Hill’ following news that the council had deemed golf on the hill ‘no longer financially viable’. Fortunately, outside investment bought the lease to the land and clubhouse which secured both the future of the golf club and the future of the course it plays upon. I realised that the tree to my left is the new logo of the golf club and was printed on the beautifully simple scorecard I had grabbed from the pro shop. I stood there for a while to reflect on what it would’ve meant if Cleeve Hill had not been saved, and the course to which I was now dotingly falling in love with was no longer. I remember feeling very lucky and blessed that I was playing upon its turf.

For those that know the tree in question, it is an extremely fitting choice for the logo of a club which will now hopefully endure for a long time to come. That afternoon, as I stood there looking at the tree, I was struck by a permanence in its energy and a persistence to its branches. Much like the Cleeve Hill Golf Club that it now represents and despite the turbulent winds and other natural forces trying to pull it down, it too, endures. It all feels very fitting.

As I walked over the crest of the ridge line, searching for my ball up the right hand side, the green I had been waiting for came into view. Framed in the distance by the surrounding ancient mounds, built by hand by the Iron Age settlers, it looked fiercely enticing, so much so that it slightly rattled my nerves. It looked both approachable and daunting, causing me to question my lay up shot for quite some time. Fortunately, and for reasons I cannot quite articulate, I felt like a wedge approach from the fairway would be a more meaningful experience than testy chip from the reedy collection area over the back of the green.

The view that I had been awaiting did not disappoint, either. The green perfectly frames the lengthy panorama with a sense of beauty that almost took my breath away. The location and choice of both green site and Iron Age settlement made total sense to me as I walked down the fairway to my ball. What would the ancient settlers have thought if they knew in a few short centuries their township would be long gone and replaced by a flat grassy surface onto which crazed game players would be hitting small plastic balls with metal clubs?

The surrealness of such a question snapped me back into focus as I eyed up my 98 yard approach shot. The pin was tucked on the left side of the green behind the left mound guarding the entrance, and required a steeply descending wedge with pin point accuracy. Despite my good intentions and otherwise pretty looking practice swings, I watched perplexed as my wedge shot went sailing over the green with a hop and disappeared into the long grass. It must’ve been the adrenaline, I thought.

Fortunately, my lie was favourable and an out-of-the-box up and down secured me the par. I took a while to appreciate the green I had just played to and the views that extend as far as the eye can see behind it. It is not very often that we look forward to particular architectural aspects of a golf course or hole as part of our golfing experience. Perhaps at old and fabled courses, courses that we see on television or in YouTube highlights. But even then, we are looking forward to them because of who or what we have seen play on or over them. To appreciate a green, for example, not for the putts that have been made over its surface or the major championships that have been celebrated around its fringes, but for the very green itself, and its surrounding features, is a very rare thing indeed. Admittedly, I do not do it enough myself either. But having played at Cleeve Hill last month, I have tried to take the time in every round to pick out a feature that I would otherwise have overlooked. It adds a childlike appreciation to the golfing playgrounds we walk around and takes the edge off the rounds that are running too hot under the collar. I would highly recommend.

The fifteenth and sixteenth holes, the signature holes at Cleeve Hill in some regards, are absolutely mind blowing. Committed tee balls are sent flying over jagged ravines of quarried landscape to greens perched on level ground atop the other side. During my round, the first of these was playing some 140 yards with a slight helping breeze to which I sent a pitching wedge safely onto the putting surface. Having lipped out my birdie putt, I walked briskly to the next which, like the hole I had just played, asked a similar question but asked it about 40 decibels louder. I could make out the raised green site some 200 yards away over doubly as much treacherous quarry-land and there were bunkers either side of the putting surface. The two holes are like brothers, I remember thinking. You are first greeted by the little one which you can play over with ease and with a healthy smattering of courage and fortitude. However, upon arriving at the tee box of its older brother, you are required to muster all the strength you have left.

Like the tenth hole, I pulled out a 6 iron from my MacKenzie having evaluated the playing yardage to be about 190 yards. Despite the helping wind, the shot was by no means straight forward. I struck the ball well with a high cut to make sure it got all the way back to the pin. It came to rest just in the fringe and with a sigh of relief, I hiked my way to find it across the otherworldly scenery in between. A couple of pars on these holes is no missed opportunity and I was happy to come out of their jaws unscathed.

From the seventeenth box, I could see the clubhouse in the distance to the left. It seemed miles away. But heading for home at a course like Cleeve Hill also has a way of reigniting one's fire. Both the remaining par 4’s looked gettable and the downhill tee shot on seventeen was perfectly framed for a pure three metal. I don’t know what it was that came over me on that box, but everything seemed to align itself just right. A high draw shot shape both suited my eye and worked perfectly to maximise distance down the sloping fairway. I took a stance that aligned itself to target and my eyeline locked itself onto a small bush on the right hand side. I swung the club with a welcome clarity and forceful connectedness, sending the ball screaming into the blue sky ahead with a soft draw. There was a family sitting on a bench to my right who must’ve been mystified when they saw me perform what can only be described as the most aggressive club twirl anyone has ever done. Had they not known otherwise, they might’ve thought I was playing to win the Masters or force a playoff at the Open in St Andrews. But for those once in a season swings, c’mon, you would’ve done the same.

In fact, it dawned on me as I was walked down the penultimate fairway how much of a theme the 'public' aspect of Cleeve Hill had been. Whilst playing, you are distinctly aware that the course you’re playing on meanders over public land. It is bustling with dog walkers, families and grazing livestock the whole way around, especially on a day like that afternoon where the sun was out in abundance. It’s a rather strange experience to play golf in front of people like that on land which doesn’t explicitly scream ‘golf course’. It is both fun and exciting, yet anxiety inducing and frightening. However, it is the very public nature of Cleeve Hill that makes the golf so exciting and the course to infinitely fascinating.

Generally speaking, municipal golf is an equilibrium between value and quality. On the one hand, the lower green fees and better accessibility are extremely attractive. But on the other, it often means that both the quality of the course and its subsequent maintenance leave a lot to be desired. This doesn’t deter us avid golfers from revelling in their quirky simplicity and enjoying a game at a lower price point. Far from it. I would even go as far to argue that municipal golf embodies the very spirit of the game and that a player can discover more about our beloved sport from the humblest of tracks than any private club, fancy new course or overpriced resort experience. But even in this regard, Cleeve Hill is an a league all of its own.

The course asks demanding questions of even the longest hitter with a playful cheekiness if obliged and menacing bite if left unanswered. It is, by definition, unassuming and approachable, yet it can strike fear in the best of us ball strikers if we stand on the box uncommitted or unsure. Kindly though, both the course itself and the hill on which it lies reminds us to laugh at the bad shots and to humbly enjoy the good ones. For golf is a game we play for fun and a game we play for discovery. Cleeve Hill Golf Club forces you to keep your eyes open and appreciate all there is to love about a course and ones playing over it. Having hit my drive on the eighteenth, thoughts such as these came flooding to my mind. It is the very reason I love this game and the reason I continue to painfully toil at getting better.

Amusingly, much like the first hole, and in some otherwise eerily cyclical device of karma, a small lamb bounded up onto the green as I eyed up my short iron approach to the final putting surface. I had a brief conversation in my head that perhaps it was the same little guy that was lying on the front of the first green all those hours before. I came to my senses and realised that it couldn’t’ve been, but it was a fitting reminder that we share the course at Cleeve Hill Golf Club with everyone, from the dog walkers and local families on its peaks and the small lambs and sheep in its hollows.

My ball fell into the hole on the last with a bookmark clattering that marked the end of a magical round on the hill. I looked down to mark my scorecard for the final time to find printed in the middle of the page:

“PLEASE RESPECT ALL OTHER COMMON USERS AT ALL TIMES”

If I were a more daring individual, I would get that phrase tattooed on my left forearm, for I have never heard a better and more appropriate philosophy for both golf, and for life itself.

This year, our selected destination was the up and coming St. George, Utah, which is home of the #1 ranked golf course in the state, Sand Hollow. A very appealing destination, Sand Hollow has reasonable green fees for the caliber of course that it is, as well as affordable accommodation options. All things necessary for college students.

Sand Hollow offers little beyond a golf course. The clubhouse leaves much to be desired - lacking proper locker rooms along with an underwhelming pro shop and dining area, the experience is nothing notable. However, once stepping upon the first tee, it is easy to see why Sand Hollow is acclaimed so highly.

Straightforward, challenging golf holes in great condition makeup an excellent front nine. Vast views of the surrounding mountains surround each hole, with red rocks occupying the foreground, coming into play on selective occasions. A modern design, Sand Hollow is exemplary with a variety of risk reward par 4s along with difficult lengthy ones. Scoring opportunities exist, but the course requires an organized approach in order to keep the ball in play and to maximize those opportunities. The front nine is flat and fair and winds through a few residences, but the real drama begins on the back nine.

Beginning on 10, the layout of the back nine is already noticeably different. In a more open setting, the back nine explores the open plaines of southern Utah. No structures can be seen, and away from the clubhouse you go. Signature hole #12 is a par four seemingly carved into the cliffside of the plateau the entire property sits upon, making it difficult to focus on the tee shot considering how dramatic the surroundings are.

After hole 12, there are a couple more par fours with similar views and are followed by the impressive par three #15 which stretches out to a whopping 230 yards from the back tee box. The green is once again carved into the rocks of the cliffside and has a marvelous and intimidating look to it from the tee. Scoring on this hole is challenging especially if one has a good round going.

Sand Hollow gets a lot of things correct as a resort golf course. Challenging from the back tees, a good round feels earned and deserved when playing well. The course is not overly punishing and it does not have a steep learning curve. I found it possible to make plenty of good scores and put together a respectable round of golf even without ever playing the course before. One of the friends I played with just happened to shoot his best round ever here. The views alone make this course supremely fun and memorable. Additionally, Sand Hollow has a strong layout with no weak holes.

I would highly recommend a trip to St. George to check this course out. It's well priced, in great condition and has a few of the most stunning holes you'll ever play. Especially considering the plan to build houses on the back nine seeming imminent, I would urge readers to try and play in the next couple of years while the feeling of playing in the middle of nowhere still exists.

I have extremely strong opinions on the topic of simplifying golf. It is a game whose inherent complexities and variables amalgamate to approximate something not dissimilar to pure chaos. Yet, for some reason, as golfers, we have a tendency to try complicate things further. We arrive at the first tee with clutter. We bring with us too many extra variables, dead weight, or obstacles, be they physical or mental, often with disastrous results. These things are brought on our own volition and encouraged by the insecure voice of our ego. They can deeply tarnish the experience of the otherwise pleasant and peaceful walk we are about to journey out onto. For our home courses, however, which we are fortunate enough to play on a frequent basis, this might not matter so much. But for our rounds at new and exciting places, even historic and ancient places, whose mystery, and marvel will long surpass all those who make the duteous pilgrimage to their turf, it can be a huge problem. It can even be a heart-breaking one. I think it’s about time this changed.

For those who are unaware, a ‘half set’ typically refers to a golf bag containing 10 clubs or less. But like many things, half sets are a vague concept. Purists might even say a true half set constitutes far less than this, and die-hard fans of the ‘7 iron only’ approach, the valiant soldiers that they are, might object further. More important than what is or isn’t a half set, however, is what a half set has grown to represent. It has become synonymous with a simpler approach to the game, and with it comes an even simpler ethic: take less, enjoy more. This ethic does not solely apply to the number of clubs in the bag, of course. It is far deeper than that.

As sad as the reality is, it is extremely counter intuitive for us to think like this. In our work, in our schooling lives and in many of our career aspirations, we are constantly striving to achieve and take more. It is extremely rewarding to follow such a strategy. At an even more primal level, the chimpanzee with better access to more of the available fruit is the chimpanzee who lives to see another day. In some sense, we are hard wired into this kind of thinking. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting that there’s anything wrong with this. I’m not telling the chimpanzee to take a more artistic approach to fruit gathering and meditate on a lonesome branch about the fundamental beauty of the banana, and I’m certainly not telling you, dear reader, to throw on all the linen clothing you can find, sell your belongings and fly to a mountain temple in Tibet in pursuit of an anti-capitalist haven of monastic living, gong sounds and Thukpa. I’m merely suggesting that it is against our conditioned nature to consciously choose a lesser resource given the option to take more.

If you’re currently looking at cheap flights on SkyScanner or Googling what ‘Thukpa’ is, then you’re severely missing the point. It is terribly impractical to revolutionise our entire existence in search of totally embodying such an ethic. It simply cannot be done without a sacrificial upheaval across every aspect of one’s life.

However, in certain limited domains, with conscious and committed intent, it can be done quite successfully. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. Golf is one of these microcosms in particular that allows for such a pursuit, and playing with a half set achieves it most fully. It teaches the golfer valuable lessons in considered decision making, calm humility and playful creativity. It allows you to relinquish the burning pressure to justify the whole endeavour by playing your best golf at all times. With a lighter bag and a weightless mind, the walk becomes that much more tranquil. Interestingly, the increasing popularity of playing with a half set coincides directly with the meteoric rise of personal mindfulness and meditation practice.

Funnily enough, as with most things in life, we have arrived full circle. Early Scottish players used to carry a small leather quiver of clubs, often not amounting to more than 6, on their walks upon the now hallowed linksland of Fife, East Lothian, and Ayrshire. Early games of golf were played under this custom and many tournaments were won with what would now be considered a half-set. Of course, the game has dramatically evolved since the first Open Championship at Prestwick in 1860. With longer courses rewarding increasing distance off the tee and slick greens requiring meticulous iron play, it has certainly benefitted modern golfers to have the full choice of 14 clubs. But this, again, is missing the point. I would argue that it is equally beneficial for our golf games and for our peace of minds, to intentionally play rounds of golf without the expectation that it has to be perfect. It never is. By taking a half set to the course, you are implicitly committing to this intention. You’re letting go of some of the baggage you once arrived with and replacing it with a more productive system. Ironically, many people play better golf when they play with a half set.

Last Thursday, Charles and I decided to put this to the test. We both often play with half sets, so it wasn’t out of the ordinary, but since I was planning to write about this idea, we decided to play somewhere completely new. Our battlefield for the day was a short drive north from St Andrews, a quaint and bejewelled little course called St Michaels Golf Club in Leuchars. An Old Tom Morris design, St Michaels is a local club with all of the charm you’d expect from a community focussed membership. We drove into the car park adjacent to the understated clubhouse and checked in. We spent a while trying to find where to go or who we needed to talk to. St Michaels has no boisterous pro shop adorned with fresh gear for the despairing among us looking for a quick fix before a round, nor does it have a definitive starter hut tyrannically calling the shots as players nervously pay their fee. Instead, the golfer must find their way to the delightful little bar inside the members lounge where we were greeted by a lovely lady who got us sorted. The handful of members who occupied the worn seats nodded warmly at us as we picked up our scorecards. It was a premonition for the rest of our afternoon.

We retrieved our golf bags from outside the clubhouse and found ourselves bouncing to the first tee with a sense jollity that is exuded at clubs like this. We were ready for the round. Measuring only 5800 yards from the tips, St Michaels is not a long course by any stretch of the imagination. It was perfect for our half-set quivers.

The first 11 holes of the course meander deviously up and around an undulated hillside with little tree coverage. It is an extremely exposed start to a course. As is often the case in Scotland, the wind was blowing a gale that afternoon and it was extremely difficult to keep your ball on its intended line. On the short par 3 second, both Charles and I watched in light-hearted disbelief as our well struck iron shots sailed into the sticky rough on the right of the green. We laughed and trudged our way up the hill to retrieve our lost golf balls. Neither of us were there to break the course record or shoot our personal bests, but to see and experience a new course. We certainly saw a lot of it.

Holes 3, 4, 5 and 6 are some of the most captivating par four’s I’ve played within a 40-mile radius. Each with its nuance and each presenting a different challenge off the tee, they work the golfer out to the southernmost tip of the course and down the left bank of the hill on the 6th fairway. Heavy bunkering and dicey island greens protect what would otherwise be 'gettable' golf holes. Charles and I zig-zagged our way across the holes in a more than unconventional display of ball-striking, but we were still able to enjoy their fascinating intricacies. After all, we were playing with half-sets. We had left our expectations at the door.

The short par 3 seventh takes you down into a punchbowl swale before climbing back up the hill. The 8th plays as magnificently as the cluster of par fours before it, offering the option of a smart and modest iron tee shot, or a hero shot to a raised green. In the spirit of comprehensiveness, though uncorrelated, I took the former approach and Charles the latter. A large bunker on the right side of the fairway caps off the safer tee shot and I used as much room as was possible. The green ahead was cupped on all side by piercingly yellow blooming gorse and the pine trees behind cast an unsettling nervousness as I made my approach shot. From my tee shot I could see Charles rummaging in the gorse for his ball. The gamble had flopped in this case. From the green looking left we were greeted with panoramic views across central Fife. Framed in the distance by the looming Lomond hills, you can make out the nucleus of Cupar across the ploughed fields now starting to flower with crop. We stood there for a while taken aback by the beauty of it all.

The finale of the course is an adventure through the heavily wooded section of the property and marks the start of the absolutely perfect golf architecture that crowns St Michaels as a true diamond in the rough.

The tee box at thirteen nestles itself into the dark corner of the opening the houses the twelfth green, offering the golfer some respite with a fairly open tee shot to a fairway running up a right-hand dog leg. Engulfed by pine trees, the strike of the golf ball from the box echoes with a deafening thunder. You might not realise it, but you are sounding the cannons for the way home.

Old Tom probably gets a bit of a kick every time a player pulls out a driver from their golf bag on the par 5 fourteenth. Invisible from the tee box, a huge valley runs across the middle of the fairway some 290 yards away. It drops off severely on the right-hand side to a treacherously sloped hillside of dense pine trees and bushes. The hole takes an aggressive right turn just after the pit, which means a tee shot from the depths of the swale is blind to a green way out to the players right hand side. It was the first time I'd encountered a par 5 that demands both a lay-up off the tee and a lay-up to the green. It is quite possibly the most interesting golf hole I’ve ever played, and I wouldn't be surprised if Old Tom is chuckling away feeling rather pleased with himself.

The signature hole, so to speak, at St Michaels, is the following par 3, which dives down to a green at least 20 yards below the box. Flighted short irons took our balls safely to the putting surface, carrying the colossal board lined bunker that lies receptive on the right edge. Behind the green are railway tracks along which you play on the way back to the clubhouse. There is a strange sense of relief standing over the tee ball on sixteen that if all else fails, you could always ask the train conductor to give you a ride to the house.

The walk up to the final tee box takes you through the heavy pine-lined forest that we'd been so heartily been avoiding for the last five holes. It spits you out onto a raised tee box above a gently descending fairway that frames the final modest green in front of the clubhouse. We couldn’t help but smile walking down the last as our adventure was coming to an end. A smile of gratitude, if I seem to recall. For, without the half set, we might not have realised what a special course we had stumbled upon.

Playing golf is more than the shots, the score, and the quality of the play. Each is nice and a necessary part of the game, but they are not what brings us out onto the links nor what keeps us there. In some ways, we play golf to adventure. To rekindle some long-lost childhood tolerance that play for plays sake is respectable and justified. When we obsess about handicap, stroke index or swing plane, we slowly lose this jovial sensibility. Moreover, when we obsess over buying all new equipment or using all 14 clubs each and every time, we kill it even faster.

Playing a new course is like venturing out onto a new playground. A new canvas, as it were. But it is only a new canvas once. Such a wondrous opportunity is spoilt if we take it too seriously and play with too much baggage. Sometimes, on rare but welcomed sometimes, I would recommended taking out a wedge or two, and leaving your odd numbered irons at home. Take a half set and go out to enjoy.

It always feels slightly sacrilegious driving out of St Andrews in pursuit of faraway golf. It’s something like leaving behind a treasured lover in search of a new experience. Maybe you learn something, and often you do. But it is always there to greet you again, with open arms, a gentle smile, and a sly enticement. Admittedly, this is strange analogy to be applying to a golf course, but you get my drift. As both a student of the university and a discipled monk of the links, there is an argument to be made that no one on Earth has it better. The town rewards its golfing community with an access to world class, historic golf that is found literally nowhere else. But a mixture of academic burnout and bumpkin claustrophobia had inspired an adventurous attitude in us, so we hit the road for a night away to properly rekindle, rejuvenate and recalibrate. Perhaps this is the very function of golf.

Our drive southward was, on the whole, a rather tense endeavour flavoured with the keenest of excitements for what our trip had in store. Two of our party of three, me included, had never visited East Lothian, let alone golfed on its hallowed turf before, so you can imagine the eager, child-like conversations during the car ride. A gloomy late February afternoon met us as we crossed the Firth of Forth on the Queensferry Crossing. I distinctly recall listening to Steely Dan as we drove over the bridge. We could almost see our destination in the distance to the left and the anticipation was duly building. Past Edinburgh, the landscape began to change. The rolling farmland was starting to show patches of gorse. The uniform grass was slowly transforming itself into wispy dune-land as we approached our Scotland’s so called golf coast. As we turned off the main road toward Cockensie and Seton, a seemingly never-ending carpet of golfing landscape showed itself, crowned in the far distance by the grand hillocks of Gullane. It was light enough to appreciate what was in front of us, dark enough to keep some of its beauty well hidden. We were going to have to earn it tomorrow.

Eager to catch the last glimpse of daylight, we drove past the quaint village of Aberlady, where we were going to spend the night, toward North Berwick, Muirfield and Renaissance. As we made our way along the coastal road, something caught our eye. We parked the car in earnest to confirm our suspicions, and there it was. Outside the famed Old Clubhouse of Gullane lay a small patch of links turf which looked like, and it was, a public park. A man walking his dog in the early evening stillness nodded welcomingly at us. Beyond a small wooden shack, which looked very much like a starters hut, were the handful of pins and tee boxes strewn around the open area which had caught our eye. It dawned on us that it was a small children’s par three course. Only in Scotland would you find such a thing outside an ancient clubhouse.

A few quick glances were exchanged between our party, each with the same very fervent intention. We each ran back to the car to grab a wedge, a golf ball, and a can of beer. There’s something special about spontaneous golf which is hard to capture in writing. There was nothing overly special about the array of short holes which lay before us, nor the challenge that each presented. But the excitement to play the magical little patch of links turf we had stumbled upon was profound. In the fading winter evening light, we played until we could play no longer. I don’t recall who won, or if we even kept score. Tis the way truly good golf is often remembered.

Overlooking the wee course lay the imposing Old Clubhouse. Established in 1890 as the home of Gullane Golf Club, the building stands large looking out to sea with a sense of understated grandeur. It is now functioning as a rather delightful pub and restaurant, which we swiftly settled into after our impromptu ‘round’. The walls inside the clubhouse were adorned with miscellaneous golf memorabilia and sepia photographs of a seemingly long-lost golfing era. Wooden brassies, mashies and niblicks hung above our head as we sat down to our pints of Guinness. The bar opposite was no different. Trinkets, busts, and posters complimented the selection of bottles which lined the shelves with a carefree sense of nostalgia. We drank our beer looking out the window onto the now bitterly dark landscape that lay outside. I don’t think any of us could quite believe how our adventure was unfolding.

Shortly after, we got back on the road back toward Aberlady. I had heard about the famed Ducks Inn some years before when I read an article, similar to this one, about a trip to East Lothian. If I recall correctly, Erik Anders Lang’s jovial 'official unofficial guide to Scotland' YouTube series first put me on the scent in 2019. It seemed like a warm looking establishment with the jolly charm of mediaeval tavern, if only the tavern also doubled as a golfing pilgrimage, rite of passage and halfway house you can sleep in. It is located at the heart of East Lothian, ideally placed for rounds at all the major courses on that stretch of coastal links-land. We checked into our family room and headed downstairs for supper in the hallowed bar area. Deep sofas, crimson red wallpaper and dark wooden furniture met us as we tiredly stumbled through the saloon doors. The smell of delicious home cooked food and proper ale was distinct and unmissable. We were very happy indeed.

The Ducks Inn is a very unique place with some very unique traditions. Late in the evening, a long wooden track emerges from a back room along with a custom-made pivot. Together, they make a sort of seesaw contraption that rests on the ground some 8 feet from the bar. I am unaware of the full story, but according to myth and legend, some putting games were played once upon a late hour in the bar which became the basis for the game now played on this seesaw device. The aim of the game is to putt a ball off one of the bar stools so that it comes to rest at the end of the seesaw. This requires a committed stroke of the ball to produce the perfect pace. Otherwise, it comes tumbling back down the ramp back to your feet. It is an open question to those who take regular golf trips how late one should stay up enjoying the festivities before a golf round. For the light of heart, a very conservative response might follow. For those more daring, as we found ourselves that evening, it is a far more courageous answer. We continued to play the putting game long into the night. The pints flowed, and the putts rolled. Some looked extremely promising as they climbed the ramp to its apex, while others had on an errant trajectory missed the ramp by an embarrassing amount. Despite our lack of success in the putting game, we had a night I will not soon forget.

At the end of our trials and tribulations, we stumbled upon the owner of the Ducks Inn, Mr Malcolm Duck. A rather illusive and mysterious character, he is a sage of both Scottish golf and its heritage. We spoke with him for a while about his favourite courses and various golfing adventures, all of which rich with lessons and teachings. At the end of our conversation, we let him know our plans to play Kilspindie the following afternoon, to which he affirmed our choice of course with a rather profound statement. He ended by saying if he were to have one last golf round in Scotland, it would be at Kilspindie. We went to bed fully satiated.

We awoke the next morning with heavy heads to a cloudy sky. Our breakfast conversations had an excitable tone about them as our golfing minds were slowly waking up. Kilspindie demanded our full and careful attention. Measuring only 5500 yards from the tips on the scorecard, it might seem, at first glance, like an easier challenge for the adept golfer. It was, however, a challenge unlike any other I’ve faced playing this game.

Our tee time wasn’t until 12:30, but we arrived in eager anticipation for balls in the air. The driveway winds its way along the shore next to some holes of the adjoining golf club. There is a wooded area near the beach which swallows the road almost entirely, through which, after a further short drive, the revered clubhouse emerges. Set back from the shoreline and protected by the imposing trees above, upon first glance it has a true sense of sanctuary. We parked the car and made our way along the path to the pro shop. I’d never really put much time into considering the effect of clubhouse placement, but since my visit to Kilspindie, I have thought about it considerably. From the vantage point of the car park, the clubhouse blocks the entire view of the sea and its preceding linksland, which adds significantly to the sense of reveal when you turn the corner of the clubhouse toward the first tee box. To our immediate left the 17th fairway climbs a hill and disappears over an ancient wall. Adjacently, the 18th descends from the above plateau to an understated green next to the westerly side of the clubhouse, casting a threatening energy for the golf we had left to play on the way home.

The 1st hole at Kilspindie is a short par three to a raised green some 158 yards away. The wind was blowing hard that afternoon, so I struck a comfortable 9 iron which found the left edge of the putting surface. And so our round began. The front nine takes you out along the shoreline in spectacular fashion. I don’t know whether it was by conscious design or a subconscious magnetism that it is routed in such a fashion. There is an intuition that golf course architects should endeavour to lead the golfer away from the main attraction to allow for a grand reveal later on in the round. Perhaps this intuition is a too contemporary.

Founded in 1867, Kilspindie is the 35th oldest golf clubs in the world, and it was Musselburgh’s famed Willie Park Jr who was among the early architects of its current layout. The choice to take the golfer straight ‘out to sea’, as it were, sets the tone for a truly magical round. Straight out of the gates, the golfer is faced with the only par 5 on the course in the 2nd hole which, weather permitting, is comfortably reachable in two committed strokes. The following holes are a succession of fascinating short par 4’s which weave their way out toward the end of the linksland at the headland of Aberlady bay. Across the stretch of water, you can see much of the southern coastline of the Kingdom of Fife. Toward the west you can make out the industrial buildings of Edinburgh and the Queensferry bridges beyond. Somehow our trip was making its way full circle.

Kilspindie has no care for length, and it need not. It’s challenge is found is other nuances which demand more of the modern golfer than we’re typically used to. Indeed, seven of the thirteen par 4’s measure less than 300 yards, and only 3 of the remaining six are over 400. To some, this might seem laughable and infantile. If you are one of these people, you are severely missing the point. In bygone eras, where golf was played with a feathery golf ball and mashies, like the ones we saw in the Old Clubhouse, there was far more involved in playing such holes. Interestingly, despite our supposed increases in both length and accuracy, we still face very similar problems today. The greens at Kilspindie are heavily guarded by small pot bunkers and mounded swales. If you are valiant enough to attempt to drive the reachable greens, the returns you receive on investment are meagre at best. The strategic player will punch a low flighted iron to the widest part of the fairway with clear access to the green. Sometimes these shots are only 180 yards from the tee box. Kilspindie explicitly demands a player to leave his ego in the car park and think his way around its undulating turf. In my humble opinion, golf such as this is as fun as it gets.

The back nine starts in a similar fashion to the front, with a short par 3 to a lowered green on the outer western edge of the property. A seemingly straight forward tee shot with no obvious trouble is thwarted by sheer confusion caused by the swirling wind above. To the right of the plateaued green stands a enticing wall. As imposing as it sounds, it is eager and ready to eat up any errant golf balls. The short par 4 eleventh and twelfth took us back toward the centre of the links toward the final par 3 of the round, with staggering views back over the course to the left. We played some inspired golf on the way home tackling the short par fours like seasoned veterans of the ancient golf course.

Finally, we arrived at the tee box of the 18th. From our earlier assessment as we arrived it looked like a daunting but straightforward question, asking for a well-placed tee ball to the left of the diagonal wall which cuts across the centre of the fairway. From the tee box however, it became clear how hard a question this was. The fairway on the other side of the wall is invisible from the box and a committed stroke requires a significant level of courage. The approach shot to the final green, with the clubhouse looming dormant behind, was one of the more special shots I’ve played in my golfing career. Despite its short length, there was a tangible sigh of relief when we each found the putting surface on the last. We could finally relax after an inspiring afternoon of precise iron play, strategic planning, and ego checks. Kilspindie is like a time machine in this way. We might think we hit it further, straighter, and maybe truer, than old Willie Park and his contemporaries in the late 1800’s, but when tested on an equal playing field, no pun intended, there isn’t that much difference. We all still face the same bunkers, the same hazards, and the same daunting lines off the tee. Perhaps to different degrees or in different capacities, but the fact still remains. It's funny that.

Golf trips need not be weeklong. In fact, sometimes a single night is all you need. Our 24 hours in East Lothian, February 2023, was all we needed.

Oak Hill is home to two 36-hole layouts, the East and the West courses, both designed by Donald Ross. It is well known that the East course has long been a standard for championship golf in America, formerly hosting 2 U.S. Opens, 3 PGA Championships, 2 U.S. Amateurs, 2 Senior PGA Championships, a U.S. Senior Open and a Ryder Cup. It is the only golf course in America to have hosted all six of the rotating men’s championships.

However, even with its exhaustive history, some of Oak Hill’s original character had slowly faded away. Years of tree growth and small modifications led the course further away from Ross’ original creation. Greens grew inwards, becoming circular, straying from Ross’ geometric designs. Bunkers lost their depth. Trees blocked views of the properties' rolling hills.

Encapsulated by a 1970s renovation by George and Tom Fazio to bring the course back up to championship standards, Ross' character was lost. A pond was added, old holes were destroyed, being replaced with more penal and demanding creations. Unfortunately, public opinion was critical of the efforts.

“It’s hard to believe that anybody would tear up one of the best holes in the country in order to make a redesign scheme work… but it was done here.”

— Tom Doak, 1996

“Have they ruined a classic course to make it tougher?”

— Golf Digest, 1980

The modernisation of the golf course, in an attempt to stay relevant at the championship level, came at the expense of what Oak Hill East was.

Enter Andrew Greene. In 2019, Oak Hill embarked on a full course restoration with one goal in mind: Restore the East course to Donald Ross’ original vision. Tree removal had been occurring at Oak Hill since 2013, but in 2019 mass removal began. Holes 5 and 6 were ripped up and remade. Every green was rebuilt, restoring the original shaping and creating more pin-positions in the process. Bunkers were restored to Donald Ross style. Now deeper and more challenging, they play like hazards which is essential due to the wider playing areas, a result of tree removal. New bunkers add depth to the golf course, framing holes better and attracting more attention from the eye. The original challenge and charm of Donald Ross’ course is restored.

This week, Andrew Greene will become one of the most well-known names in golf. His work has been applauded by members frivolously over the past couple of years, and architects, superintendents, and golf course critics have all taken notice. But this week, Oak Hill’s restoration is on full display. Oak Hill begins a new chapter of its history as the first of many major championships are played on the newly restored East course. Oak Hill attempts to prove that when restored correctly, vintage course ideology can withstand the test of modern golf on the championship stage.

I had the opportunity to play the course shortly after its renovation, in the summer of 2021. It was easy to see the brilliance in the recent work, and inspiring to see the effectiveness of such a project. Oak Hill is as enjoyable as any golf course for member play, and as challenging as any for championship tests. The resurgence of Oak Hill is on full display this week and I am excited to tune in.

We were invited to operate the scoreboard for the Celebration of Champions event at the beginning of the championship week. This event featured past Open champions, as well as other R&A championship winners from women's golf, amateur golf and disabled golf. Notably, Tiger Woods, Jack Nicklaus, and Tom Watson played in the four hole loop.

Ten teams, lead by past champions, competed in the event. We were responsible to update the scoreboard accordingly. Using specific handheld scoring devices, we were alerted every time a score change was made and what our scoreboard should look like from the outside. Luckily, the laid-back nature of this small event made our jobs stress free, although it is easy to imagine the difficulties of keeping up with the tournament on moving day, where names move on and off the leaderboard at a moments notice.

Inside the scoreboard is fascinating, being a tight two-storied space with an mesmerizing array of light rays passing through the slits and cracks belonging to the face of the scoreboard. Mechanically, name slots open inwards allowing players names or scoring tiles to be attached and flipped back outwards. Shelves are filled along the back wall with the name of every player in the field - should they make an appearance upon the leaderboard at some point throughout the week.

Low-ceilings and poor airflow make the scoreboard slightly claustrophobic and adding to its' old-fashioned feel. Thankfully, the view of the Old Course and West Sands make it a hard place to complain about. The only thing that I would do differently next time is bring a camping chair and an extra bottle of water.

Thank you to the R&A for the amazing volunteer experience throughout the week and for inviting us to participate in this unique Celebration of Champions event. Exploring inside of the iconic yellow scoreboard was truly a treat.