My Monday has been a most unproductive day. Laundry has gone undone, dishes have been ignored. Heck, I haven’t even showered yet! I blame it all on the British Open. Normally it would have been over and done with yesterday, but rain delays messed with the schedule.
The final groups should be finishing their rounds soon, so I might be able to at least shower and make the bed before Studly Doright gets home from work this afternoon. Except, the leaders’ scores are tight and there is a very real danger of a playoff!
Thank goodness Studly is a golfer and won’t think ill of me for watching the Open all day. In fact, he’ll probably high five me.
Walking St. Andrews
most hallowed ground
men strive for the
Bobby Jones and
fairways on their
way to cross
Swilcan Burn Bridge
at St. Andrews
joining the most
(This is mostly a reblog of a trip Studly Doright and I took to Scotland in the summer of 2013, but I’ve added some photos. One of the most memorable courses the men played was St. Andrews, the very birthplace of golf. The old course at St. Andrews is the site of this year’s British Open and was a highlight for all of us during our week in Scotland. I asked Studly if he’d recognize any of the holes as he watches the open this year. His reply: “Only if they hit into the bunkers or the gorse.”) Golf in the Kingdom with Studly
Last summer at this time Studly and I were still recuperating from our trip to Scotland. Way back when we lived in Great Bend, Kansas, he began playing golf with a group of men, and they’ve kept up the connection even through our moves to Florida, Illinois, and back to Florida.
These men take an annual golf trip to sharpen their skills and to exchange (mostly) good natured insults. Usually the group heads to Arizona or Myrtle Beach, but last year the men decided to take a big trip and invite their wives. And what better golf destination than the home of golf?
When Studly mentioned the possibility of a trip to Scotland my first thought was, “yeah, right, like that’s ever going to happen.” Studly doesn’t do international. Studly barely does national. He likes his own bed, his own town, his own state. He travelled to Jamaica once on business and swore to never leave the U.S. again, so when he asked me to dig out our passports I thought I was hallucinating.
The trip was booked and away we went. This was the Cadillac of tours. Eight couples flew into Edinburgh (to say it properly think “Edinbutter” and leave out the “t”s) and were met by our driver, Ken, who took exceptionally good care of us all week, dropping the men (and occasionally a couple of the ladies) off at some of the world’s most famous courses and taking the rest of us on excursions to castles and lochs.
The men played both the Old Course and the New Course at St. Andrews. Our hotel for two days was just across the road from the famous 18th hole of the Old Course, the very birthplace of golf. It sounds corny, but the air felt almost sacred, blessed by over 400 years of golf tradition. The beer was darned good, too.
We explored the cathedral ruins at St. Andrews and saw the cafe where Wills met Kate (for tea).
We drove through the village of Pickletillum the name of which tickled my tongue. And Anstruther, home of world famous fish and chips, which tickled my taste buds.
During our stay in Inverness we ladies made a side trip to Loch Ness where we lunched and chatted with Nessie. I’d post a photo of our visit, but wouldn’t you know it? I tried inserting photos into my post, but either I am not smart enough to do so, or I am not subscribing to the level of blog that will allow multiple photos. Bummer. Nessie was so photogenic.
Note: I have since figured out the secret of posting photos; however, I have no idea where my photos of Nessie have gone. The mystery deepens!
I’d love to visit Scotland again. There was so much we didn’t see, and I’ve lost my Scottish brogue!