(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.
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!
Peace, People!
Praying for Eyebrowz 