The section on Lauder Golf Club in Golf in the Wild – Going Home, was written under lockdown and based on memory; from a time when business meetings in Edinburgh gave rise to drives up the A68, a hasty rush through the agenda and, with luck, time to call in at Lauder Golf Club on the return leg. Surreptitious rounds, sneaked in during company time, were the sweetest of forbidden fruit.
With the aid of Google Earth, I resurrected the shape of the golfing landscape on Chester Hill, but certain features remained elusive, not least the clubhouse – how closely did it resemble the building opened on 20 July 1911 by Mrs Rankin of Allanbank. The original intention had been that Lady Lauderdale would be the guest of honour and declare the opening, but in a letter to the club secretary, she regretted her inability to attend due to the damp day and my not feeling very well. She continued in the manner of Violet Crawly, Dowager Countess of Grantham: I much hope that the clubhouse will be a great comfort to the community at large, and that it will be the means of bringing many visitors to enjoy the beautiful air and restful quiet of our pretty town and neighbourhood. I may be ambitious, but I hope in time to see a flourishing hydropathic, for I am sure that Lauder is an ideal place for invalids. Wishing you all success this afternoon.
The description of the building in the Berwickshire News & General Advertiser of 1911 seemed consistent with a hazy memory: The pavilion, a handsome erection, is quite an ornament to the course and will provide a great boon to all who are likely to use it. It comprises two spacious rooms (under twin elevations) … and there is a covered verandah running the whole length of the building. In early November, with the opportunities for two-wheeled excitement and golfing adventures diminishing, this demanded a ride north to investigate.
There are two approaches to the course – signposted from the south it takes you through a too-uniform, modern housing estate or, carry on a little further and turn left into Mill Wynd at the cruciform church with its 1830 watchhouse, built to guard against bodysnatchers. This ‘invalid’ delights in the macabre, so I always choose the latter. The entrance to the course is a just over a half mile up Chester Hill, with its surprisingly large car park, perhaps a legacy of the occupation by a Polish tank regiment during the Second World War. The course was closed and occupied for the duration of hostilities, but it was a further sixteen years beyond the end of the war before golf was played again on Chester Hill.
The original twin elevations and veranda have survived fully intact, while the extension is in keeping with the original design, but for the squinting changing room windows. It is a fine building, entirely consistent with the scale of the golf course and its surroundings. The white clubhouse glowed under a low autumnal sun and I regretted the two-wheeled transport which did not allow the carriage of clubs – the view of the last, a glorious downhill drive was the source of my anguish.
Instead, I once again pondered the unlikely similarities of experience between the two tribes – those clad in leather and those in checked pants. On the ride home, it became all too apparent – we do not like riding/driving into a low sun. Deep shadows hide obstacles – bunkers/potholes; bright light in the eyes plays havoc with distance estimation whether braking or pitching into a green. Facing a low sun diminishes the experience for us all – the joy of intimate exposure to the landscape we are playing in or riding through.
The Lauder Golf Club was formed in 1896, initially based on land near the Stow Road and then moving to Chester Hill, where Willie Park Junior (1864–1925), Open champion 1887 and 1889, supervised the layout of the new course. As it matured, and to celebrate his involvement, he was invited to give a demonstration match with his friend Iain Christie, and it was at this event, on 5 August 1905, that he set the professional course record of 70—out in 36, back in 34.
This grand event was enthusiastically covered by the Berwickshire News & General Advertiser, an extensive piece which included reference to second sight and psychic research. The Kirk Elders should have been informed:
It is a well-known fact, especially to such as are gifted with second sight and whose facilities are clarified by psychical research, that it is possible, under certain conditions, to hold communication with the shades of the departed. Quite recently, the shade of Thomas the Rhymer, which still haunts the Valley of the Leader, visited the Tower near Earlston and communicated prediction regarding Lauder and its golf course. The prediction was given in the Latin tongue, of which the following is a fair translation:
As sure as one and two make three,
Lauder will deserted be
By visitors,
Unless some local interest be
Aroused, and that right speedily
In golf.
There is no ambiguity about the Rhymer’s predictions, such as was attendant upon those of the Delphic oracle, and therefore it is most desirable that the inhabitants of Lauder, with something like the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, in the form of this prediction, should at once awaken their interests.9
A colourful piece, no doubt influenced by time, too long spent in the beer tent. A little less alcohol, and the journalist may have reported the correct score—the Berwickshire News declaring a score of 71, out in 36, back in 35.
I am occasionally asked why I wrote Golf in the Wild. I will mumble something about putting Allendale Golf Club on the map and the desire to promote golf in wild, spectacular places; to encourage the golfer to take the road less travelled. I forget one of the primary inspirations – the desire to write the type of golf book I wanted to read. There are “how to” guides aplenty and biographies about individuals who have spent their entire lives hitting golf balls, fill the sports section at Waterstones – I am beyond hope with the former and little interested in the latter. Andrew Greig’s Preferred Lies was a personal turning point – he demonstrated how writing about golf can be much enhanced by digression. The book opened a door to the possible.
As any amateur writer will attest, we do not publish for monetary gain, the reward is in the creation and sharing. Golf in the Wild has made connections with a group of like-minded strangers, many of whom have since become firm friends and golfing buddies. A chance, social media encounter earlier this year, led me to Richard Pennell, author of the recently published Grass Routes. We have shared fairways and thoughts at Warkworth and Hayling Island and on each occasion there was the sense of kindred spirits. There is a significant age difference and our histories are poles apart and yet, we have arrived at very similar places, drawn like-minded conclusions. To quote Richard: Golf. It’s like life, only more so. To quote Golf in the Wild: We play the game as we play life and we cannot help ourselves. Similarly, Richard runs out of examples where golf isn’t Masochistic, and I suddenly realise, as if struck – at long last – by a bolt of common sense, that golf is inherently so. This echoes my own thoughts while navigating the course around the chapel at Lochcarron: Playing golf on Sunday in parts of Scotland is still considered a sinful pastime, but this doctrine is fundamentally flawed, assuming that golf is somehow a pleasurable activity rather than a parallel and complementary religion. We suffer for our sins at pulpit and pin.
Take my word for it – read Grass Routes, it is a delight. Like John Betjeman’s Seaside Golf and a well-judged final approach to the 18th on a warm summer’s evening, resting “two paces from the pin” – it is pitch perfect.
Chapter 9: In the early summer of 1914, Lieutenant Fred Ricketts, a member of the 2nd Battalion of the Argylls, and its army band were stationed at Fort George. An occasional golfer, Fred was playing Ardersier one bright morning when a sharp two-note whistle rang out across the course, swiftly followed by a wayward golf ball. The tuneful hacker had whistled B flat and G instead of shouting “Fore!”. According to Fred’s wife Annie, writing in 1958, the two-note warning with impish spontaneity was answered by my husband with the next few notes. There was little sauntering—Moray Firth’s stiff breezes encouraged a good crisp stride. These little scraps of whistling appeared to ‘catch on’ with the golfers, and from that beginning, the ‘Quick March’ was built up. Frederick Joseph Ricketts was better known by his publishing name, Kenneth J. Alford, the renowned composer of marching-band music. The short refrain that began on the banks of the Moray Firth in the days immediately preceding the Great War would become one of the most instantly recognisable pieces of band music ever written—the appropriately named ‘Colonel Bogey March’. The connection with the golf scoring term is not coincidental.
Regardless of the route you take, Svolvær on the Lofoten Islands is a seven-hour ride and over 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle Center on the E6, Norway’s main north-south highway. Just getting there is an adventure; it is well inside 66 degrees 33 minutes North.
In early March 2020 I travelled with my eldest son by train from Oslo to Bodø and then took a short flight onto the islands for a photography expedition. The Lofotens remained under a blanket of snow and ice, but the sun was making its return. The timing was critical, even more so than we imagined – two days after we arrived home, Norway went into lockdown. Ever since I have been plotting my return.
The Lofoten landscape is one of the most spectacular in the world, whether covered in snow or bathed in crystal-clear summer light; it gets under your skin. Northwest from Svolvær is the island of Gimsøya, its ancient church, Hoven’s lone peak and, in early March, ice encrusted sandy beaches.
The beach at Hoven – Winter 2020
A single-track road circles the northern reaches of this small island where, a few hundred yards back from the beach at Hov, there is a grey, stretched out, low line building in the shadow of Hoven’s 368-meter-tall peak. Facing out to sea, three signs in large arial font declare this is Lofoten Links. Covered in snow, indiscernible from the surrounding farmland, I knew immediately, this was one Golf in the Wild course I was destined and determined to play.
I have travelled Norway by aeroplane, ship, car, coach and train. Returning by motorcycle was the next logical thing to do – if you want to immerse yourself in a landscape over long distance, there is no better way to travel. On Tuesday 27th June 2023, I rode my BMW R1250 GS into the Lofoten Links car park having ridden 1,645 miles and many hours on ferries.
Lofoten Links on a perfect June day.
The clubhouse looks to be modelled on up-market Portakabins with potential for extension and I wonder if this might be its history – extended in parallel with the course which has grown from six, to nine, to eighteen holes since 1998. Realised from the germ of an idea first muted in 1991, the course is now included in a variety of top 100 world rankings, including Golf Digest and Golf World – a remarkable achievement.
The golfing season on Gimsøya is cut short by frost and snow which arrives in October and remains until the following Spring. The compensation is that in June and July, the midnight sun enables tees to be booked throughout the night. It is, by some margin, the most expensive round of golf I have played and a far cry from the honesty boxes of Golf in the Wild – the hired clubs are also in a different class from the mixed set of antiques I hired on Barra. Everything is pristine.
The first tee is across the road from the clubhouse where a gravel path leads you through rocky outcrops and a carpet of wildflowers to a choice of tee positions – tee 61 (6092 m), tee 56 (5499 m), tee 48 (4804 m) and tee 42 (4216 m). I was there to enjoy myself, not receive punishment, the ageing joints providing challenge enough – I elected to use tee 48 and avoid some challenging long carries over water. I know my limitations. I know I am not Viktor Hovland, who in 2022, drove 22 hours from Oslo to shoot an 8-under course record of 63. At least I “drove” further.
The first and second holes are the perfect introduction, providing the template for everything that lies ahead, not least because Lofoten Links proudly claims the first to be one of the most challenging opening holes in golf. Standing on the first tee, it is hard to disagree.
John and Peter heading up the first
This is the view from the 56 and 48 tees, I never looked for the 61 tee, preferring not to dream the impossible dream, nor fight the unbeatable foe. The fairway arcs around the rock-strewn inlet and a narrow band of semi where more boulders await. There is no hiding place, so I played it safe, took a mid-iron to find the fairway and proceeded in a gentlemanly fashion towards the green – I took six. For a golf course that spends half its life buried under snow and ice, the presentation is remarkable with fairways like greens, it seemed a travesty to use a trolley.
The signature hole comes early in the round – the second, Arholmen, ranked one of the best par threes in the world. Again, there is no hiding place, as this image from UK Golf Guy illustrates. I neglected to extract my camera; I was distracted.
Hole 2 – Arholmen – the signature hole
This is golfing heaven, but in Norway you can also go to Hell, population 1,528. I have written elsewhere about the surprising parallels between the art of hitting a golf ball and riding a motorcycle. I have found more – we like space in front and behind. On this road trip I discovered another type of hell.
Norwegians are master tunnel builders and monuments to their artistry can be found countrywide, even in the remotest locations. To achieve the greatest undersea descent in the shortest distance, they are steep, spiral and extremely cold. On a motorcycle you do not want to be sandwiched between a campervan driving well below the speed limit and an articulated lorry intent on reading the small print on your rear number plate (for the benefit of the lorry driver – golfinthewild.co.uk). On a golf course you do not want to be sandwiched between a rank amateur in front and enthusiastic long hitters to your rear, you want space.
It was at the second I encountered a dejected girl and her misguided partner. She probably had good reason to be miserable, it being patently obvious that she could neither hit a golf ball nor had any idea of golf etiquette, oblivious as she took an age to clear the green while the world patiently waited. I eventually played out the second and they were still there as I approached the third tee. Her embarrassed partner was good enough to let me through which perfected an already magnificent day. From then on, they provided a very effective buffer for the enthusiastic long hitters behind. I had the fairways to myself. Underground, overtaking the campervan proved more fraught.
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea Sometimes I turn, there’s someone there, other times it’s only me I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand
Every Grain of Sand – Bob Dylan
Sky and water – the same unbelievable blue
My only birdie on the day
Nearby Hov is one of the oldest places in Lofoten and once hosted a huge Viking amphitheatre, probably created for sacrificial rituals – harsh punishment for an over-par round. The Viking chieftan , Tore Hjort, mentioned in the Viking sagas, is thought to have resided here and there are various Viking graves in the area, including two on Lofoten Links. It seems the Vikings had a good eye for inviting links land. The far away course at Reay, on Scotland’s most northerly coast boasts the same – the aptly named Viking Grave, par 3 15th,
I have developed a habit of scoring badly on the front nine and recovering on the back and this day was no different. After 1600+ miles in the saddle, it took time to adjust to walking pace and the coordination required to hit a golf ball rather than balancing clutch, brakes, and accelerator. I expected this and declined the offer of joining Peter and John at the first. This was one day I didn’t want the pressure of an audience. Peter was visiting from Oslo and his friend, John, is a headmaster from nearby Henningsvær, famous for its island football pitch, “the most beautiful football stadium in the world“. Their excellent, controlled drives suggested this was the right decision.
The tenth – a long walk from the 9th.
My equilibrium returned at the 8th and I started scoring well from the 10th such that I had the confidence to join them on the last two holes. Coming up short at the par 3, 17th, Peter suggested I was working in yards not metres and he may have had a point. A chip and I was still ten feet short, but the long putt dropped, thereby achieving a reputation as a reliable putter – this reputation is confined to Norway. John lost a ball at the 18th and I had to take a drop from the rough but none of this mattered. Lofoten Links combined with perfect weather had exceeded all expectations. Eventually my golf had risen to the occasion, but again, this was of little consequence – the real achievement was, after months of planning and countless hours on a motorcycle, I had achieved my ambition, playing on the most beautiful golf course in the world. Not so much Golf in the Wild as Golf in Paradise.
The fourteenth – stroke index 2
The eighteenth is always tinged with disappointment; the round is over and but for the clubhouse chatter, it is time to head for home. This time, home was over 1600 miles and many ferry rides away and given the magnificence of Norway’s landscape, there was much to look forward to. The next morning dawned dull and damp, as if to emphasise just how lucky I had been. An early start to catch the Moskenes – Bodø ferry is why I abandoned the plan to play under a midnight sun. Just now and then, Captain Sensible wins out. The ride south proved as spectacular as the ride north; it is a country that spoils you for anywhere else. There were no dramas on the return leg other than riding through Germany and the Netherlands under a severe weather warning. Safely home, given the opportunity, I would go back tomorrow.
Chapter 8: The country lane winds its way south through Blackhill, Pitcalnie and Nigg to the end of the road at Nigg Ferry. It is here, during the summer months, that a small ferryboat crosses to Cromarty and provides a link between the Tarbat Peninsula and the Black Isle. The area immediately adjacent to the ferry landing has also changed out of all recognition. Face north from the jetty, and the land to the left was once dominated by the magnificent Dunskaith House, destroyed by fire in 1960. To the right is the collection of buildings that once formed the Nigg Ferry Hotel and, behind that, the rough ground that served as the golf links, variously known as Castlecraig, Nigg and at one time Cromarty Golf Club. The course has all but disappeared, except for imagined traces of tee boxes, fairways and bunkers—all that remains of the groundsman’s pains for the rest of time and a day.
The club was originally founded as a private 9-hole course in 1890. Storm-blown sand created what was thought by some to be the finest natural course in the world. A description is included in a 1904 edition of Golf Illustrated magazine:
The course lies along the beach, a magnificent stretch of sand, and is of great variety. There are many natural hazards. The turf is all that can be desired, being in the centre of a large stretch of bent. The greens remain much as they were formed by nature, only raking and rolling being necessary to keep them in excellent condition. Whin, broom and bent are the punishments of erratic players, but the good golfer can appreciate the exceedingly fine pieces of sandy turf. Large natural sand holes await the unwary on every hand.
The ten-minute ferry from Cromarty, encouraged golfers to cross the water from the Black Isle and visits by the Home Fleet to Invergordon every spring and autumn, meant the course was well patronised to the point of congestion. In October 1908 the proprietor, Colonel Ross, presided over a meeting to discuss possible course extension. Captain Evans of the Dreadnought had suggested that as it was probable the fleet would often be in the Cromarty Firth during the next few years, it would be a great convenience to the officers that the course be extended to eighteen holes. With the full weight of naval command behind the proposal, the motion was duly carried. The significant costs would be met by doubling annual subscriptions and it is expected that the golfing officers will heartily cooperate. Golf was a game for the senior ranks. There is no mention of access for naval ratings. Press images from the time show sailors in uniform, carrying bags for their superiors. They were known as ‘tar-caddies’.
The design of the extension was undertaken by Alexander MacHardy, Scotland’s forgotten, turn-of-the-century golf architect responsible for laying out a wide variety of Scottish courses across the Highlands (including Lochcarron4). The new layout totalled 5,055 yards and is described in detail by Alexander Polson, the Nigg schoolmaster, in his book, Easter Ross:
The holes provide plenty of variety, both with regard to length and difficulty. There are two splendid short holes surrounded by natural hazards, a ditch having to be crossed in each case. About eight of the holes may be reached by the long player with two strokes, but for the average player they mean three. Three of the holes are three-shot holes, the others being drive and iron or drive and pitch. The hazards throughout are natural, there being only one or two artificial bunkers.
Chapter 7: Edward Prince of Wales, as he was at the time, was reportedly introduced to golf in 1859 by his governor, General Robert Bruce, a member of The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews (R&A) since 1834. Inspired by an exhibition match at Musselburgh, in 1861 his military association with the Grenadier Guards would take him to Curragh, Ireland, where the recently opened golf course was immediately adjacent to the camp. It is not documented if the future king found time for golf during his ten-week visit, but his extramural activities became infamous. A sexual novice, his fellow guards arranged an introduction to Nellie Clifden, a local ‘actress’ and possibly a Wren of the Curragh* who knew her way round the camp in the dark. The resulting affair soon became public knowledge as the guards’ tongues wagged and Nellie became known as the ‘Princess of Wales’. The scandal enraged his parents—Queen Victoria and her husband, Prince Albert—and steps were immediately taken to end the liaison. Prince Albert would die a few months later, a demise that Victoria blamed entirely on the anguish caused by Edward’s indiscretions—“I never can or shall look at him (Edward) without a shudder.”** The older generation should never interfere with youthful passion; the ghosts of forbidden fruit can haunt an entire life. If anything is to be learned from this story, it is this: when tempted by sins of the flesh, play more golf.
* Wrens of the Curragh were an outcast community of nineteenth-century Irish women who lived rough, brutally hard lives on the plains of Kildare. The name comes from the shelters they lived in, hollowed out ‘nests’ in the ground which they covered with layers of furze. Their number included unmarried mothers, free-thinkers, alcoholics, prostitutes, vagrants, ex-convicts and harvest workers. All of them women who had, in one way or another, put themselves beyond the pale of respectable society. ‘Songbirds on society’s margins’, The Irish Times, 13 October 2001
** Victoria, as quoted in Jane Ridley’s Bertie: A Life of Edward VII.
Chapter 6: At first known as the ‘Music Hall Founded by Andrew Carnegie’, it was subsequently changed to the ‘Carnegie Hall’, as the term ‘Music Hall’ had different connotations in London. It was discovered that foreign performers were turning down invitations because they thought the hall was intended for cheap variety artists.
The Beatles’ first tour of the United States started on 7 February 1964. On the 9th they appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, on the 11th they played their first US concert at the Washington Coliseum and the following day they performed at the Carnegie Hall. They opened with a Chuck Berry song:
You know my temperature’s risin’ The jukebox’s blowin’ a fuse My heart beatin’ rhythm And my soul keep singing the blues Roll over Beethoven And tell Tchaikovsky the news
Music was one of Carnegie’s passions, along with golf and fishing. It is difficult to guess how he might have reacted to the popular music of the 1960s being played at a venue which bears his name.
Skibo Castle satisfied Carnegie’s sporting passions, and with the help of his wife Louise it also became a home for music. It was Louise who hired an organist to greet them with Beethoven’s Fifth as they stepped over the threshold of their new home. The organist became a permanent institution:
Every morning we come down to breakfast greeted by swelling tones, beginning with a hymn or chorale, and swelling into selections from the oratorios, etc. In the evening our musician plays for us on our fine Bechstein piano … *
It would seem that castle guests had no hope of lying abed. In addition to the swelling tones of the organ, a lone piper would circle the main house before sweeping through the downstairs hall, assuring that all were awake and primed for breakfast, and then returning at dusk to ‘pipe’ the guests to dinner. **
As well as revelling in her role as the sadistic host, Louise Whitfield Carnegie also played golf.
* Louise Whitfield Carnegie: The Life of Mrs Andrew Carnegie by Burton Hendrick and Daniel Henderson
** David Nasaw’s, Andrew Carnegie – Chapter 29 – We Now Want to Take Root 1897-1898.
The following article was printed (with some edits) in Golf Quarterly #47 – it is reproduced here for those who don’t subscribe, but I recommend you do – a fine magazine with not a single advert for the next, or any, golf club capable of launching your over-priced golf ball into orbit:
The golf course is approached by rough single-track road about a mile from the main A888 which circles the island, also single track. There is no clubhouse, just a shipping container with an honesty box attached. My playing partners opted for an exciting arrival by plane, splashing down on Traigh Mohr beach in a scheduled flight from Glasgow. I arrived by the equally exciting combination of ferry and motorcycle, so none of us had clubs. These were available for hire in Castlebay at the very reasonable price of £5 for 24 hours. A mixed bag, they proved no less successful than my own set which I had imagined my game was dependent on.
After posting the £10 green fee in the slot, the first challenge is finding the right tee and choosing the correct target. There appears to be several possibilities – a choice of square greens, they are all protected by solar-powered electric fencing, with access gained through distinctly agricultural, galvanised kissing gates. It is evident from the start that this is a quite different golf course. Golf, but not as we know it.
Closer examination of the scorecard map revealed the intended destination. An opening par 3, where coming up short, as we all did, is ill-advised, but it does give some hint of what lies in store. In short, there is nothing but semi-rough or very rough, combined with water filled gullies and turf so receptive, it can swallow balls whole. Nobody scored better than a six.
Amy Liptrop describes the Orkney farm she was raised on, in her book, The Outrun: … historical agricultural records list farmland in two parts: the ‘in-bye’ arable land close to the farm steading; and the ‘out-bye’ or ‘outrun’, uncultivated rough grazing further away, often on hillsides. The Isle of Barra Golf Club has been built on the out-bye. It is not suitable for the plough and even less so the mower, instead, the course relies on grazing cattle who lack the necessary close-cutting skills of sheep. Unlike the ovine, the bovine are untidy eaters. They also take relief across the course, forcing the golfer to do similar. At least, when we played, they kept to the high ground where they surveyed our every move from atop Cnoc an Fhithich.
The second, a par 5 running along the coastline, is tough. With nothing but semi-rough and cowpats, my best drive of the day flew straight and true but was never seen again. Another feature of the course is scattered, rocky outcrops which provide an element of randomness akin to a pin-ball machine – one of the many possibilities for my disappearing golf ball. Despite these travails, I avoided despondency by simply raising my head, if not my game – the views in all directions, from every part of the course are simply stunning. The third and fourth, both par 4s, ascend Cnoc an Fhithich where the rain of eons has carved deep gullies into both fairways – hazards abound. The fifth tee is another steep climb from the fourth green where the course finally reaches its summit, a suitable location to draw breath and take in the scenery. The skies were blue, the weather benign so we should have counted ourselves lucky – quite what the course must be like in more traditional Outer Hebridean conditions, it is hard to imagine.
A hard course to master, the locals must be made of sterner stuff than me, but under all golfing circumstances, the trick is to remain level-headed and fully focussed. I belong to that rare tribe who are passionate about both golf and motorcycles. There should be more of us as both demand exactly the same frame of mind – living in the moment, 100% concentration and no letting your mind drift. If you do, you are likely to end up in the undergrowth – hunting for golf balls or retrieving a bent motorcycle and/or rider.
The drive from the par 4, 5th is between rocky outcrops. Successfully negotiate this blind drive and you have a sharp right dogleg, downhill to a partially concealed green – my ball found the green from a bounce off the kissing gate. I think it is called good course management. Survive as far as the 5th green with a semi-decent card and, in my experience, the final four holes provide the opportunity to make amends. The elevated 6th tee delivers a glorious high-flying drive and the opportunity for a similar 2nd shot into the heart of the green. Two par 3s and a finishing par 4 make for a much less demanding finish than the opening holes and my sixteen shots over four holes turned an untidy card into something more respectable.
Would I honestly recommend going to Barra to play golf, maybe not. Instead, go to Barra for Barra, it is a wonderful destination with scenery as remarkable as anywhere else in the world … oh, and while you are there, don’t miss the opportunity to have a unique golfing experience.
David and Anne – my golfing buddies who arrived by aeroplane.
The views compensate for everything
And, in case you missed it, here is Steven Spielberg’s take on the adventure:
Golf Quarterly #47 arrived on Tuesday. Not only does it feature my trip to Barra GC and my golfing buddy David Shaw Stewart writing about the 1972 Open at Muirfield, but we made the editorial. I know all about David’s story which he brought to life when he invited me to Muirfield in 2017:
