Scotland Part I: Gullane #1

Over the last 5 years my enthusiasm for golf has grown exponentially. I have taken that enthusiasm to courses along the East Coast, and dabbled in Colorado and Canada as the dropped pins on my golfing Google Map expand. The Pinehurst area of North Carolina sparked the addiction of traveling for golf. But who came to Pinehurst to leave their mark on American golf? Donald Ross. Where is Donald Ross from? Scotland. 

Golf in Scotland is the white whale, the place of golf’s impetus, all that good stuff. I dreamed of going. And, through delightfully quick conversations with my family, it seemed it was time to go. 

I met my Mom, Dad, sister, and future brother-in-law (we’ll call them Mom, Dad, Coco, and The Links Sherpa) near the Aer Lingus desk at Logan Airport. Coco and The Links Sherpa have taken their talents to Scotland several times, so the parental unit and I heavily relied on their expertise and decision making skills.

Two flights and a night across time zones would find us in Scotland. We first jumped over the Atlantic to Ireland. We huddled on the tarmac of Dublin’s airport in howling winds and pound for pound the wettest sprinkling rain I’d ever felt. Then we were in the air again, suspended by a tiny propeller plane in search of Scotland. We landed in Edinburgh as the sun started to come up. Sunday had become Monday. It was cloudy, rainy, and obnoxiously windy. But we had a tee time at Gullane #1 in a few hours and with my feet firmly on the ground in Scotland, it was time to see what all the hullabaloo was about. 

We packed into our sprinter van and headed for the town of Gullane in East Lothian on Scotland’s Golf Coast. A whole coast of golf? Thank you sir may I have another. 

We wound along the narrow roads, past the suburban sprawl of Edinburgh and through fields of sheep and lanes lined with uniformly planted trees. We slid around a corner and there was the Firth of Forth, the expanse of sea water that cuts a chunk into the southeastern coast of the country. Today it was an angry and gurgling expanse with waves breaking far out into its middle. The GPS said we were close, and then we saw a pin flag, and a bunker. It was a course called Luffness New. The Sherpa said Luffness was a bit of a snooty private club that didn’t often invite or allow visitors to test its merits, although he had tried via electronic mail. Luffness was not a part of the Gullane Golf Club, but it was right next door. We kept going and as we approached the town of Gullane there were golf holes in every direction. The clubhouse welcomed us to the town, but there weren't many cars in the lot. We pulled into the center of town, where things were even more quiet. I wondered where the hell everyone was? I checked my weather app. The temperature read somewhere in the 40’s, but windchill lowered the score to somewhere in the 20’s. The people of Gullane were indoors today. But our agenda had very little to do with being indoors. We found a few bites to eat at the Bonnie Badger, a swanky pub/bar/hotel in the center of town and then drove back to the clubhouse to check in. 

I was twitchy with excitement and anticipation, one might say, manic. 

Just Coco, The Sherpa, and I were taking on the fool's errand of golf today. We unloaded our travel bags and donned every piece of clothing that would aid in the battle against the wind. The Sherpa and I raced into the clubhouse to slurp down a pint of Guinness. It helped, or at least distracted me from the impending doom of my first tee shot in the homeland of golf. 

We waddled across the town green to the first tee and the starter’s hut. The starter greeted us and made very little reference to the insanity of playing golf on this day. He might have said something about 40-50 mile an hour winds, but that was pretty obvious and we hardly appreciated the numerical declaration. He gifted us a scorecard, and a ball marker clip, an offering that illuminated the treatment of guests in these parts. I hope that clip is still in my golf bag. Like a penguin, I barely stood on the first tee box. Coco and The Sherpa hit first. I took a practice swing, it felt like I was underwater. I had never felt resistance like that on my swing. 

I tried not to be too cliche in my thoughts. Yeah, it was my first shot in Scotland, and it meant a lot to be there, but it was just another tee shot. I am not special. I am just another wandering golfer. My brain was involuntarily contradicting itself into a pretzel of notions that had nothing to do with actually hitting a golf shot. It was no one else’s turn but mine and the starter was peering out from inside his cozy shack. I reared back and made some contact with the ball. It darted into the air and took a coordinated nose dive into the fescue left of the fairway. I didn’t even think about taking a second ball. We were off like a herd of turtles. 

The first hole was flat and seemingly benign, but the fairway was dotted with the fabled pot bunkers. I yearned to find the sand of a pot bunker. Things moved quickly but I managed to make it to the green, and putted out for a score that was not worth remembering. I did take the scorecard out of my pocket, but the wind whispered something in my ear, “don’t bother”. I thanked the wind and limped in a zig zag to the second tee. 

I prepared for these courses with the help of my favorite golf podcasts. The Fried Egg and No Laying Up have some great stuff on these courses, the region, and Scotland at large. There was much chatter about Gullane Hill. Gullane Hill was definitely a hill, and it separated the sea from the town. Each of Gullane’s 3 golf courses started near the town, #1 and #2 drastically made their way up and over the hill early in the round so you could access the meat of the course and catch those breezy sea views. A course developed in America might have told the hill to beat it and blasted it to smithereens, but not in Gullane. And even though golf was first played in Gullane in 1882, I am sure there were no thoughts towards adjusting the playability of the hill. 

The second hole guided us through a low valley with a steady incline. The hole is straight and narrow, with few pot bunkers. I blasted my drive high in the air and the wind snatched it up and decided to take it in more of a horizontal direction, up into the right side of the valley. I hoofed through the tall fescue grass in a futile search for my ball. Two tee shots, two lost balls. The wind had already spoken and my scorecard would remain in my pocket, this was all for fun. I dropped in the fairway and hit a really good 5 iron that cut through the wind a little too much and appeared to end up left of the green. I hiked up towards what turned out to be the third tee, and found my ball in a favorable lie about 30 feet above the putting surface. The second green was a thumbprint in the land, narrow and uninviting. I flopped a prayer of a shot that just trickled off the backside, fun. 

The 3rd tee was on the first false summit of Gullane Hill, well maybe it was the summit of the hill, but I saw more elevation up to my right, I should have asked a local. Anyways, this is when the wind really showed its fangs, after all, the first two tee boxes were protected, much like the town. We stood on the tee looking out at the expanse of links. The wind waterboarded us and stretched our lips into involuntary smiles. But it finally felt like we were on a golf course. We were not cold, there were no thoughts of turning around for a warm booth in a pub, and we had 16 world class holes to go. And, besides a blurry group of golfers a few holes ahead, the course was a ghost town.  

The next few holes were a blur. We wound up and around a huge dune and then directly up towards what I was sure was the final peak of the hill. There wasn’t much time for casual banter between shots. Our mouths were mostly covered with layers and was there really that much to say? The sound of the wind was acting as nature’s score to this beautiful movie montage we were starring in. I was at a loss for meaningful things to say, gleefully ignorant to the way I was playing and the time on my clock. It was vacation in a foreign land, golf nirvana, natural beauty, and #qualityfamilytime all mixed together like haggis. We’ll get back to haggis later.

The 4th hole was a short little par 3. The yardage book probably read somewhere around 145 yards. The sea was to our left and thus the wind was blowing across left to right. I must have really been feeling wonky because I pulled my 3 hybrid and planned to hit an aggressively sawed off stinger that would land short and then go in the hole, duh. What do you think happened? Yeah, it screamed over the green and I gleefully kept my scorecard tucked away. At least my heart was in the right place with that shot. 

The 5th, 6th, and 7th holes play in a triangle around a monstrous dune. They were serious fun, and on a mild day you could probably make some good scores. My drive on the 5th, a straight-up-the-hill par 4, cut through the crosswind and came dangerously close to the green. A real shot. 

The back tee on the 7th hole is at the apex point of the course. Check out this video, windy. 

“King’s Chair”, the 8th hole, was amazing. The sun you saw in the previous video disappeared. Doom and gloom took its place. But an infinity fairway that bends down to the right and a green nestled down near the cliffs made me feel warm and fuzzy. 

Check out this view as we crested the fairway on 8:

The 9th was a cheeky little par 3 straight into God’s industrial fan. The green was memorable, wavy, and guarded by seven baby pot bunkers.

The 10th and 11th holes switch back a bit and then the par 5 12th roars along the coast before you make a true turn back towards town. 

It is hard to associate a certain view with a certain hole. The beauty of this course was the variety of views looking towards similar landmarks, both big and small. You almost always had a view of the sea (besides the first two holes and the last two holes. You can see the holes you just played and the holes you were about to play. It felt rugged, a truly natural golf course now kept for modern play in an extremely impressive manner. Everything I saw was new and stimulating. The holes bumped right up against seaside hiking trails and areas not suitable for an ambling human. We were out there, in the wind, the occasional drizzle, and the everlasting battle between clouds and the sunlight. And, it is now worth mentioning that we had not seen another group of golfers in quite some time, and we made an educated guess that we were the last group out that day too.

Rectangular rock structures of the 3D variety offered another neat and mysterious view. They are anti-tank blocks constructed during WWII. Check ‘em out:

The 13th was a really cool par 3, called Hole Across. With various teeing areas tucked into the very corner of the property. The Links Sherpa put down his bag and trotted into the bushes, I followed, thinking he had some local knowledge about a vista or even a shipwreck. To my dismay, he was just going to water the gorse. 

I skulled the funk out of a shorter iron that the yardage called for, we finally had some help from Mr. and Mrs. Wind. My skulled ball worked out nicely, on the green in 1 after a hop skip and a scamper, but hmm I’m having trouble remembering if I made par. 

The 14th marked the first time it really felt like we were heading back to town. The clock had crept closer and closer to the early November sunset in Scotland. But the sun finally came out for real and provided an aspirational golden hour. I was a pig in shit with the camera, and my golf shots were finally cooperating a bit with the plans in my head. 

It was pretty funny how the wind became less of a factor as the round went on. It was there, but that’s all it was, just there. We battled and chiseled away a decent round for ourselves. 

The 15th was a gorgeous par 5 with a rolling fairway and scattered pot bunkers to make you think through each shot from tee to green. The hole is called Pumphouse, in honor of the pumphouse structure that sits right of the fairway. I took photos of this pumphouse like it was a dolphin horsing around close to shore. Stay tuned for some elite photography below. I hit my best drive of the day and smacked a 3 hybrid that turned out to be a “good miss” of a layup. I got on the green in 3 and brutishly lagged my ball toward the hole, I had a downhill 5 footer for par. Naturally, I canned the sucker and asked the course what they had next. 

The 16th was a par 3 with a road separating the tee from the green. Several cars approached and we opted to wait, rather than hoist unwanted entertainment and possible damage towards the passengers and their cars. I smoked a 5 iron, caught it a little low on the face but it was on a good line. The Links Sherpa also smoked his, and we both crossed our fingers and toes in anticipation for a glimpse of our balls on the obscured green.

We both made par in 2 putts.

From the 16th green you take a hard left towards the 17th tee which is perched right on top of the hill. The tee marker said the hole was called Hilltop and was playing 390 yards. With the massive elevation drop, a good driver had a chance of peeking at a stretch of 3 bunkers that guarded the green. I was feeling confident and thought I could smoke one out there, I was wrong. After I hit and waited for my partners to go I took in the view. I could see everywhere we had just gone, and I could see where we were going. The town sat a few hundred feet below us and promised a cold pint, and a warm hug from my parents who were waiting in the clubhouse. The sun was about to say goodbye for the day, but it dazzled our eyes and spackled colors of all varieties on everything it touched. The shadows were long, but Coco’s drive was longer, and we trudged down the hill. 

The 18th looked short and simple. With a closer look the pot bunkers obscured the desired landing areas. I hit a good drive and had just over 100 yards in. For some reason I thought a chippy pitching wedge would do the trick. I caught it too squarely and the ball shot across the green to the back. My recovery wasn’t good, but then our parents appeared from the clubhouse and joined us on the green. We finished up and exchanged hugs all around. I imagine we looked a little like vagrants, windblown and weak in the knees. But I didn’t feel like it, not one bit.

I like listening to my first gut reactions, especially when it comes to golf. The last several hours had gone too fast, and I wasn’t going to turn down the shelter of walls and a roof. But I instantly knew the round was one of the ten most enjoyable I had ever played. It wasn’t one shot or one hole, it was all of it. The challenge of the wind, the sun, the company in my group and the lack of other company on the course. It was the pot bunkers, and the fescue. It was the history and the country and the culmination of a lot of daydreaming. And, it was only the first round of the trip.

A wind shelter after a hard days work.

Another angle, and a different shade of sun.

The 15th.

The Pumphouse. In all its glory.

A blurry and poorly lit view of the 18th fairway, from just in front of the green looking back.