Golf trips of a lifetime: A round at St. Andrews

ST. ANDREWS, SCOTLAND -- "You didn't come all the way here to lay up, did you?" my new caddy demanded as I assessed a 160-yard shot to get over the famous "Swilcan Burn," or creek, on the first hole at the Old Course.

Of course not, I answered to myself. I broke out my utility 3-wood, took a mighty practice swing, and promptly hit it fat. "In the water," he said. We were off.

St. Andrews is the ancient home of golf. Historians estimate folks were hacking around some form of the track as far back as 1400 AD. To play it is the lifetime goal of every golfer, and here I was last month as Scotland prepared for its independence referendum and, more importantly, this week's Ryder Cup. But the course itself is the only thing ancient about it, or Scottish for that matter.

The scene at the first tee is a giant photo op, with mostly American tourists and golfers flashing their camera phones while bemused Scottish caddies look on. Everybody is on some sort of tour. Their fixers, er, guides, gliding them through the crowds to their destination at the tee.

To the left, a group of some 40 older and intense women blast around in a local putting tournament on an undulating side green. For decades, nay centuries, the course wasn't open to women (the Royal and Ancient Golf Club just voted to allow women in last week). So two massive putting greens, bigger than football fields, with hills and valleys, were built for their amusement, the original miniature golf. The one alongside the first hole is referred to as The Himalayas by the caddies.

The layout of the Old Course is simple. Eleven holes out one way and seven back, with holes one, two, 17 and 18 all within the famous vista television viewers are used to seeing. Together, they are the size of a large fair ground, complete with roaming masses of tourists and the occasional dog. At any points during these holes, there are scores of people traipsing around in your vision, as well as your shot. When an errant ball heads toward a group, the golfing caddies don't so much yell "Fore" as they do bellow an incomprehensible Scottish battle cry. It serves the purpose.

Golfers tee off on two sets of white and gold markers just next to the famous 18th green and right in front of the Royal and Ancient clubhouse. Unlike most modern courses, the tees of the next hole are placed as close to the previous green as possible. At one time, no more than two club lengths away.

As I tee up my first shot, the entire scene freezes as scores of judgmental eyes focus suddenly on my swing. Or so it feels. I once hit my first tee shot at Pebble Beach 20 seconds after an editor had told me the Dow Jones Industrial Average was down 1,000 points (the Flash Crash day, May 2011), so I was ready. I hit it solid. My brother sliced left and hit somebody's car, 200 yards away. My nephew, a 4-handicap, walloped it down the fairway. My college friend clunked it out there with me.

The caddies were a large and hearty lot, all more than six feet tall and 200 pounds by my take. They were used to wonder-struck Americans and part, or most, of their job was to speed us around the course as fast as possible. We finished in four hours and 20 minutes, but were still reprimanded twice by a timekeeper.

My guy was Dave, whose dad was Scottish but who had spent much of his life in the U.S. He was a dedicated San Francisco Giants fan. He was smart and funny, but brooked no B.S. from me, especially in the course's infamous fairway sand traps. Of which I hit seven, including the same one on two different holes.

Five of the 18 holes had shared greens, which made sense given their enormous size but produced some interesting moments as one lined up his putt only to swing back as a nearby foursome roared home a ten footer.

The sand traps were the thing. They were deep as trenches, hidden in fairways, and mostly allowing escape from only one side, backwards. Without them, St. Andrews is a wide open, flat field with only bellowing caddies and loose American cannons to watch out for. A makeshift refreshment stand at the turn (please tee off on the 10th before accessing to keep the pace) offered sandwiches and Scottish whisky, to keep the cold off. I grabbed an airplane bottle, which came to immediate use after I discovered my tee shot in the sand.

By now Dave the caddie had begun to tire of me and my desert forays. He took my club and said just do this. It worked. Take a caddy next time. They help.

On the 17th tee, we had to angle over a shed to make the fairway, and we were back in Disneyland. A Japanese tour group stood 100 yards in front of us, oblivious to our reckless approach. A couple errant shots and a bellow scattered them. And my brother's approach shot appeared to hit the same car he hit off the first tee.

Eighteen, the most famous finish in golf, with the Royal and Ancient behind the green, 350 yards out. My nephew James slammed his drive down the fairway, flying, rolling, on to the green, two feet from the pin, for a near ace. I got over the Swilcan Burn, this time only about 40 yards, and hit the green in two, putting for par, and a 99. (Yes, James drained his eagle putt).

Handshakes, backslaps and photos all around again, as the caddies mugged with us before the traditional paying of the gratuities. Then they were off, a few of the more senior ones in line to work another round.

Because the Royal and Ancient is simply the home of golf rules and not the home club for the course, nobody was allowed in, though we could look thru the windows at a spectacularly opulent setting. Then we were herded into a modern touristy restaurant for haggis and beer, before our lovely guide picked us up for the quarter mile ride back to the Old Course Hotel (hey, it was paid for, Old Course Experience, thumbs up).

The hotel, right along the 17th fairway, past the shed, possessed the most amazing views of the vista and ocean in the distance that could be had. And you could wander from the Jigger Inn pub onto the course and get in other golfer's ways as well.

We played two other, more traditional courses on the tour, including the famous Carnoustie, which was much more the wind-swept Scottish experience you would imagine. But the Old Course dug its place in our hearts. And I can't wait to return, once I wash the sand from my hair.