The week of the British Open is always a special one, but even more so when the tourney descends on the Home of Golf, St. Andrew’s.
It is a bucket list destination for any golfer. It is the birthplace of the game. St. Andrew’s for lack of a better comparison, it the Vatican of Golf.
I am not going to bore you with the history of the grounds, or the people who have walked the fairways. If you are a golfer, you already know. If you aren’t a golfer, I could tell you, but to go a little golf snob on you, it wouldn’t resonate.
It is like if I were to be given a fine port to drink. You can explain the nuances that go into the crafting of such an exquisite beverage, but I would get lost in the details. I’d probably gulp it down not knowing the difference…this is the same thing.
As we head into the week, especially at St. Andrew’s, we are always told that time has passed the old girl by. Technology…bigger drivers, balls that fly for miles, would antiquate this fine establishment; it is a little more than that.
Mother Nature and St. Andrew’s made a pact. Whenever someone overlooks the pure splendour of a course that the maker truly put his hands on, Mother Nature would exhale and let the wind from the North Sea freeze the life out of you.
The rain that falls at St. Andrew’s isn’t the precipitation that we see in this part of the world. It could drop on you as a Scotch Mist, or come in on you sideways.
I prefer to think of the rain as tears from golfers who have hit a shot in vain, anywhere around the world…and also tears of joy when they strike that perfect shot.
St Andrew’s is more than a golf course…for us golfers, it’s our Field of Dreams.