Gowf In The Kingdom

 At least for some of us....

The day begins with a visit to the local Pittenweem Chemist (pharmacist) to get a sixth opinion on my injury.  A consensus has evolved that the patient will live, and further that if he'll simply eschew golf for a fortnight or so, he'll be as good as new.  Just a lucky thing we had nothing planned for said fortnight....

We also found the local bakery, from which we grabbed a sausage roll that hit the spot later on the links.  They seem to have a lovely way of staking their claim to parking spots as well:

Employee No. 2 and I were off to the Balcomie for what was expected to be our first loop as actual members of Crail Golfing Society, which has just a wee bit of history.  Should you encounter a keypad at the club, as I did yesterday entering the men's locker room, the code will invariably be 1786:

1786 Resolution

There is evidence that golf was played in Crail long before 1786. Two years before George Washington was elected the first President of the United States and three years before the storming of the Bastille in Paris, a group of eleven gentlemen 'fond of the diversion of golf' met at the Golf Inn and formed the Crail Golfing Society.

The records of 1786 are still preserved; indeed the Society still possesses a complete set of minutes from the date of its inception. Crail Golfing Society is the oldest golf club in the world that can make that claim.

Eleven gentlemen attended that conclave that established the Society, making it the seventh oldest golf club in the world.  

As always, the golf preceded the paperwork:

Mark of a Legend

The first mention of golf being played on Balcomie is 1857. Much of the course as it is played today was down to the masterful eye of a true legend of the game, Old Tom Morris. Open Champion, father of Young Tom, and "Grandfather of Golf", Old Tom laid out the first 9 holes in 1895 and extended the course to 18 holes in 1900.

The scene upon our arrival was a bit chaotic, as our 11:40 time was the first after the visitor times, so several groups of players were milling about the small confines of the first tee.

It's a necessary evil, as the club's economic survival is dependent upon the visitors' fees, but it doesn't exactly make one proud to be a Yank.  Loud voices, garish clothing and false bravado seem to be in infinite supply, or perhaps I am irreversibly into the "Get Off My Lawn" stage of life.

I'll Take "Freakish Golf Injuries" for $200, Art - I started a conversation with a woman who was playing behind us, mostly because she was quite clearly planning on carrying her bag.  She and her husband had just joined as Overseas Members, but she was carrying, as opposed to using a trolley, because she damaged her forearm pushing a trolley into the strong winds at the Castle Course.  

This will give you a feel for that first tee, moments before the bride teed off and after the large groups were out on the course:

Couldn't have ordered up a better days for golf of the links persuasion, temps peaking at 70 degrees with winds in the mid-teens, gusting to the mid-twenties.  From the tee we see the putting green and the North Sea, which will be a constant companion as we make our way around:

Here's a long view down to the old boathouse, which gives the opening hole its name:

As we saw with that N.Y. Times photo from the week of the Open, they've had a warm, dry summer, and the turf is as crisp as I've seen it in years.  But note the contrast to my photos from Dornoch, whose sprinkler system keeps their turf quite lush and green.

It's been three long years of waiting (and paying dues, though no complaints there), but finally a Simpson has struck a golf shot as a member of the Crail Golfing Society:

And a good one at that, as were off....

Hard to see in that 2-dimensional photo, but it's straight downhill, a "gentle handshake" of a first hole, in the words of Donald Ross (a Dornoch native).  The opening holes play along the beach, where one hardy soul has found a solution to the over-priced accommodations:

 Unfortunately, with all the Yanks in front of us, it's difficult to find a view unspoiled by buggies:

The front nine is fairly conventional, winding its way along the contours of the property.  The most famous hole is undoubtedly No. Five:

Hole 5 – Hell’s Hole – Although this could easily describe the difficulty of the hole the name comes from the rocky area of the beach on the right of the hole.

Hell indeed, it's all you'd want in a Par-4, a classic cape hole off the tee:

That's far from the best view of it, but it's very much a rare forced carry for most men.  The counter-intuitive bot for most is that, while we're playing seaside golf, the water doesn't come into play much.  Oh, there's the odd burn here and there, but one only rarely has to carry the hazards.

The hole plays 447 yards from the white tees, and the course guide helpfully provides carry distances for three lines, which range from 188-266 yards, back into the prevailing westerly breeze.  What I had forgotten was how awkward the tee shot is for the ladies:

There's plenty of room, but the turf slopes precipitously towards trouble and, while we found Theresa's ball, I have to feel that those white stakes were telling us something....

The new camera purchased for this trip seems to be doing a pretty good job at picking up the golf ball:

The camera is decidedly old school, but for golf its burst mode (this one is 20 fps) is needed for the actions photos.  I rather like this photo as well:

Forgive me my indulgences, but when you're limited to caddying and photography, one can be rather self-indulgent.

The fifth green is at the far end of the property, looking north towards Kingsbarns and St. Andrews:

And here's a similar view from the elevated seventh tee:

Quite miraculous to capture an image unsullied by buggies.... 

I was reminded of an interesting architectural feature as Theresa played, one that Old Tom used on both the first and seventh holes.  Both are short, downhill Par-4's that offer options off the tee, but the short pitch or runner into the green is complicated by a ridge just short of the green:

As we waited on the tee, one of the professionals came out in a buggy to check on pace-of-play (alas, there was none), and we had an interesting discussion about that seventh hole, where he said many would lay up to the top of the hill, though he conceded that it's still well near impossible to hold the green.

The course features one double green, the yellow flag being the eighth hole and the red the eleventh:

It's the incoming nine where Crail gets...well, let's go with quirky.  Four of the final six holes are Par-3's, and three of them play substantially uphill.  The thirteenth is the first of these, bringing us back near the clubhouse:

It's some 115 yards to clear the crap, but that's a big ask for the ladies....Of course, Theresa gets a shot off your humble blogger on each of these uphill holes, my explanation for why I never like my chances in our matches on the Balcomie.  And, yes, some cheese would pair well with my whine....

After the uphill slog of No. 13, one is presented with what can only be characterized as golf porn:

On which the bride hit a crazy good shot.... take a gander at where this ball starts:

At this point the wind was howling from left-to-right, which combined with some cut spin on the ball, resulted in the show landing just left of the pin and finishing just off the back of the green fifteen feet right of the pin.  Well played, for sure.

The last quirky bit about the Balcomie as that the final four holes involves a short walk along the Fife Coastal Path to a section of ground on the far side of the clubhouse:

It was here that we finally lost our will to live, having been out there more than four hours and knowing that we'd break the five-hour mark had we finished.  

Theresa played beautifully for most of the day.  Not quite the stuff we saw on the outbound nine at Dornoch, but at one point I told her that tee-to-green she could break eighty.  Alas, the speed of the greens escaped her, though perhaps that can be attributed to her amateur caddie....

It was time to head home to Pittenwwem and our first BBQ.  At our Coop, we found these single-use grills:

It's tucked into that corner because that's the only spot where I could light a match out of the wind.  It did what we needed it to do, and we've got a larger one for next week when Elsie, John and our nephew will be with us:

Then Tessie suggested the inconceivable, that we eat outdoors.  That's crazy talk around here, but the wind had sat down and it was a glorious evening, so if not now, when?

Our outdoor space is at the staircase on the left (the photo I showed a few days ago is actually our neighbor's sitting area):

Quite the feast, and not a half-bad venue:

And quite the view:

After clean-up, we took our traditional walk along the embankment.  Have I mentioned the late-day light?

The Isle of May:

And our day concludes with a view of the moon over Pittenweem from our bedroom aerie:

It's off to the Craighead today.  The wound does feel a bit less tender this morning, although that's perhaps wishful thinking.  I may well try some chipping and putting, but I should probably not push things too far in the hopes of being able to play for real on Thursday.

UPDATE:  In an uncharacteristic surge of optimism, I have submitted an entry for the Daily Ballot for Thursday.  The wound feels significantly less tender, though I shall limit myself to chipping and putting today on the Craighead.

One bit I forgot to mention is a bit of weirdness with Theresa's golf bag.  Every stand bag I've owned and seen has a strap to keep the legs from extending, except apparently for hers.  This makes placing her bag on the trolley well nigh impossible, and we've ben forced to place the bag upside down, with the legs outward.  Awkward, to say the least.  For today, we've swapped her things out to my bag, but we'll need to bear that in mind when she replaces her bag.