Skepticism and Scotland, 2022
I’ve been a surgeon for 41 years. Older physicians tend to form an outer crust over time. A lifetime of experience breeds knowledge, a little wisdom, and a healthy dose of skepticism bordering on incredulity. Any unusual comment or claim is usually met with a raised eyebrow and a soft sigh. After all, how many times must we hear “I dropped my Percocet bottle in the toilet. Can I have some more?” Do patients really think we fall for that line?
So it was with at least a little skepticism that I approached the upcoming trip to Scotland. Too many stories of golf’s mecca seemed as over the top as my swing. Two years of Covid cancellations hadn’t helped matters, but those delays did provide time to read and reflect. I absorbed as many articles and books about the ancestral home of golf as time allowed. Bernard Darwin, Herbert Warren Wind, Alister MacKenzie, Mark Frost, and Tom Coyne all found a place on my bookshelves. MacKenzie, himself a physician, was a golf architect who believed the best courses were formed by nature and little improved by man. Molded by receding tides and glaciers, manicured by sheep and rabbits, the links courses of his Scotland roots were authentic and pure. No lush carpet drenched with pesticides and chemicals, just grass and sand. No bunker was misplaced. No bounce was unfair. Reading all of these accounts was enticing, yes, but my natural skepticism still lurked in the background. I finally reread Coyne’s book about his pilgrimage to all of the seaside links. His poetic riffs laced with humor softened but still didn’t crack my old, outer crust.
But then the trip finally happened, and after a long flight and bus ride on day one, I caught myself motionless for a few moments atop a mountainous dune in Cruden Bay. I was smiling. A few days later, I stood still as a slanting rain beat at me in pulses on a fairway in Dornoch. I was smiling again. The next day I found myself staring at the sea way out on the Nairn links on a sunny, blustery day. And, yes, I was smiling yet again. At any moment, regardless of score or shotmaking, Nature in her full blast and glory held me close, and I simply smiled. I could smell the North Sea air and see her dark waves set against the brightness of the golden bloom of the gorse (a prickly shrub now clutching onto a few of my Titleists). I felt the firmness of the fine fescue and bent grasses and packed sand under foot and heard the cries of the gulls swirling on the currents above me. And as my gaze drifted back to a distant flag, I could make out the snowcaps in the Highlands.
All skepticism, all incredulity had vanished. It’s different here. I had fallen hard for Scotland. The game’s legends and spirits certainly lent passion to the affair. But outright love arrived when I encountered the people. My memory of golf holes and landscape will fade with time, but I’ll never forget how welcome a guest the Scottish people made me feel.
* * *
We all carry our favorite memories of Scotland. The mind returns to a Saturday afternoon on the last day of the trip. Golfing was done, and I decided to stroll about the town of St. Andrews to take in the sights. I found myself wandering into the Keys Bar, a delightful, Old World pub with dozens of whisky bottles on dusty old shelves. The place was crowded, but a single bar stool was vacant. An older gentleman, absorbed in thought, stood to its right. I asked if anyone was sitting there. “You are,” he replied in a thick Scottish accent.
I settled in and ordered a whisky. As the glass arrived, I took a moment to study the gentleman. He appeared to be in his late 70’s but still had an erect, almost military posture. The skin on his face and hands was leathery and pocked with scars, betraying a life spent outdoors. On his head rested an old, faded baseball cap set at a jaunty angle. A tarnished pin attached to the bill read “Old Course.” His clothes were faded but clean. As he squinted at a football match on a small screen, he nursed a pint of local lager. Conversation ensued:
“Are you from here?” I asked.
“Born and raised.”
“My name is Dean.”
“Balti - spelled B…A…L…T…I.”
He stared and gave me a firm handshake. His hand was rough and calloused, but steady. His gaze returned to the screen.
“Do you work around here?”
“Carried for 35 years. Before that, Army. Fought in the Falklands. Wounded.”
“I remember Maggie Thatcher, the Iron Lady, talking about the Argentine invasion.”
He looked away again, lost in thought. I missed some of his words from his accent, but I caught the meaning. After a pause he muttered, “Maggie.”
“So you caddied…at the Old Course?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody famous?”
“Lots.”
“Who, for instance, if you don’t mind my asking?”
His face lit up. He had a willing audience.
“I guess you’re old enough to know ‘em. There was Mr. Watson. It warn’t a tournament. He was past his prime. A gentleman. Said he was tired because he’d gone to his favorite place, the New Inn, the night before. Liked it because it was off the beaten path, and he could eat in peace. Well, word got out and 30 people were tryin’ to buy him drinks before the night was over. And that short fella from South Africa.”
“Gary Player?”
“Yeah. He was nice but intense…yeah, intense.”
“Who was your favorite?”
“That would be George. You know, the older one, the father. Nice guy. Fast walker. I kept handing him the 7 and telling him to run ‘er up, but he wouldn’t listen. After a few holes a man with him come up to me and said, ‘You really should call him Mr. President.’ I looked at George and said, ‘What do you think, sir?’ He laughed. Then he said, ‘George is fine.’”
We talked for a bit about the art and science of playing links golf. As I took my leave, we wished each other well.
* * *
I came to Scotland with a bit of skepticism. The land and its history won me over, but it’s the people I’ll remember. Winston Churchill once described the Scottish people as stern and as resolute as any bred among men. That may be so, but I found them to be charming, even old Balti. Some day I’ll tell you about his claim that golf originated with the Irish monks near Macrihanish in the 6th century. But that’s another story.