“You’ll be back around 6?”

I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. The sudden realization that you explained something so poorly to your significant other that their expectations are miles off. 

“I’m hoping before 10.”

We’d just traveled to Edinburgh on an early Friday morning flight from London’s City Airport (I highly recommend it). While the day began auspiciously, with a scenic ride to the airport at sunrise, it was short lived. Landing just before 8:00am, I was met with an onslaught of messages from coworkers requesting immediate assistance. For my girlfriend, that meant standing by as I worked from the Edinburgh terminal Caffè Nero on borrowed Wifi. Evidently a global cybersecurity outage was to blame, quickly made apparent by a security line that stretched outside the airport down the road.

I lasted this hour in the airport and a short breakfast outside of our hostel, before then sharing that this is where I’d leave her. We’d made a weekend trip to Scotland at my request that would last just over 48 hours, and I’d managed to render myself completely unreachable for the first 20% of it before lunch. But what was I supposed to do? The Old Course was waiting. 

Months before, I’d booked a Friday afternoon round at Kingsbarns. Fife, and The Old Course, is a convenient 6 miles away. The singles lottery closed at 4. I might not play St Andrews this weekend, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. 

“Well, I’ll see you later. Have fun!”

She meant it, too, absolving me of my incompetence and lack of foresight. My girlfriend departed, I called a car, and the guilt passed. My driver and I rode in silence for more than an hour until he spoke up.

“You know, I’ve lived in Edinburgh for three years, and I’ve never come up here… it’s beautiful. I don’t know what’s taken me so long.” 

You and me both, partner. Perhaps it was the building anticipation or perhaps it was our route full of single-lane roads through the woods, complete with isolated farms of sheep and undisturbed pastures, but the drive from Edinburgh to Fife was one of the most enjoyable of my lifetime. It’s quiet and it’s peaceful, and the notion that it had been experienced before by golf enthusiasts from around the world making a similar pilgrimage to St Andrews filled me with an overwhelming sense of community. I’d checked off a few boxes as a golfer, but today I was earning my stripes as a fan of the game of golf.

You catch your first glimpse of the North Sea at about 5 miles from the course, and pass the University of St Andrew’s dorms at 1. And then, right as a semblance of a town comes together, you make a left. Then you’re behind the 18th green. 

Uber is only available in three Scottish cities, and Fife isn’t one of them. So I struck a deal with my driver, who was busy marveling at the ocean from in the parking lot of the R&A museum, that would get me an eventual drop off at Kingsbarns. From there, I finally had my chance to put a face to the name and see the Old Course.

There’s a long path from the first tee to the St Andrews Links Clubhouse. I needed cash for Kingsbarns, and that’s where the only functioning ATM was. It runs parallel to the first hole, where you can see the famous Rusacks Hotel overlooking the 18th while admiring tee shots on the first. Just when the path bends, you get a great look at the Himalayas putting course, run by the St Andrews Ladies' Putting Club. In 2024, it’ll run you £4 per round.

My errand was brief, and I left without anything from the shop. I’m a staunch believer that you have to play the course to wear the gear - there’d be no exceptions for St Andrews.

And perhaps that’s what did me in. Upon getting back to the Old Pavillion, where hopefuls throw their name into the lottery via a self-service kiosk, I found said kiosk temporarily closed. In the confusion of the morning, I forgot to check if there was a tournament at the Old Course that weekend. There was. An amateur championship. There’d be no singles draw today, or any day I was in Scotland. 

It was a critical mistake, but one I forgave myself for pretty quickly. I love playing alone. It’s how I play most of my rounds. Unencumbered by playing partners or a cart, I can walk 18 at Dyker Beach in less than two hours, often before work. 

But St Andrews was different. The home of golf and a place I’d seen on TV dozens of times, I’d imagined playing it so many times before. However, in all of those daydreams I'd always imagined myself playing with somebody. I was there with my dad or my brother, or playing partners from college or golf communities. But never alone. Some things are meant to be shared.

This day, it just wasn't meant to be. In hindsight, I'm glad it wasn't.