Bunker fun and “incomprehensible” access

After a good night’s sleep and a hearty Scottish breakfast (I still can’t understand blood pudding) it was off to Dundonald Golf Links for round 2.

Dundonald is the modernized version of an old-time Scottish course. It’s a classic seaside links course reworked into a modern test, a theater-style links course that weaves its way beautifully across the countryside. 

It is an absolute joy to play, and the home to many competitions and events (including an upcoming British Open qualifier).

My photos don’t do it justice; check out the course online.

The bunkers in Scotland are a part of the fun. The one pictured with Patrick, below, was a full 50 feet below the green level, designed as a funnel that captures pretty much every ball that went long past what was the short par-3 11th hole.

(Patrick actually was on the green—but we both had to try to hit one out from here.)

Dundonald is different from many of its more famous neighbours. It is everything that Scottish golf is not known for: it’s new, it’s comfortable and it’s luxurious. The clubhouse is a modern atrocity that seems out of place in this quaint part of the world; equipped with lots of glass, a sauna, a green roof and fancy restaurant. It seems like it was built for rich Americans. It is stunningly beautiful but belongs elsewhere.

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My introduction to golf came at a course that was nowhere near as fancy. I grew up on the back of Grovehill Public in Lachine, Quebec.

Grovehill was what golfers would refer to as a cow pasture. It was a par 32, that has deservedly long since been converted into a housing development. The clubhouse at Grovehill was a shack; its only redeeming feature being that it sold cheap drinks and snacks.

I grew up putting and chipping on the practice green, which was about 100 yards from my back door. Once I was old enough, my parents spent the $75 for a full junior summer membership for me, and then let me walk over every day to play. I would put my Top Flite into the singles row on the old-style ball rack and wait for the starter to call on me to join whatever group needed a fourth.

Grovehill had a group of regulars who were remarkably welcoming. They were all World War 2 veterans—mostly navy—and none of them were very good at golf. But they seemed to take a liking to me, and I found myself playing with them most mornings before walking home for lunch. I would usually play another nine in the afternoon, and then hope my dad would have time for a few quick holes after he got home from work.

Grovehill had no fancy clubhouse with a sauna (although I’m sure the wood shack felt like a sauna in July), and the pro shop had no glass windows overlooking the sea, but that is where I fell in love with golf.

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I managed to play the entire second round with the same “M”-marked golf ball from yesterday, avoiding the gorse and long rough and shooting a solid 77 in gentle conditions. Patrick is struggling to find his game, but is showing signs of progress.

After our morning round, we decided to try to find another round of golf for the late afternoon. It is light here until around 10:30 p.m. this time of year, so evening golf is particularly attractive. We are a short drive from Dalmilling Municipal Golf Course, so we decided to give it a try.

We showed up at 4:00 p.m. on a beautiful Saturday, and there were three cars in the parking lot. The “pro shop” was closed. There was one guy chipping on a practice green. I asked him where everyone was, and how we pay for the golf.

“The starter’s gone home, you just play.”

“You just play? Who do I pay?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Welcome to municipal golf in Scotland!” he said with a smile. “The first hole is down the hill, make sure to keep left.”

For a Toronto-based golfer, you can’t begin to imagine how incomprehensible this is. A public golf course of this quality on a Saturday afternoon in Toronto would be jam-packed, and likely cost $100 to play. In Scotland, even with no staff on the grounds, you just play.

The course was beautiful. It was a full-length parkland course through the woods that was in great shape. I counted seven other people on the course. We played well into the evening, and ended just before a dark rain cloud blocked out the setting sun. We did not keep score, but Patty’s game is definitely coming around.

Next up: Prestwick