A Dream Fulfilled (HINT: It's not (yet) Bjőrk)

When morning broke, so did the clouds, as well as my foot difficulties.

My step was liltier; my hips were cooperative; the sky was gentle; the neighborhood was devoid of bagpipes and we were on our way.

The morning train to Leuchars swept through an array of scenery--pastoral, oceanic, suburban, and finally to our destination.  We were accompanied in our train car by numerous little boys dressed for what turned out to be rugby wear--bright colors, artful socks and full of tons of energy for an early Sunday morning.

Upon arrival at the train station in Leuchars the train cars disgorged about 50 of these athletes readying themselves for their respective contests. I suspect the train was powered, at least in part, by the energy fed to it from these teams. Their adult supervisors could barely keep up.

These same little guys caught the same bus to St. Andrews.  When we arrived, the boys got off one stop ahead of us.  At our stop, a few hundred yards down the road, we asked the driver for directions to the golf course and it was just around the corner to the left.  We walked 75 steps AND THERE WE WERE!

I have yet to figure out the feeling of arrival at, what for me is as close to a sacred place--the combination of history and golf--as can be.  The weather could not have been better--cool and calm.

As was mentioned in a previous post, a Scottish tradition (law?) of a 'right to roam' applies virtually everywhere. It also applies on this sacred ground. Each Sunday (when there is no tournament) the course 'rests' and no play is allowed. Instead visitors of all ages roam the fairways and greens and bunkers accompanied by dogs, strollers, tennis balls and anything else they deem necessary it seemed.

So we set off, taking pictures of each tee area, each view down the fairway, and each green along with anything else that caught our eye.  
Several others were doing the same, or just strolling, some with dogs, which of course we had to greet.

The course and the outer path were dotted with Sunday morning naturists--joggers, bikers, walkers.

By the time we made the loop and headed toward the clubhouse it was nearing noon and the place started to fill up, but still there couldn’t have been more than a hundred doing what we were doing.  We saw a dozen or so dogs and they were acting as if they were waiting all week for this.  I know the feeling.  I had been waiting more than 50 years.

We lingered near the 17th, the road hole and dawdled our way up the 18th.  We climbed the hill behind the clubhouse and ate lunch at Hotel du Vin (Motto:Stuffy and Pretentious but Good Food).

We took our time returning, made our way to the train station for the return and caught some returning rugby players who look none the worse for wear. Thinking back perhaps what struck me the most were the sounds. Not that I expected harps and violins to be accompanying us on the course, but the sounds we heard were normal Sunday sounds of people relaxing--chasing dogs, joggers, and yes, the nearby rugby games along with motocross racers in the distance.

When we arrived back 'home', Ms. Pith started feeling 'a wee bit dodgy' so I went out to find some relief in the form of ginger ale.

At the grocery store I had the following exchange with the cashier:

Scott (the Scot):  Are you visiting?

Pith: Yes

Scott: Where are you based?

Pith: Wisconsin

Scott smirks

Pith:  I see you have heard of Wisconsin.

Scott: Yes, I watch a lot of The Daily Show.

Thus endeth a very memorable day despite no sight of Bjőrk.