THURSDAY, JULY 20
Our visit to Bath complete, we headed out for the original destination of our vacation, the reason we planned these two weeks in the first place, Scotland! Danielle first made the suggestion a couple of years ago, and last July the idea took hold for us to fly over and watch The (British) Open at St. Andrews.
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| Whew, it's like a parking lot out here! Must be a sale at the dollar store. Or, I should say, "pound" store. |
On our way to London's Heathrow airport, however, we hit a snag. It's a good thing we left the hotel in Bath a bit early, because on the M4 a traffic jam was backed up for 12 miles. You can imagine the frustration we felt when we finally saw the source and discovered that the only thing holding back traffic was a 100-yard section of construction on only ONE lane. There is no way a piddly-poo section of roadwork should ever mess up traffic that badly.
This was not surprising, however. The official color of London should be orange, because at every turn there is some sort of roadwork. Eventually, perhaps the English will figure out what even Third-World-like countries such as Venezuela learned long ago: major construction should be done overnight so as to block traffic as little as possible during the day.
Of course, I complain about London construction, only to return to Atlanta and learn that one of the little roads near my apartment has been closed off to traffic. Granted, it isn't a major artery, but still one of my favorite veins. "Doctor, get the crash cart, it takes Jeff three extra minutes to get to Wal-Mart!"
The gate at the terminal in Heathrow was as big (or, I should say, small) as a fuselage of a 1940s Pan Am plane. Even worse, ticket buyers gathered for no reason. We didn't get on the plane at the gate; no, that's too easy. There was a plane at the gate, but apparently it was inflatable and just for looks.
Instead, we walked down to the ground level and boarded a coach that drove us on a tour of the underbelly of Heathrow for ten minutes to a plane at the opposite end of the airport. The experience felt so Third World that one would expect to see goats and pigs on the plane and women carrying baskets on their heads. When we do board it's at the back of the plane like we're the help, or the poor relatives from Podunk, Arkansas that British Airways is ashamed of.
Allegedly we flew over St. Andrews. At least that's what the pilot said. From 30,000 feet he could have told me it was the Great Wall of China and I wouldn't have seen anything. To make me feel more inadequate, Danielle coos about how she can see the course and the crowds at The Open.
A few rows ahead of us is a mom with her two kids. "Ooh, what a cutie," Danielle says of an infant with really big ears. Yeah, Yoda's cute, but I wouldn't want to see him 24 hours a day for 20 years. It's already been determined that I may be lacking a soul, but am I really that heartless? Is it wrong to think a baby is funny looking?
By the way, I really was in a great mood. Bitching is just easier, like writing a review of a terrible movie.
Once in Aberdeen - Scotland! - we procured a full-size car, a Volvo Something-or-Other. Aberdeen a pleasant, clean town, but we're trying to get to the countryside, over an hour's drive west to Ballater. It's a gorgeous drive through picturesque villages and towns, along the River Dee that winds through green hills and into the Highlands region where we were staying.
Have you seen the delightful musical film Brigadoon? I was expecting Cyd Charisse to jump out of the bushes and sing "Heather on the Hill" at any moment.
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| The view from my room in Ballater at sunset. |
Our next few nights were at the Hilton Craigendarroch Hotel, a resort that has a little of everything: a large pool, tennis, golf, restaurants, even squash, among many other things to provide a day of happy funtime.
My room was very nice, even if to get there I have to navigate so many twists and turns that I expected some cheese at the end as a reward. Dad and Danielle had a suite, which was, well, sweet. No AC, of course, but the nights are so great I just open up the door to the balcony and let the breeze in the room. This does not placate me entirely, though, as I'm still upset that I can get air conditioning at the Rat Infested Hellhole Motel (motto: "We Keep the Traps Set") chain in the U.S., but not expensive hotels in the U.K.
Dinner at the Clubhouse Grille by the lounge, pool and bar, which meant it was semi-casual, much better than the alternative, a stuffy restaurant where coat and tie are required. Ugh, what an uncomfortable dinner that must be. Or am I the only one who really abhors wearing a coat and tie? Every day should be casual Friday! When I die, I want you dress me with a T-shirt and soccer shorts. Walking by the door I peeked in and saw a father and mother with their two kids, and I could just imagine how little fun their little girls must be having, and on holiday no less.
Just as I did the English, I fell in love with the Scottish locals. Always personable and talkative, Scots are ready to hear your life story and give you theirs in return so that you aren't strangers anymore. That's if you can understand one another.
Scots speak English, but the accents are so much thicker you have to really listen closely in order to catch what was said the first time, and many times both of you have to repeat yourselves. I walked next to a guy at the airport who related stories about his wife, but I only picked up on half the conversation. I took it that he didn't exactly get everything I said, either, since he was nonresponsive to a sentence that demanded a retort.
Tomorrow is The Open at St. Andrews!
FRIDAY, JULY 21
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| If you listen closely, you can hear the men of Brigadoon singing "I'll Go Home with Bonnie Jean." |
For the first time since our holiday began, I slept straight through the night, over eight hours worth. Nothing dared ruin this day, and nothing could, since it was a day that I will remember to my final senile-days on this planet, sitting in a rocking chair wearing a T-shirt and soccer shorts.
We drove to Aberdeen and hopped on Scotland's national train system, ScotRail, south to Leuchars, where buses would drive us with police escort to St. Andrews (The local government was very adamant about taking public transportation, since the town of St. Andrews is so small). The trip from our hotel to the tournament was approximately three hours (1 � to Aberdeen, 1 � on the train), but is relaxing and full of scenic eye candy.
With 30,000 of our closest friends we were in awe of being at The Royal and Ancient Golf Club, The Old Course, St. Andrews for the first Open of the millennium (no math nerd comments about the century beginning in January!) It was a radiant sight to be there, where God personally put the finishing touches on the Home of Golf some 600 years ago.
The three of us found a good spot about 50 yards from the 1st green, sitting along the Swilken Burn with our legs dangling over, enjoying the family of ducks that would occasionally swim by and eat bread tossed by spectators.
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| The 1st green just beyond the Swilken Burn from our spot. |
While Dad and Danielle enjoyed lunch I strayed, walking to the 1st tee in order to watch some unknown American chap named Tiger Woods and David Gossett (who was a few years behind me in junior golf in Memphis) tee off.
Ten minutes before they teed off, however, I was able to see a sight that will remain with me forever, that I can tell my grandchildren in 40 years as we watch Tiger Woods retire, the sight of Jack Nicklaus's final hole at an Open.
From the time he teed off on 18 the crowd stood and applauded, then roared when he knocked his second shot three feet from the pin. Nicklaus missed the putt, most likely overwhelmed by the moment, but was given an ovation that lasted for ten minutes after he completed his round, following him off the green to the walkway by the 1st tee where I was, and even into the scorer's tent.
The moment was something special to be a part of, and Dad and Danielle had just a great a memory since their spot on the Swilken Burn was only a hundred yards from the 18th tee. They were treated to Nicklaus stopping on the Swilken Bridge to take a bow and acknowledge the crowd, bringing his son up there with him to remember the moment, the end of an era.
Mid-afternoon Danielle retired to a pretty good spot in the grandstand behind the 1st green, while Dad and I wandered the course a bit and wait for Tiger and David. We stood at the 6th green, which shares space with the 15th, so a bad approach shot means you could have a 100-yard putt.
Later Danielle set off to do some shopping in the town of St. Andrews (she got some stuff for her and cool bag tags for us - - thanks again!) while Dad and I stood on the aforementioned grandstand behind the 1st green, which also overlooks the last hundred yards of the famous Road Hole, No. 17. The view was great because we were able to watch everyone finish their round and since there are no trees your line of sight is crystal clear, even so much that using Danielle's binoculars (she's much smarter than me and Dad) we could watch the scoreboard behind the 18th green and keep track of the leaders' scores.
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| A scene from the straight-to-video film A Not So Perfect Storm. |
Being only a few hundred yards from the North Sea, by 4 o'clock the breeze was kicking up, making the top of the grandstand a wee bit chilly.
This was a welcome change, since it was so hot prior and I continued to be sunburned beyond recognition. I couldn't have been more cooked if tied to a branch by Ewoks and roasted over an open flame.
Tomorrow it would get worse, and I used suntan lotion! It is NOT supposed to be this hot at The Open at St. Andrews. I'm not complaining, but I feel somewhat cheated that I didn't get to experience the Old Course like it was meant to be played: cold, damp, windy and cloudy.
By the time we returned to Ballater it was getting dark (about 10 p.m.), so a quick dinner and then time for sleep, because more Open fun was to come!
