Carnoustie, a world-renowned and notoriously difficult golf course in eastern Scotland was part of this year’s Dunhill Golf championship. And as it’s free of charge the first three rounds, why not go!
I hadn’t expected the weather to be quite so good: a beautiful day, around 60–65°F, slightly windy, and not an ounce of rain.
What’s striking is that for roughly £150–£160 you can stay in a hotel right beside the course, where many of the players stay. Some rooms have a balcony overlooking the 18th green; it’s cheaper without one, which is fair enough. We chose one of the older pub hotels a little further out instead, the Corner Bar.
It was an interesting place. Like a lot of Scottish pubs — and especially in a town that used to be a fishing village — you get a mix of two or three locals, two or three tourists, and a pool table that looks as though it hasn’t been properly cleaned since the 1950s. There was a separate lounge and a separate bar. The bar itself looked like the sort of place I wouldn’t have gone into if my life depended on it: flaky white paint on the outside and one of those faded signs that probably hasn’t worked properly since the mid-1970s. I gave it a miss.
The room, though, was surprisingly decent — very basic, but we had everything we needed. There was an early tea the next morning, and then we went to one of the most perfect old-fashioned bakeries (apparently it’s called “Craft Baking”) I’ve seen in Scotland; J & M Bakery.
It looked exactly as you’d expect a small bakery to have looked in 1965 (See the attached photos.)! It was superb. They had local bakery goods delivered that morning — absolutely lovely, the staff were polite, after which we had the short walk to the golf.
The golf itself was fairly busy. I’ve been to the Dunhill tournament quite a few times over the past 10–15 years, maybe every other year, but I’d never ventured away from St Andrews before.
Spectating is free on the Thursday, Friday and Saturday, then £20 to watch them all finish on the Old Course at St Andrews on Sunday. The day itself was almost too perfect.
And then, there was the train journey home.
The journey home on the InterCity was only about an hour and 40 minutes, but as usual there was a family from hell sitting behind us. They claimed to have a disabled child, yet he was the least of their problems — the crudeness, the over-the-top loudness, and the occasional shouting that their kid was disabled, made me want to throw up.
Typical, isn’t it?
CB
