We left Arbroath early, the sun lifting over the water behind us, painting the coast gold as we drove toward St. Andrews – a town that feels both timeless and alive, equal parts reverence and energy.
The first stop was the Old Course. Even before stepping onto the grass, there’s a stillness to it – like the air knows where you are. The grandstands for the Alfred Dunhill Links were going up, banners fluttering, workers moving methodically, but the land itself felt ancient and unbothered. You could almost hear the ghosts of swings long past – Old Tom, Jack, Tiger – all echoing somewhere between the dunes and the wind. I couldn’t help but think of my dad – good old Wally – who loved this game like few others. I watched more Sunday golf with him in his final three or four months than maybe the rest of my life put together. He would have got a kick out of seeing this place.
To stand here, to breathe this air, to look out across this impossibly historic stretch of grass. For a moment, I wondered… maybe imagined him here. Trying to think of what he might say right now, in awe of this. From there, the day turned to stone and sky.
We made our way to the ruins of St. Andrews Cathedral, where the past stands tall even in its absence. The towers frame the clouds, the wind whispers through the arches, and gravestones tilt gently with the centuries. It’s a place that humbles you – not by grandeur, but by endurance.
We wandered the cobbled streets afterward, gray stone buildings leaning in close, the North Sea glinting at the end of every narrow lane. Cafés, students, golfers, historians – all crossing paths in this strange harmony of old and new.
By midday, we were back on the road -heading south toward Edinburgh. After a morning spent walking among history and memory, it felt like the perfect next chapter: to see my daughter, to have both my kids together again. The laughter, the catching up, the simple joy of being in the same place – it all felt like life stitching itself together in real time. St. Andrews stayed with us, though – a place where the past still walks beside you, whispering, wondering, quietly through the wind.
