Of the links we know, those by the sea, to which do we return for the
tenth or the twentieth time joyously as to a delightful friend in a
charming home? Instantly we murmur the name of dear North Berwick. The
old player has conviction in this immediate choice by instinct, though
the question is not one which he answers lightly. In his heart he has
corners for many old loves, and as he brings each one up for
contemplation and counts her many charms, he thinks that surely she is
the fairest of them all. But inevitably when they have all been passed
in review his fancy brings him back to one, and he clings to the
remembrance of her, confessing that she is not like the others. There is
a subtlety in her charm, a fascination in her manners, an “altogether”
which cannot be resisted. She is gentler than St. Andrews, a sweet
innocent maiden wading with bare feet among the rocks of the Haddington
coast, whom you love to tease and toy with; while my lady of Fifeshire
is colder and of great dignity and compelling attractions. It is a fine
sea at North Berwick, and though in the play one may think little enough
of the sea, it is good to have the wavelets kissing the pebbles hard by
an occasional green, and to hear their soothing lapping. The sound is
grateful to the hard-tried nerves. There are few parts of the North
Berwick course where one cannot see a little of the ocean, while here
and there, such as at Point Garry and Perfection, the greens are placed
in enchanting spots. Then the air is like wine. At North Berwick one is
in East Lothian, in the centre of the finest golfing country in the
world. In two or three weeks one may tire of the same links, the
monotony of the same round, the same bunkers, the same greens. Here
there are many others at hand, and all within the shortest of journeys.
Chiefly there is Gullane the grand. When you are at Gullane you may
think it is better than North Berwick as a place to stay and holiday in.
It is quieter, quainter, more old fashioned, a trifle more like the
country, and the golf is glorious. Such is the turf on old Gullane, that
one feels that one should never tread upon the greens save in stockinged
feet. And the man who has not captured the eighth and ninth up the hill
in 4’s, and then on the summit stood hard by the Roundell to survey the
finest panorama to be seen on a golf course, and taste the finest air,
has something yet to know of the utmost pleasures of a golfer’s
existence. Then there are Muirfield, and Archerfield, Kilspindie, and
all the rest of them, so near that strong men have played on the whole
collection in one day. But when you go back to North Berwick in the
evening you think you will stay there still. You like the comfort of the
place, and the green, and you want your Bass Rock.
It is the place to conjure up a mental picture of some great events of
days gone by, as:
It is nearly sixty years ago, and there is tense excitement on the
seven-hole course, as it was in those far-off days. A great foursome is
being played, and there is £400 at issue. Old Tom and Allan Robertson
are on one side, and the Dunns are against them on the other. They have
played over two other greens and are even, and now they are to decide.
The Dunns have had a great lead, but at the second last hole in the
fifth and last round the game is square. Then the Dunns’ ball lodges
behind a stone, and the brothers are in a frenzy, and lose their heads
in several vain endeavours to extricate it. Old Tom and Allan are dormy,
and the £400 goes to them at the last hole.
This picture fades away, and another framed in mournful black comes up
in its place. Old Tom and his boy, the great Young Tom, are on the
green, matched against old Willie Park and Mungo Park. Some news comes.
It is bad news. It is taken to the green, and the others bow their heads
for a moment but say nothing to the boy. But as soon as may be they take
him off the links, and put him in a sailing boat to sail across the
water with Old Tom, his father, to St. Andrews on the Fifeshire coast.
And there he reels as he looks upon the pallid face of his much-beloved
wife, her head laid upon a pillow, and the eyelids closed in death.
Young Tom’s own death-warrant was signed that moment. The golfing
history of North Berwick is full of the romance of the game.