Getting Settled for the British Open

TURNBERRY, Scotland -- "Try the black pudding,'' Ian the 50-ish ball-spotter said in a quiet moment on the 17th fairway.

Black ... pudding? "I won't tell you what's in it. But it's very good. It hasn't killed me yet. You won't eat again the rest of the day.''

The rest of the trip?

"Probably not. Try it.''

One of the first things you learn when you reach Turnberry, Scotland is that food here is more of a challenge than anything. A dare. Haggis?

"It's very good,'' John, a guy who used to live in Toledo but now lives in Glasgow, complete with the accent, said on the 8th fairway.

"Well, do you like sausage?''

Not sure about assorted-sheep parts-wrapped-in sheep's stomach sausage.

God knows what I just ate for lunch before hiking the British Open course Wednesday. Rice with some brown clumps on top, the server dared.

I smiled. Bring it on, tough guy.

Tiger Woods brought his own chef, the wimp.

But this is what the commoners eat in Scotland, and golf is what they play. It's not a snooty game here, the way it is in the States.

Turnberry is a resort, but not like an American resort.

Just head for the lighthouse, everyone will tell you. You'll see perfection there. And you can see that lighthouse from everywhere on the course. U.S. courses are tree-lined and perfectly manicured, with not one hair out of place.

No wonder U.S. golfers -- except Tiger -- can be such nervous nellies, uptight players on uptight courses. A walk at Turnberry and you can see huge expanses of land, water (the Firth of Clyde), tall grass and weeds, wildflowers mixed in naturally.

Sheep. Lots of sheep on the fields all around.

The fairways are rough and bumpy, and players are going to get bad bounces. The wind blows hard, at times, off the water. The sun was up most of the day Wednesday, "Enjoy it,'' the marshals kept saying, a suggestion that we won't see it again.

And then suddenly out of nowhere it rained hard. For about 25 seconds.

Then it was sunny again. The wind never stopped.

On the course, hills pop out of nowhere, with no reason for being there other than, well, that's just where they happen to be. And no one plowed them away.

"Out here,'' Ian said, "they just use the land the way it was, and form a golf course on it.''



I thought I would find that golf is a religious experience in Scotland, the heart of the game. Some of the buildings on the grounds did look like churches, actually. The place seemed kind of empty, as the people were absorbed by all that land. And there was a hush.

Instead, though, maybe golf in Scotland is a religion for Americans coming here to try it out. In Scotland, it's just a way of life.

Based on first-impressions, anyway. Not that there's anything wrong with American courses, but their beauty seems more manufactured.

Woods said you learn to use the ground here, rather than perfect high-arching shots on U.S. courses. The game is closer to the ground here.

Head for the lighthouse, said two security guards near the 18th fairway. And they started talking. One mentioned that a fan tried to sneak in his cellphone by putting it between two pieces of bread, wrapping it up in paper and saying it was his sandwich.

This course doesn't have the same respect of others in the British rotation. Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson had their famous Duel in the Sun here in 1977, but the scores were so low. Greg Norman fired a 63 one day in 1986, and Watson said Wednesday that it might have been the greatest round ever played.

But come on, 63? At a major? At the Open? So this time they have lengthened the course, added bunkers and allowed the thigh-high grass to encroach much tighter on the fairways.

I think I ran into John from Glasgow, via Toledo, on the 13th fairway.

He pointed out the marker between the 12th and 9th greens honoring pilots. They used the place as a landing strip during World War II.

He pointed out the volcanic cap in the water, which is now a bird conservatory. And look at the 15th green: Miss to the right, and your ball will fall off a ledge into four-foot tall grass.

"Did Monty come through here yet?'' two old men asked.

Why, you want to heckle Colin Montgomerie, the way we do in the States?

No, they like Monty here.

John left, and pointed to the lighthouse. Just go there.

Off the 8th fairway, there was an old wooden fence, beat up, blocking off the hill to the water. Up on the green, Montgomerie was signing autographs to "Go Monty,'' and "Good luck, Monty.''

He walked up to the 9th tee, and we were there, facing the lighthouse.

The tee is right at cliff's edge, with waves crashing in behind it.

More water on the left, the old lighthouse in front. Supposedly, you can see a 14th century castle from there, but I didn't see it. Look back, and it's the volcanic cap.

Yes, it all comes together right there. Montgomerie's tee shot looked beautiful in the air, and then bounced sideways.

"And it's just one course after another up the coast here,'' Ian said.

"Next is Troon.''

Ian had to step away then, though, as a golfer lost his ball in the grass on 17. He and two other spotters went looking for it. There was no hope, so the player dropped another ball and hit again ... into the grass ahead.

"He's having fun,'' Ian said.

Two women walked down the hill behind, with one telling the other how to step without falling. The walk is treacherous here.

And now, off to the old Horseshoe Bar, an old-fashioned Scottish pub for some yummy sheep-stomach sausage.

Haggis.

The way it's supposed to be. I think.

I wonder what Tiger's chef is preparing?

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