I played a new course the other day — that is, new to me — a nine-holer with a bargain-basement green fee and a wide-open tee sheet. It’s in Scotland, outside Edinburgh and inside the Musselburgh Racecourse, on its sprawling, rumbled infield. I had heard people talk about the Musselburgh Links often over the years but finally got to it a couple days after Ryan Fox, get-on-with-it Kiwi golfer, holed his winning putt at the Open Championship at Royal Birkdale. Fox could play this par-34 course, a former Open venue itself, in under an hour. He plays fast and so does this course. When the Scots invented golf they didn’t mean for it to be an all-day activity. (While we’re young, mon — or do your sheep shear themselves?) I imagine the new Open champ would like it. I know Sandy Lyle, winner of the ’85 Open, digs its whole vibe.
Upon arrival I saw no signs for the pro shop or whatever so I walked through an open pathway to the track itself, the red-brick grandstands now behind me, lush grass track ahead. The whole place was pretty much asleep on this warm weekday afternoon, and the whole scene brought to mind a long-ago visit to Doubleday Field in Cooperstown, N.Y., on a still summer day when there was no game.
A man trimming a hedge pointed me to the course in the shortest possible way (walking right over the racetrack and its guardrail fence). A man walking a dog on the course pointed me to the first tee.
Musselburgh is a public course. I had paid my green fee, about $20, online, and I suppose I could have proved it, had anyone asked, but I did not see a soul. (Some of you surely recall the once regular custom of giving the starter a receipt from the pro shop but all that is dying out, with the rise of the cellphone.) When Sandy Lyle plays the Musselburgh Links it’s with hickory-shafted clubs and without a rangefinder. Golf’s been played on this ground since the 17th century.
The course was brown. The fairways were brown, the tees were brown, the greens were brown with hints of green. The rough was brown and crunchy underfoot. My sneakers were doubling as golf shoes and my wee bag had eight clubs in it. (More than enough.) In the bag I had my wallet, cellphone, balls and tees — everything I needed, really. Almost everything.
The Scots do public transit well, especially in and around Edinburgh and Glasgow. Waiting on a sidewalk with my bag in hand, an elderly man with a cane, walking by with his wife, said, “I think you missed the fairway.” A kid boarding the bus showed the driver some kind of pass and said, “It will expire in 2028 so that’s a while.” A Romani mother (I’m guessing) with five young children in tow got on the bus, went one stop and got off. “Thanks, driver,” another young woman said as she got off the bus, revealing a posh accent in two short words. It was a double-decker bus. None of my fellow passengers gave my bag a second look.
I started my round with a Top-Flite — it just happened to come out of the ball pocket — and I finished with the same T-F, so that’s a positive. My first rule of golf, when playing a course you don’t know and by yourself, is, first and foremost, do no harm. When in doubt, hit a hooded iron off the tee. The first at Musselburgh is a 230-yard par-3 with concrete . . . everything. I hit a solid iron, my short pitch nipped the heavy metal flagstick on its way down and I missed my 18-incher for par. I hit one drive right up against the sodded wall (plastic turf) of a fairway bunker and consulted Google on how to take an unplayable in a trap. (Ball must stay in bunker.) I think I enjoyed 8 there — though I kinda lost track near and on the green and maybe it was only 7.
I hit one drive right up against the sodded wall (plastic turf) of a fairway bunker and consulted Google on how to take an unplayable.
I do know for sure that I hit two good shots on the 4th, known as Mrs. Forman’s, a par-4 that is 430 yards, stretched out. The actual Mrs. Forman ran a pub beyond the 4th green, back in the day. The pub’s gone dark, despite the best efforts of the Society of Hickory Golfers. My par came with modern help: TaylorMade driver over the racetrack, as required, and not in the rough; fading Ping hybrid to about 30 feet. The first putt was right on the face, rolling end-over-end over the brownish green. The greens were surprisingly smooth.
A couple holes later I caught up with a threesome of Americans. No big whoop. They were taking it in, as was I. There was another singleton wandering around the course a hole or more behind me. Casual summer golf in a working coastal town on a course surrounded by a racetrack, old stone homes beyond it. Not something you see every day, or anywhere else. Not in my experience.
The name of the town (Romans settled it in 80 AD) comes from the shellfish and the great Squeeze song “Pulling Mussels (From the Shell)” came many centuries later (1980). I’ve heard the name — the town, the racetrack, the course — pronounced a handful of ways, including Moosl-ba-rah. The heart of downtown Edinburgh is 6 miles away. The golf courses of Gullane, Muirfield, North Berwick and Dunbar are along the coast in the other direction. Oh, and Kilspindie. Kill-SPIN-dee. As the locals say it, there’s something musical about the name. The Kilspindie course is hugely fun.
You don’t play the Musselburgh nine for the golf, not in the common sense of play. You go around Musselburgh because you can, because it exists, this antique course that hosted the Open six times a long, long time ago. Mungo Park won the first Open there, in 1874. (Mungo. How did that name fall off the name-my-baby lists?) The given names of the other winners at Musselburgh are Bob, David, Jamie and Willie. Two different Willies. The second one was Willie Park Jr., Mungo’s nephew. Willie Park Jr. had a younger brother named Mungo Park Jr. (Seemingly a creative use of junior.) There’s a Mungo Park IV who is very much alive and has a new book out about . . . golf in Musselburgh!
The course is way older than the horse track. The racetrack is lovely, with stately furlong posts that, very coincidentally, align with the hole numbers. For instance, the fourth furlong post, a tall black-and-white stake, is in the vicinity of the 3rd hole. I hit a slice drive there that finished in the watered grass adjacent to the racetrack. My ball was in play and sat up invitingly. If you’re playing the course on a race day, or a training day, you do have to mind the horse traffic. Mrs. Forman plays over the track, on your tee shot, if you hit a good one. On your second if you don’t.
If you’re playing the course on a race day, or a training day, you have to mind the horse traffic.
michael bamberger
I followed the Americans to the pro shop, seeing it now for the first time. The man tending the shop was talking about the heat, the unusual summer heat, though every year summer’s getting warmer, he declared. He mentioned New York in winter. The Americans were from the South.
I went upstairs, where there was a changing room. I discovered a thin layer of sand on the insides of my shoes (no surprise) and bits of dead brown grass on the tops of my socks, those little ankle socks. There was a shower with surprisingly hot water, though there was no soap. Having traveled some in these parts, I should know better. You should always pack a wee bar of hotel soap, on these Scottish golf outings. You’ll never regret it. You can just put it in your bag, in the same pocket as your tees, or wherever. Can’t hurt to have it.
The Scots value self-sufficiency, as does the cross-country game they invented. You need help to get to the first tee but over the ball you’re on your own. That’s been true forever and should remain true from here on out.
