The Royal and Ancient

 Dear all,

Our reason for visiting Scotland was simple:  J desperately wanted to tick off one of the boxes on his To Do This Life list:  Play St. Andrews Old Course.  We scheduled the trip with our friends in order to watch the Jacques Leglise Tournament-a tournament of Europe’s next golf stars-and scam free meals. Our friend, The Really Good Golfer, was the captain of the Great Britain and Ireland team as they took on continental Europe.  Not only did J play the Old Course, another fine links course and a 1920’s hickory shaft course, but we were wined and dined by The Royal and Ancient, golf’s first ruling club and Britain’s version of the United States Professional Golf Association.

The Really Good Golfer is a humble gentleman.  He is arguably the finest British amateur golfer.  He has played with some of golf’s legends and has played in the US Masters three times.  He has received four crystal highball glasses for each hole in one he has made at the Masters.  If you are thirsty at their house, you’re as likely to be handed an old Ikea glass as one of his Master’s glasses, although only three remain as one was dropped years ago by one of the kids at dinner. The guy is seriously humble. 

So not only did we get to hang out with Europe’s talented new golfers we were treated to receptions filled with some of the world’s oldest money.  This is the crowd where the Du Ponts run as does the Cartier family and the Lacostes.  And now the Pierces? 

The Royal and Ancient Club is the stone building they highlight when you watch the British Open being played at St. Andrews.  Most people who work for the Royal and Ancient and certainly the course keepers at the Old Course have never been inside the prestigious club, but there we were, inside the club drinking wine in beautiful glasses etched with the R and A logo.  Such a shame my bag was too small to nick any. 

The reception was held in a room only recently opened up to women.  Portraits of royal and/or long deceased R and A members hung on the walls.  The ceiling looked like a Wedgwood ashtray, for lack of a better description, painted in Wedgwood blue with fine moldings defined in white.  We were invited into the secretary of the R and A’s office and out onto his infamous balcony for drinks while people down on the Old Course and walking around St. Andrews stared up at us wondering if we were royalty.  Or maybe thinking that we were a bunch of stuffy old gits.   Same thing.

There were a few speeches, which allowed me time to check out the women’s dresses.  It was a bit disappointing as the women were overall an amazingly frumpy lot.  One, however, from my vantage point behind, was quite elegant.  She was in her mid to late seventies.  Her silver hair was cut in a bob and she wore a hot pink very tight dress.  No underwear.   Bless her, I thought.  But, oh my, when she turned around!  She obviously burned her bra a lifetime ago and never looked back.  Wow.  The sight left me speechless, but The Wife lost no time voicing her concern that those aging, sagging, bra-less boobs might have put all the young, handsome golfers off sex. 

The best part, aside from The Wife and I holing ourselves up in the ladies room while she filled me in on Royal and Ancient gossip (literally-did you know Prince Andrew is gay?) was being escorted into the Members Only room by The Really Good Golfer.  

As a member, he was free to go in and bring J, a male guest. But The Really Good Golfer, as I said before, is quite a gentleman and he also possesses a great sense of humor.   He opened the door for his wife and me so that we entered the room first and there we stood, however briefly, alone in a men’s only room. 

The room was everything you’d want it to be:  the carpets were plaid as were the curtains framing the leaded windows.  Walnut paneling.  There were worn leather chairs occupied by equally worn, impossibly snobby looking men. There was a moment of surprise on each of the men’s faces as they looked up to see two women with great big smiles on their faces.  Then, all in turn, there was a stiffening of the backs.  Jaws dropped on cue, each man unable to form words.  Then came red faces and clenched hands on leather club chairs.  I suggested to The Really Good Golfer that it might be time to leave, but not before the giggles had set in.  How obnoxious these men were!  How obnoxious The Wife and I were hooting all the way out of the room.  I just wanted to shout, “I HAVE MY PERIOD!” or maybe lick something on my way out just to ensure that the Haz Mat team had to be called out.  

With love from England,

T-Ann