​North Berwick is my happy place, and it has become a sanctuary for many golfers, but it began for me when I was seven. Back then, my family would drive east from Edinburgh during the summer and camp just steps away from the seventh green at North Berwick Golf Club. That club was where the first “real” round of golf I ever played happened. I learned the game on the kids’ course that runs alongside the 15th and 16th holes of the main course, and by the time I was nine or ten, capable of getting the ball airborne with some consistency, I played a couple of rounds on the main course. I fell in love instantly.
I adore the course, the beach, and the town; I couldn’t love them more. That is, until ten o’clock on a Tuesday night. A friend invited me for an evening round, starting at 7 p.m., and I was nearby, covering the Genesis Scottish Open for Golf Digest. The Renaissance Club is just five minutes from North Berwick Golf Club, and the forecast looked ideal, with schedules lining up perfectly. It was a friendly round with three of my best friends. We’d have a match or two, but I wasn’t there to grind. This was pure enjoyment, and given the course’s history, dating back to 1832, I decided to bring along my hickory set.
Turning back the clock.
Five years ago, my wife gave me a bag of old clubs her grandfather had used—a half set of hickory-shafted niblicks, mashies, and cleeks. I had them restored at Jack White’s shop, just down the road from North Berwick in Gullane, and began using the set in the winter months. Playing with hickory clubs is like driving an old car in manual versus a modern SUV in automatic. It’s all about feel: a glimpse into how the game was played in the late 1800s, a lesson in tempo, and finding the middle of the clubface. Mishits aren’t just punished; they hurt.
On Tuesday morning, I drove back to Jack White’s shop, needing a new hickory driver after the head on my previous one snapped last year, traveling about as far as the ball I’d hit on the fourth hole at Montrose Golf Club in Fife. After a few waggles and some advice from Boris, the shop owner and hickory golf connoisseur, I left with two drivers to try. Both featured tiny, meticulously crafted wood heads, hickory shafts, and long, felt, red-colored grips.
I arrived at North Berwick and checked out both drivers in the boot of my car. One offered a bit more loft, and I knew distance—even with the hickory set—would be essential to score on the 6,500-yard layout. I chose the lower-lofted option, tucked it inside a tartan headcover, and strode toward the first tee. Dropping my worn brown leather bag, half full of hickory clubs, at the tee, my friends laughed, though they understood the aim: better SEO for the experience. This course, this town, this history—these are the anchors of my game and my heart.