I have been over some grand bridges in my life, the Golden Gate, the Sunshine Skyway, the Verrazzano Narrows Bridge . . . but the most imposing bridge I have ever driven over is the bridge connecting the western coast of Scotland to the Isle of Seil.
Now . . . let’s be clear—the Verrazzano Bridge is 693 foot high, 4,260 foot wide, and has at least three million rivets and one million bolts (but then . . . who’s counting?). The total weight of the bridge is somewhere over 60,000 tons. The thing actually moves up and down by about twelve feet between hot days and cold days because the steel expands and contracts with changes in temperature. The bridge is so high and so massive that, in fact, the curvature of the earth measurable bends it. The damned thing is an absolute engineering miracle.
But the Clachan Bridge that leads to the Isle of Seil off the west Coast of northern Scotland . . . now . . . there is a grand bridge. I drove to the Isle of Siel after playing nine holes at Fort Augustus late one afternoon. (See my article on Fort Augustus here:
).
My GPS routed me down an almost endless country road in full darkness—made more dark by the downpour I was driving through—or, as they say on the western Scottish shore, an evening shower—a freshening as it were. In the dead of the dark, having no bleeding idea where I was, I suddenly found myself driving up a steep one-lane bridge; in the rain I never saw it coming until my front wheels suddenly lifted, it was probably the steepest bridge I had ever been on . . . and just as steep going down. Totally blind in both directions. And on the other side, through the pouring rain, was a seven-foot high scarecrow with flashing red lights as eyes. There should have been a headless horseman taking toll at the other end of the bridge.
But it is a remarkable bridge—with or without scarecrow. It is relatively new, being built in the early 1790s. A masonry bridge, it is about four stories high and about 80 feet long—a 2-1 ratio of length to height—which explains why it is so steep. The masonry is a thing of beauty.
Scarecrow or no, the bridge carries you from mainland Scotland to the Isle of Seil—from the land of trousers to the Slate Islands, the land of kilts . . . .
The Slate Islands (of which Seil is one) are so isolated that when the English government attempted to crush Gaelic culture back in the mid-1700s, the effort to “sanitize” these wee and remote islands simply took too much effort. And, so, the pub closest to the bridge became known as the Tigh an Truish, the “House of Trousers”—the place where men changed from kilts to trousers to leave the island and back again upon their return. The Tigh an Truish still stands—a monument to Scottish resilience (otherwise known as stubbornness).
But Gaelic culture itself appears to have been a later culture superimposed on these lands. Many place names are clearly based on some language that existed long before Gaelic arrived. Some linguists believe that a goodly number of these names are so ancient that they stem from an unknown language spoken on the islands soon after the last glacier retreat. It is not hard at all, when faced with the beautiful bleakness of these islands, to believe that this is so.
The island itself is a pile of slate, topped with soil and grass, thrusting out of the Atlantic. To say it is rugged is to understate it. It is a pile of absolutely jagged rocks sticking up from the Atlantic—dramatic slashes of metamorphic rock pushed up through the floor of the Atlantic many millennia ago.
And not a lot of top-soil. Although much of northern Scotland can be described as rocky, the Slate Islands are celebrations of rock. For two centuries, these islands produced much of the slate used on slate roofs around the world. The work was hard and, from the surviving huts (often still with families in them) the living was apparently just as hard. A golf course seems incongruous—maybe even impossible given the terrain. A truly good course would seem a double impossibility. But the Scots have some type of record for persisting.
The course is in one hell of a location. The Isle of Seil is swept intermittently, very frequent intermittency, with squalls and gales. The weather service will not even send out warnings until they expect the wind to hit 90 mph. For those who have played or watched tournaments at Pebble Beach—that course has calm, placid, almost perfect, weather compared to Seil’s nine holes. At least five times (I played the course twice), I teed off into driving rain and swirling winds only to have the sun out and little wind when I reached the green. On one hole, the par 3 fourth, I crushed a shot into the wind hoping just to get somewhere near the green, only to have the wind stop entirely and my shot go long . . . and over . . . and dead as a doornail.
The course is not St. Andrews, it is not Augusta, but it is a testing and grand little course (unless you are a big hitter but length helps little on holes 4-9–which are mostly about position) sloping toward where ridges of slate crash down into the Atlantic.
The clubhouse is no bigger than a tool shed and while poking around, reading the announcements and generally getting to know the place, John and Howard showed up, asked me who I was, and then invited me to play a round with them. I have found the Scots to be among the most gracious people on earth and I, with hesitation, accepted. I had to have hesitated . . . my golf swing had gone completely south on me—outside of my putting, there were no shots I could hit with any confidence. My swing had flattened over the years and . . . well, I guess it was age working on my swing . . . I had little hope of hitting even mediocre shots. In for a penny, in for a pound though . . . and I thought: “oh what the hell . . . go for it.” And they seemed like very nice folk indeed.
The first three holes are very good holes for the average golfer. These holes were added to the original six when they revived the course a number of years ago. Having said that, the first hole plays a bit longer than it looks and the right side of the fairway is far better than the left. The par 3 second hole is the blindest of blind shots. You want to go right at the pole on the top of the ridge. To the right there is room for error, to the left of it, unless you are short, lies disaster. The third hole requires you to go right past the back of the ninth green.1 First time through I thought I had hit a grand shot only to find that I had aimed for the ninth green. The third green is just to the right and behind the ninth green. The ninth green is marked clearly . . . only a lecturer in the liberal arts could miss the big “nine” on the side of the green . . . in the words and wisdom of one Phil Mickleson, “I am such an idiot.”
While the first three holes are fair challenges, the next six holes are just excellent. Any course of this length would be proud to have these holes. After three, the course gives you bupkis (Yiddish slang for “nothing”—the word originally meant goat or sheep droppings—which fits). You earn everything. Four (green is pictured below) is a short hole that looks like a simple tap onto the green, but there is a wee gully in front of it that you may not see from the tee. Too short a tap and that gully will magically send your ball to the right, giving you, maybe, no shot at all into the green. Go even a little long and you get to try out a new ball.
(By the way, the route to number 5 is over that dike you see to the right of the green; the path to the route over the dike is below.)
Five is the longest hole on the course. It is a dog-leg right and you MUST fly your ball to the center of the fairway or to the left. I had two good drives on this hole, but then there was the shot into the green . . . . Being from the states, I almost never see rolling mounds with low brush on them directly in front of a green (it is just possible that I never see them at all back home). You have to fly it in or get very lucky on your bounce. Both times I hit a 22* hybrid in, straight and high, and just a little short . . . and never saw my ball again.
It IS a great hole . . . .
The flag on six is sheltered right behind, directly behind, a lovely hillock. Very nice foliage on that hillock, nice shape to it, nice thick grass growing on it . . . and the green slopes away from you so you might need a bit of a backspin to hold it . . . unless you are really good, I advise 1.) lay up followed by prayer, or 2.) prayer, then lay up, and then more prayer. Both times around Howard hit perfectly aimed shots which fell just a little short and three grown men, stamping around on that hillock, never found either. I managed to stop my ball on the green the second time around and, well, that may have been the highlight of the day.
(Yes, Virginia, there is a flag behind that mound.)
Seven is a regular par-3, a little uphill. There is real trouble on the left but really good golfers should have no trouble shading their shot to the right . . . I lost two balls by not doing so.
Eight is the signature hole and you really do hit over the Atlantic (a tiny finger of it). It is quite a signature hole. Technically it is a medium-length par-3. In reality, you have to hit as far as the green.
It’s all carry, mate.
Go left and the Atlantic adds to its collection of balls. Go right and there is a deep depression and a green that slopes away from you. The green mostly tilts left and as I found out the second time around, a low tee shot that hits the right side of the green can be slingshotted into eternity. So you have to hit it high and, for the average golfer, long. This hole would work on any course, anywhere.
Is anyone keeping track of how many balls I lost on this course?
The final hole looks obtainable and it is. But there is a quarry to the right and the lay of the land can kick it back and into that quarry. Having seen that little trick the first time around (add one to the lost ball count), I hit my shot long and to the left the second time around. There is peace and solitude over there and you actually have a shot back if you miss the green.
I want to give kudos to Howard and John, who were most welcoming to me and my play . . . and I had the pleasure of seeing Howard get an ace the second time around on hole 2—his first and he is not much younger than me (if he is younger than me). True hospitality.
Leaving there, I headed for my hosts’ house and the plan was that I would go with them to another island off that barren coast for an evening of music in a small pub (they would be the musicians). But, after being lashed with wind and rain, suffered innumerable lost balls, and had a little too much travel, I begged off and had dinner.
The restaurant was down a road from the main intersection on Seil, twisty, windy, and carved past sheep pastures set among the stone. At the end of the road sits a tiny community (Ellenabeich) with tiny homes, the odd shop or restaurant, and a wharf where the ferry to Easdale Island docks—the ferry being basically a large dinghy. The place I ate at,The Oyster, looks exactly like a place which a Slate Island ferry should dock near. It fits perfectly. And it is a fine place for a regular dinner—I thought the food above average for such a locale.
But that doesn’t explain the scarecrows.
On the way to The Oyster, I passed a number of them—in the dead of summer instead of the middle of the fall as in the states. The scarecrows literally dotted the island. I came to imagine the Isle of Seil as the Easter Island of scarecrows.
But the scarecrows all had to do with the little hamlets and villages of Seil remaining a community (actually a host of very tiny thriving communities linked together). Every year they do something that the entire community can join in on. This year it was scarecrows—darn inventive scarecrows. By chance, the weekend I was there, they had a scarecrow competition all across the island complete with prizes, topped off with a community day (including a barbecue at the annual community shindig on the island.)
My hat is off to the residents of Seil. Scarecrows and all, they have made a very warm and flourishing “little” place in a very harsh and stony land.
Alan McPherson found the same situation. Read his grand review of the course at: http://scottishgolfcourses-allofthem.blogspot.com/2012/05/isle-of-seil-gc-course-no-499.html
I’ve played this course a few times - what you see is what you get - but on a nice day the surroundings and views more than make up for the fact that is may not be the most manicured course in the world but…… would I play it again - ABSOLUTELY.
Fabulous writing: entertaining and delightful! The pictures add so much to the local flavor of the story!