So, I started digging into Cruden, Scotland, a while back. Heard it was one of those epic spots for golf. You know how Scotland is, like, the birthplace of the whole game. They’ve got these rugged coastlines, sand dunes, and weather that changes its mind every five minutes – apparently perfect for those links-style courses. Everyone talks about St. Andrews, the Old Course, the “Grand Old Lady,” and all that, and yeah, it’s legendary, oldest in the world, public land, the whole nine yards.
But Cruden Bay, man, that place just seemed to have a special kind of draw for me when I was looking into it. I was actually supposed to visit, or at least write a big piece about it. Got this little assignment, a sort of “deep dive” into the heart of Scottish golf.
I started gathering all the info. How the first written rules came from Scotland, how they set up the 18-hole standard, the early tournaments between different towns. The whole story of how Scots spread the game to the rest of the world. I was getting pretty into it, imagining myself there, feeling the history.
Then things took a weird turn. My editor for this gig, right? He got this idea in his head. He wanted me to “embody the spirit of Scotland” before I even thought about booking a flight or writing a single word about Cruden. He said it was for “authenticity.”
My Pre-Cruden “Authenticity” Checklist
He actually sent me a list. It was something else. It included stuff like:
- Trying to learn a few basic phrases in Gaelic. Not just a Scottish accent, mind you, but Gaelic.
- Only listening to Scottish folk music for a week. My playlists were very confused.
- Attempting to make Cullen Skink from scratch. I love soup, but my kitchen looked like a disaster zone.
I gave it a shot, I really did. The Gaelic? Sounded like I was choking on a thistle. The folk music marathon was… an experience. The Cullen Skink actually wasn’t half bad, to be fair, after the third try. But the whole thing felt a bit much, you know? I just wanted to understand a golf course, not audition for a historical reenactment.
And then, after all that prep, all that “immersion,” the whole project got canned. They said something about “shifting editorial focus.” So, all that research, the daydreams about Cruden’s dunes, the slightly fishy smell that lingered in my kitchen – all for nothing.
So, Cruden, Scotland? It’s still just a name on a map for me, a pin in a board of “maybe someday.” I never got to walk those fairways or feel that North Sea wind. My big article never happened. Sometimes, the build-up to a thing is way more bizarre than the thing itself ever could be. That’s Cruden for me, a story of almost going, and a surprisingly decent fish soup recipe.
