Baptism by Rain
Bamburgh Castle Golf Club 2024
In the fall of 2024, my wife agreed to what can only be described as an ambitious plan.
We would pick up a motorhome in London, drive to Scotland and back, and spend several weeks exploring castles, villages, and as many golf courses as I could reasonably justify.
The Old Course at St. Andrews was on the list. Prestwick was on the list. A collection of Highland courses I could barely pronounce were on the list.
To her credit, she agreed to all of it.
Once we collected our rolling home and pointed it north on the A1, the adventure officially began.
Our first stop was York for fish and chips and a chance to stretch our legs before continuing into Northumberland. Somewhere north of Newcastle upon Tyne, rising dramatically above the North Sea, sits Bamburgh Castle.
Originally established as a Saxon stronghold in the Kingdom of Northumbria around the year 460, the site evolved from a simple wooden fort into one of the most impressive castles in England. Its history is filled with battles, kings, and sieges. More recently, it gained a second life as a filming location for the television series The Last Kingdom.
I was a fan of the show, so visiting the castle was already on my itinerary.
What I hadn't planned on finding was a golf course.
Just north of the castle, along a narrow road called The Wynding, sits Bamburgh Castle Golf Club.
The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted to play.
This would be my first round of golf in the British Isles. My introduction to links golf. A warm-up before Scotland.
Or so I thought.
After touring the castle, I realized I only had a few hours of daylight remaining. The weather had deteriorated steadily throughout the day, but stubbornness has always been my defining characteristic.
So I headed for the clubhouse.
The parking lot should have been my first warning.
It was empty.
Completely empty.
One lone vehicle sat in the corner like evidence from an unsolved crime scene.
The rain was driving sideways at over twenty miles an hour. My wife and I practically got blown through the clubhouse door.
Inside, things weren't much more reassuring.
I rang the bell at the counter.
Nothing.
I rang it again.
Still nothing.
Coming from Florida, where rain appears suddenly and leaves just as quickly, I was already struggling to comprehend the concept of weather lasting multiple consecutive days.
After several minutes, curiosity got the better of me and I wandered through the empty building looking for someone—anyone.
That's when I found a pair of feet sticking out from a walk-in freezer.
Naturally, my first thought was that I had discovered a body.
Instead, it was a maintenance worker repairing the refrigeration unit.
I startled him almost as badly as he startled me.
When I explained that my wife and I were driving to Scotland and that I had spotted the course from the castle and simply had to play it, he listened patiently.
Then I asked what the green fee would be.
The man looked out the window.
The rain hammering the glass.
Outdoor furniture was moving under the force of the wind.
He turned back toward me and asked:
"Do you really want to play in this?"
"Absolutely."
He grinned.
We walked back to the front desk, where he handed me a scorecard.
"Have fun."
That was it.
No charge.
No paperwork.
Nothing.
My first round in the British Isles was apparently free.
Looking back, I suspect this wasn't generosity as much as sympathy.
He knew exactly what I was about to experience.
I hurried back to the motorhome and changed into what I confidently believed was rain gear.
The jacket was probably manufactured sometime during the Clinton administration and had long since lost whatever waterproof qualities it once possessed.
Still, I was committed.
I slung my clubs over my shoulder and headed for the first tee.
My wife followed behind carrying an umbrella approximately the size of a satellite dish.
I suspect she mainly wanted a front-row seat to the disaster.
The opening holes run directly along the cliffs above the North Sea.
Even in terrible weather, the views were breathtaking.
I gripped the club tightly enough to avoid launching it into the ocean and managed a respectable drive down the first fairway.
Not long.
The wind made sure of that.
But respectable.
As I walked the course, I realized this round wasn't really about golf anymore.
It was about proving I could survive the conditions.
The weather became the challenge.
The golf simply happened inside it.
A few holes later, the situation deteriorated dramatically.
Fog rolled in from the North Sea.
The wind strengthened.
The rain intensified.
Eventually, I could no longer see my golf ball in flight.
I would hit a shot, watch it disappear into the gray sky, and immediately begin walking after it, hoping we would eventually meet again.
My wife and I spent much of the round shouting at one another over the noise of the wind.
The experience felt less like golf and more like being trapped inside a hurricane simulator.
Oddly enough, it was hilarious.
By the time we reached the middle portion of the course, common sense finally intervened.
The fading daylight, slick hillsides, and worsening weather convinced me to skip several holes that dropped steeply toward the sea.
The last thing either of us needed was an evening spent in an NHS emergency department explaining that I had fallen down a cliff while chasing a golf ball.
So we pressed on toward home.
The final few holes climb back toward the clubhouse and the cliffs overlooking the sea.
In the distance, I could see our little Volkswagen motorhome sitting in the parking lot.
A warm bed.
Dry clothes.
Hot tea.
At that moment, it looked like paradise.
I finished the final hole, tapped in my putt, and looked toward the sea.
And then something remarkable happened.
The rain stopped.
Almost instantly.
As though it had finally exhausted itself trying to drive me from the course.
The clouds parted just enough for the evening sun to break through.
Golden light spilled across the North Sea, the castle, the clubhouse, and the cliff tops around us.
For the first time all day, everything was calm.
Standing there in the silence, soaked to the bone and grinning like an idiot, I felt strangely grateful.
Not for the score—I honestly can't remember it.
Not for the golf.
For the lesson.
The round taught me something about perseverance, about embracing discomfort, and about appreciating the rare days when the weather cooperates.
More than anything, it felt like an initiation.
A baptism into links golf.
The kind only the British Isles can provide.
And as I climbed back into the motorhome and wrapped my hands around a cup of hot tea, I couldn't help thinking:
If this was the beginning of the trip, Scotland was going to be interesting.
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