The Long Way Back to St. Vigil

Andy May
May 26
5 min read

In the winter of 2023, my wife and I spent a month wandering through Italy pretending we were scouting places to retire someday.

In reality, retirement was—and still is—financial science fiction. But it gave us an excuse to drive aimlessly through mountain towns, coastal villages, and valleys that looked too beautiful to belong to ordinary people.

Somewhere above Bolzano, winding our way into the Dolomites, we began searching for the Seiser Alm—the massive alpine meadow known as the “high meadow,” stretching nearly twenty miles across the mountains at over 5,500 feet above the valley floor.

Only two roads climb to it.

Both feel slightly illegal.

As we crept upward through switchbacks and cliffs, I noticed a small roadside sign pointing toward a golf course.

Normally, that wouldn’t have registered with me in a snow-covered mountain range.

But something about it felt absurd enough to matter.

Below the road, buried deep in the valley beneath the towering peaks of the Schlern Massif, sat Golf St. Vigil Seis.

At that time of year, the course was completely covered in snow—three feet at least. From above, only the shape of it revealed itself: dramatic ridges, plunging slopes, impossible elevation changes.

It looked less like a golf course and more like someone accidentally built fairways through a ski resort.

And for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not the mountains.

Not the skiing.

The golf course.

Something about the place lodged itself permanently in my brain. I wanted to see it alive and green, not buried beneath winter. I wanted to know what it felt like to stand down there among those valleys and cliffs.

It felt less like discovering a golf course and more like stumbling across a hidden civilization.

The Indiana Jones part of my brain needed answers.

Eventually, life moved on.

Work returned. Other trips happened. The memory faded into the background where most travel moments eventually end up.

Until two years later.

My brother announced he was getting married in Tuscany.

And suddenly, through the miracle of coincidence and personal manipulation, I had my excuse to return to northern Italy.

Under the cover of “family wedding travel,” I built a carefully crafted road trip itinerary through Italy, France, Germany, and Austria. More importantly, I somehow convinced my wife that bringing golf clubs in a microscopic Mini Cooper convertible was completely reasonable behavior.

This was my Trojan Horse.

Because who wouldn’t enjoy driving through Europe in a convertible in May?

The plan was flawless.

At least in my mind.

After the wedding, we headed north toward the Alps.

My wife and I both love mountains in a way that’s difficult to explain. Maybe it’s distant German ancestry. Maybe it’s living near flat coastlines and constantly craving elevation.

Either way, the mountains call to us.

As we climbed the same winding road above Bolzano, I casually reminded her that I had booked us a “cozy little alpine hotel” with golf included.

A harmless lie.

The golf inclusion sounded much less suspicious than “I have been emotionally obsessed with this mountain golf course for two years.”

Then we rounded the same bend in the road.

And there it was.

That little sign again.

Like a quiet handshake welcoming me back.

The “small hotel” turned out to be a massive alpine chalet with over a hundred rooms.

Completely empty.

To our amazement, we appeared to be one of only two couples staying there the entire weekend, which felt criminal considering the beauty surrounding it.

At the entrance, we were greeted by Helmut—the owner and operator.

Helmut was a wonderfully cheerful bald German-Italian man built roughly like a fire hydrant. About 5-foot-5 and 250 pounds, with the voice and enthusiasm of a schoolboy. Every sentence sounded slightly comedic regardless of content.

He led us upstairs to a modest room overlooking the golf course and driving range.

The balcony view was absurd.

The valley disappeared thousands of feet below us toward Bolzano while jagged mountain peaks towered in every direction. It looked less like a real place and more like a backdrop painted for a fantasy film.

Carrying luggage and golf clubs up endless flights of stairs nearly caused cardiac arrest before the golf even began.

And yet all I could think about was the next morning.

After two years, I was finally going to play the course.

I woke up embarrassingly early.

By 8:00 a.m., I was fully dressed, cleaning grooves in my wedges like a man preparing for expeditionary warfare.

I kissed my wife goodbye and marched downstairs to the pro shop.

The attendant looked at me politely and asked:

“Would you like a golf cart?”

This immediately struck me as strange.

In Europe, walking is typically mandatory. Golf carts are treated more like medical devices than conveniences.

Confidently, I declined.

The attendant slowly lowered his glasses and looked me up and down as though evaluating my life choices.

Then he informed me the course climbs over 1,000 feet in elevation.

On foot.

With a golf bag.

I assured him I’d be fine.

This was, without question, one of the dumbest declarations of confidence I’ve ever made.

The front nine begins with brutal uphill par fours carved tightly through pine forests and mountain ravines.

Every hole either climbs sharply upward or tumbles violently downhill.

Towering above it all sits the Schlern, the jagged mountain chain looming over the property like an ancient god deciding whether golf deserves to exist there at all.

The course itself surrounds the historic St. Vigil Church, a site dating back to 1260.

Despite the ancient setting, the golf course is relatively modern, built in 2007 and somehow folded naturally into the surrounding terrain of waterfalls, forests, and alpine streams.

At times, the cart paths became so steep I was pushing my trolley above shoulder height while my spikes slipped backward on the pavement.

I’m fairly certain my heart rate remained in the 130s for over two straight hours.

It’s difficult to appreciate scenic beauty when your body believes you’re being hunted through the wilderness.

By the turn, I staggered back into the pro shop drenched in sweat and humbled beyond repair.

I apologized for my earlier confidence and politely requested motorized assistance for the back nine.

A first for me.

Outside, my wife found me sitting near the clubhouse drinking nearly a liter of water and reevaluating my mortality.

Concerned for both my safety and the future autopsy report, she decided to join me for the remainder of the round.

Smart decision.

The back nine, now aided by a golf cart and normalized blood pressure, was magnificent.

We had the entire course to ourselves beneath a nearly cloudless alpine sky. The Schlern peaks hovered in the distance like silent judges evaluating every swing.

And, unsurprisingly, I played much better once my heart stopped attempting to escape from my chest cavity.

The course revealed itself differently now—not as a physical challenge but as something peaceful and surreal. A hidden place suspended between mountains and clouds.

By the end of the round, I realized this wasn’t just another golf course memory.

It had become something else entirely.

A mental refuge.

The kind of place you carry with you long after you leave.

That evening, I consumed what can only be described as a deeply German quantity of Paulaner Beer and took one of the greatest sleeps of my adult life.

I had finally seen the course the way I imagined it years earlier from the snowy roadside above.

And somehow, it exceeded expectations.

I shot an 85 and lost only one golf ball, which under those conditions will be something I will hang on my Mental Mantel for a long time.