The Infinity Green

There is not a grain of sand to be found on the third, ‘Earl’s Cross.’ It requires none. The defense here is not excavation, but emptiness. The green sits flush against the pale blue of the Dornoch Firth, an infinity edge carved by Old Tom Morris long before the term existed. Without the comfort of a dune or a tree to frame the back edge, the eye loses its anchor. The target floats against the horizon, deleting depth perception and demanding a trust in numbers that the brain refuses to grant.

Where modern hands might clutter the earth with manufactured hazards, the design here relies on the natural camber of the shelving fairway and the cruelty of the runoff areas. This is the transition. The routing turns the player away from the shelter of the town and fully exposes them to the coastal wind, which treats a high ball with utter contempt.

The strategy is simple, yet the execution is a psychological war. From the fairway, the pin appears dangerously close, hovering in the ether. Every instinct suggests a soft hand and a lesser club. Suppress this urge. To rely on ‘feel’ at Earl’s Cross is to resign oneself to a chip from the false front, watching stoically as the sea breeze laughs at your hesitation. Trust the yardage; the view is a liar.