Road Hole

The Seventeenth is the ancestor of all strategic golf, a diagonal question posed to the player against the backdrop of the grey town. From the tee, the line is blind. One selects a letter on the Hotel sheds—once railway barns—and commits to the carry. The true anxiety, however, lies in the approach. The green is a slender plateau angled obliquely to the line of play. It repels the timid shot and punishes the bold. To the front left sits the Road Bunker, deep and sheer; to the rear, the macadam road and the stone dyke. The margin for error is non-existent.

Old Tom Morris shaped this ground, widening the target but sharpening the penalties. The turf here has witnessed the collapse of championships. The hole requires no water hazards or manufactured mounding to defend par. It relies on the wind and the psychological weight of the moment. In 1978, Tommy Nakajima putted into the Road Bunker and spent four strokes trying to escape, his title hopes buried in the sand. The hazard offers no pity to the professional, nor the amateur.

The Lunchball view is one of grim acceptance. The tee shot asks you to drive over a building; the approach asks you to hold a ball on a sidewalk. The geometry suggests that par is an accident of fortune. The prudent play is to steer clear of the road, accept the bogey as the cost of doing business, and retreat to the Dunvegan. The stout tastes better when you haven’t left your dignity against the wall.