When you plan your travel to a foreign country, sometimes you just luck out, and find a true gem. A small Inn in the true sense of the word, the St. Olaf over-delivers in every sense. It has a whopping six guest rooms upstairs, a wonderful proprietor, some cheerful characters, and a pub that gets raucous on Friday nights. To top that off, it has a quirky, crotchety Scottish owner named Stuart who was like a character out of an English comedy movie. As it turned out, our night at the Pub at the St. Olaf was easily the most fun night of the trip

We arrived in the quaint village of Cruden Bay right around lunchtime. We checked in and had a bite in the pub at St. Olaf’s—the fish ‘n Chips looked fabulous. We would see the course from the window of our room, just over the hedge. It was a mere long par-five walk to the clubhouse; We were the last ones off that late afternoon, and for that matter only saw four or five groups our entire round.

Woody told me about Cruden Bay, along with Machrihanish, when we were in college. It was at the top of his list. We would dream of what it looked like, and more importantly, what it felt like along the North Sea. It had beautiful, gorgeous, tall dunes, and wild fluffy heather. The dunes specifically reminded me of Askernish, and along with Dunaverty, had the most breathtaking views of any of the courses we played, Kingsbarns was not too far behind. It would become a tie for first place on the list of my “If you only had one course that you could play every day the rest of your life” along with Machrihanish GC—of course they were both Old Tom designs.

Old Tom was commissioned by the Great North of Scotland Railway in 1894 to design the course and was assisted by Archie Simpson. It would open for play in 1899—which was the brand/logo of the gear in the pro shop. It was subsequently updated in 1926 by Tom Simpson and Herbert Fowler lengthening and tweaking some of the holes but keeping most of the green complexes. Cruden Bay with the railway stop would soon become a glamorous summer beach destination for the high-society folks of the early 1900’s.

To say that Cruden Bay was a great walk—and a strenuous one at that--would be an understatement. It starts with a couple short, gentle-handshake par-fours. Then it became remarkably interesting. Holes three and four were two of my favorites. Three a short, narrow par-4, where I hammered my drive down Broadway, and never found it! Did it go into the gorse right or left, or over the green into the river? Number four is a beautiful par three skirting the burn on the left, and into the wind toward the North Sea with towering dunes in the distance. The card said it was 142-yards, and it played more like 185. Come up short, and the ball will come back 50-yards down the hill—which unfortunately happened to St. Olaf (Scooter’s new nickname) himself. I hit my tee ball up above the green left, and had a wonderful downhill, sidehill 100-foot putt (from 30’ off the green).

Then number five a blind downhill par four, with a green perched up above the burn that ran out into the Bay.

The other signature holes, in my mind, are number six, a beautiful 500-yard par five with a green complex fronted by the burn and framed by large dunes left and rear. Number fourteen is the infamous par four, with a blind downhill second to a punchbowl green. Have I mentioned that punchbowl greens are my new favorite? Whey don’t we have more of those in the States?

The highlight of the course, however, is the view from the towering number nine tee box. After a killer climb up the hill from number eight, you are rewarded with a breathtaking, 180-degree view of the beautiful beach, and back North and East to Slains Castle (where Bram Stoker got his inspiration). Straight below you lie number fourteen green where you can get a glimpse of the pin position that you will not see till after you play your approach.

I remember number seventeen being a beautiful driving hole, around a 30-foot nob and along a fairway dotted with the Himalayas. As we walked up the eighteenth, Scooter and I were both exhausted and exhilarated, we were giddy. I thought to myself, just like Royal Dornoch, I absolutely cannot wait to come back and play this course many times.

What awaited us, along with Scooter’s name in lights on the welcoming board to the dining room and 19th-hole, was a wonderful post-round experience. More than a few of the clubhouses/pubs had magnificent views, and nice service, but Cruden Bay was second to none. A sweeping panorama of the course, the Bay, and Slains Castle and the North Sea beyond. Cruden Bay absolutely knocked it out of the park from every perspective. It was our favorite 19th hole, and by far, my favorite dinner of the trip--a perfectly spiced Indian Chicken Curry.

When our server came by, with a smile on her face and took our Tennents and Whisky order, I proclaimed, “What a beautiful course and killer walk that was.”

With a John Belushi raised eyebrow, she turned her chin slightly, and responded, “Aye, she’s a cruel lady!”

What better way to cap off the day than a wee dram at the cozy St. Olaf pub. Being that we are retired, every day is a Saturday to us, but this happened to be a Friday night. What we returned to was not a sleepy Inn, it was rocking! When we had lunch there earlier that afternoon, we did not even notice the main area of the pub, to the left of the bar, through another door.

We strolled in, walked to the end of the bar, and grabbed a couple chairs. We had a relaxing view of the room, which was a cozy pub. The bar was long enough to accommodate 5 or 6 people, and two on each end. The pool table occupied the other end of the room and to the left of that was a modern version of a jukebox, built into the wall. Next to that was a pinball machine. It looked as though we had traveled back in time to the mid-eighties. We were waiting for Norm and Cliff from Cheers to stroll through the door and take their regular seats at the bar. We felt right at home.

Riley, the bartender greeted us with a smile, and we ordered our usual. We later found out that she had just started her new job as a schoolteacher and was doing well and working regular hours—which she loved. She tried to quit the St. Olaf Pub many times, but Stuart the owner convinced her that she was good for business. She agreed to work Friday nights, if only for the meantime anyway. She said that he paid her handsomely, great to hear that Stuart didn’t follow the Scottish credo of the cash burning a hole in his pocket.

Left to right, Scooter, Scottie, Blair, Old Tam, Duncan and the Mystery Man

Stuart was a quirky character and the whole thing reminded me of an episode of Faulty Towers, the old sit-com with John Cleese. We were only there for about 24 hours, but we saw him three or four times. He wanted to keep an eye on the cash register. He would park right out in front of the main entrance, walk in and wreak havoc for an hour or so, then head home. He conveniently made his nightly appearance when I was closing out our tab.

As our drinks came, Scooter could not resist, so he propped up his phone against a bottle and started filming, backwards, toward us. Nelle and MJ (short for Michael James) were the first ones to introduce themselves. They would pop in and out the back door behind us to have a smoke every now and then. Nelle noticed Scooter’s phone and was very curious.

I could hear Scooter introduce himself to MJ as I was chatting with Nelle.

“Scooda, Scooda, are you sure it is not Shoota? Shoota McGavin?” MJ yelled. He was referencing the character and antagonist to Happy Gilmore in the movie with the same name. We would hear that name be shouted from across the room for the rest of the night.

MJ, our brother from another mother

They took their turn at the pool table for a while, and another old man struck up a conversation with us. He was drinking a pint of Guiness and holding a pool cue—his own that he brought with him. He looked like a taller, skinnier version of Santa Claus with a long silver beard. He had to get close to us to hear what we were saying. He was 80+ years old, and he explained that he was there for his Friday night pint and billiards and would head back soon as he was taking care of his elderly wife. He was also from Ireland, not Scotland, and made sure that we knew that from the get-go.

In addition to MJ and Nelle, they had quite a few other friends there as well—at least it seemed like they were, but that’s just a typical Scottish pub on a Friday night?

There was Scotty, who was sporting a man-bun, and seemed the most serious of the gang. Blair, who looked like he was the youngest of the crew, was grinning the entire night, and wanted to breathe in everything he could of us and what it was like living in the States. In one of the videos, Scotty looks at Blair, then at the camera on the bar, and says “We’re filming!”

I can see Scotty in the background, Blair then holds up a glass of Tennents and toasts the camera and proclaims, “this is the 2nd best beer in the World.”

I took the bait, “which one is the best?”

In a very loud and confident voice, Blair replies, “Budweisaaaah!”

“Fuck-Off!!” Scottie immediately interjected.

“I would settle into a seat at the other end of the bar while Scooter was entertaining the gang at the pool table. Blair came over for a serious chat about the US. He really wanted to come over for a visit—as did all the lads that we met that night. Of all the places he quizzed me about, he zeroed in on one.

“I want to go to New Orleans,” he said. “I read about it, and I love jazz and blues music. I feel like I could leeve thar!”

“You should,” I replied, “save your money and get on a plane. It is the most unique city in the States, and aside from the music, the food is wonderful. You should take dead aim, Lad. I’m thinking you would become addicted to beignets.”

Then Blair was off to the pool table, as Scottie’s team had just lost their turn. He pulled up a chair next to me and bought me a Whisky.

It turns out that Scotty worshiped rock ‘n roll. He did not just love it; he was a walking 25-year-old rock ‘n roll historian. I told him that my first concert that I snuck into at 16-yeears-old was Traffic. He about fell off his chair.

“Are yoo kiddin’ mey?” he said.

He then proceeded to talk about Steve Winwood. He knew of the 16-year-old Winwood in The Spencer Davis Band. He knew them all from that era.

Jeff Beck? I quizzed him. “Aye.” The Yardbirds? “Aye.” Rod Stewart? “Aye.” Rolling Stones? “Aye.” It was in his blood, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Moody Blues. Aye!

I decided to just throw a couple curve balls out there early, and, of course, he jacked them over the left field wall.

“Who was in the band Cream?” I asked.

He smiled and calmly said “that would be Slowhand on guitar, Jack Bruce on bees and me fav’rit droomer of all time, Ginga Bayka.”

Then he proceeded to recite the first lines to the Cream song, Tales of Great Ulysses.

“You thought the leaden winter, would bring you down forever, but you rode upon a steamer, to the violence of the sun.”

“Tell me about my favorite band of all time, The Rolling Stones,” I quizzed him.

“Well, their three best albums were Exile on Main Strit, Sticky Fangers, and Let it Blid, in my hoomble opinion” he said confidently.

I told him “Scotty, you should become a DJ on Sirius XM and replace Martha Quinn, she’s got to be over 80 years old by now!”

He did not know that name. So much for MTV in Scotland..

His picks on the jukebox started to play. He got up and danced. He was in his element, and the St. Olaf pub, on a late Friday night, was his stage. It didn’t surprise me one bit. The Rolling Stones, Jumpin’ Jack Flash, then Pink Floyd’s Money, followed by Rod Stewart’s Ooh La La.

“But the love is blind, and you soon will find, You’re just a boy again, well Oh la la.” Scottie sang loudly, with a warm, beaming smile. “Oo la la, la la la!”

When his next song came on the jukebox, Scottie was up and playing pool again taking on the winners. This time teamed up with Blair, dragging on his vape after every shot. Pink Floyd’s Money came on the juke box, I could see him dancing the ostrich, arms swaying up, down, right and left as he hunches his shoulder as he sang loudly and slowly “new car caviar four-star traveling sayction, I think I need a leeeer jit.” It was Jim Morrison-like.

Duncan, who would arrive a bit later, was dressed in football gear, shorts, and a maroon-colored jersey. He was the leader of the pack and looked as though he was the fullback and captain of the local rugby team. His shoulders had to be twice as wide as mine. He sat down at the bar with me for a bit and saw that we were filming. We immediately got into a conversation about Whisky.

“Have you had a Tamavulin?” he said.

“No, that’s a new one to me.” We talked about Whisky, how we call Scotch in the States, and they call it malt.

Scooter had been talking to an older gentleman when I spun around and joined the conversation. It was Liem Campbell, and he was a member at Cruden Bay.

After being interrupted by MJ three times, he finally chimed in.

“This is a true links course. Ye yanks come over here with a 6-Iron and think, I hit this between 160 and 165 every time, and you doon’t take into consideration the wind! Or is it uphill fifteen yards or downhill? What aboot the coolness of the air?”

He was right, and that is what makes Links golf what it is. Throw away the yardage book and go by feel. Play with 7 or 8 clubs—or 3 like the American gentleman at Machrihanish Dunes--see the shot and execute the best shot you can at that moment.

Liem added, “Do you want to know what my favorite hole is at Cruden Bay? It is hole number 1, hole number two,” as he counted off on his fingers, “hole number 3, hole number 4, hole number 5, hole number 6, then there’s hole number 7, hole number 8…...” He continued all the way to hole number 18.

When he left, he told us to look him up the next time we were in town, and he would “show us how to play Cruden Bay.” We look forward to it!

After what seemed like six hours, and it was only Midnight, we did our goodbye hugs and vowed to see each other next year. MJ about crushed my ribs as he said, “See you tomorrow at St. Andrews!”

We ended the night, and I paid Stuart the bar tab, of course. The next morning, Scooter would head over early to the pro-shop at Cruden as he missed his chance to buy some bling the night before.

“Should I Venmo you some cash, how much was the tab, had to be huge? As we were packing up to head south.

“It was a whopping $50,” I said.

Someone did us a solid. Was it Riley, or the spirit of the Cruel Lady?