Swedish TV host and ski bum, Hans Fahlén, went to Scotland for a game of world class golf together with an old friend. This is his story, and his dream.
Since I first watched Dick Barrymore’s ski films as a young boy, I’ve been dreaming about going to the Rocky Mountains and skiing through powder snow. This is a dream journey that I have had for forty years, talk about building expectations. Perhaps it’s all for the best if this one remains a dream. It’s quite possible that reality don’t stand a chance against a forty year old poem.
It might be better to find yourself unknowingly doing a dream journey. I admit there were expectations. Hard wind, rain and a tasty pint, but trying to compete with reality would, to my great joy, prove to be hard.
During a dinner a couple of weeks earlier, yours truly and my good friend Fredrik Rosengren realized that we both wanted to go golfing in Scotland. Said and done, the next day we had booked the trip, St. Andrews – a weekend at the Old Course Hotel. I didn’t realize it then, but it all started there. The flight, the Dukes and the Kingsbarns…everything just fell into places.
Storm and hail? Not at all – this morning gave us a clear blue sky with no wind. Quite the opposite from what a local comedian had told us at the bar the night before.
- It only rains here three times each summer, June, July and August.
The advantage of teeing off this early on a weekend morning is that there isn’t any audience when the starter announces that it’s your turn. An easy and wise decision this morning was also to hire a caddy, something that the experience really benefited from. A caddy on The Old Course is much more than just a caddy.
Five hours later I was standing on the balcony overlooking that 17th hole, The Road Hole. I was sipping a single malt while smiling to myself. I applauded an elderly gentleman after hitting a long drive over the hotel which positioned him to reach at two. He waved polite back at me, and maybe he was walking in the middle of his dream that he had for forty years. And maybe he just realized that reality can beat a poem, even after forty years.