rode free of charge and named his destination by saying, “Stop here.” Sometimes he hopped off within hailing distance of a Prestwick caddie or, better yet, his man Fairlie and the new greenkeeper.
Fairlie would wave and shout hello to the man he called “Lord E.” Tom would turn and see a man in spotless white breeches and a cape, dark hair spilling to his shoulders. Archibald Montgomerie, Thirteenth Earl of Eglinton, was western Scotland’s leading sportsman. His stable of racehorses featured Flying Dutchman, winner of the 1849 Derby at Epsom. Eglinton raced greyhounds and sponsored archery, curling, and lawn-bowling clubs. Tall and almost pretty with his heroic hair parted in the middle, he could have played Sir Lancelot in a pageant—or tested the knight in a joust.
“Hullo, Jof,” said Eglinton, using J. O. Fairlie’s nickname, “and Tom Morris!”
“M’lord,” said Tom, doffing his cap.
The smiling Earl was always full of questions about the course. How good would it be? When could they hold a first-rate event on it? Fairlie explained Tom’s latest plans to build a prodigious first hole, to trick the eye at the second, to move a green or two or three and possibly shoot several hundred sheep. Tom was happy to let Fairlie do the talking. He was not certain how to speak or even stand in the presence of this Eton-educated noble who lived in a castle. Should he keep his shadow off Eglinton’s boots? Would it be improper to turn his back to the Earl? Fairlie wasn’t shy around Eglinton, thumping the Earl’s noble shoulder and speaking of horses and hounds, club dues, prospective members—Mister This and Sir That—and the upcoming season. Eglinton nodded winningly. “Jolly good! Well done, well done.”
Fairlie said Prestwick’s links would do the Earl more honor than “the Mudbath of ’39.” Mention of the Mudbath made them both laugh. Fairlie had told Tom the story: In 1839 the world went mad for medieval nostalgia. There were pageants, parades and minstrel shows in every corner of the empire, but the Camelot craze found its greatest proponent in Eglinton Castle. There the Earl, who could trace his lineage twenty-four generations to the wellsprings of chivalry, decided to stage an event that would make history live again. And on the twenty-ninth of August, 1839, nearly 5,000 spectators came from all over Scotland and England to witness the chivalric spectacle of the century. Thirteen armored knights on armored steeds paraded from the castle to a newly built arena to reenact the jousts of old. One of the knights was Napoleon III, prince of France. Another was James Ogilvie Fairlie, canned in a suit of armor that had cost him £400. The parade of knights and their retinues stretched for half a mile. As it neared the arena, the skies opened. A downpour turned the castle grounds to fast-flowing mud. Spectators tumbled under skidding, kicking horses; squires ran for dear life; knights dropped their lances, tumbled into the mud and lay there like turtles, weighed down by their armor. The Great Medieval Tournament was a debacle that cost Eglinton £40,000.
“Forty thousand pounds!” said Fairlie, waving his cigar. Such a fortune would pay Tom’s salary for a thousand years. At least Fairlie had gotten some good out of it. He won the rescheduled joust as well as the favor of the tournament’s Queen of Beauty, who went on to become Mrs. James Ogilvie Fairlie.
Tom, ever the agreeable partner, would nod and smile while the Earl and Colonel laughed. Then it was back to business. “Carry on, Tom,” said Eglinton.
Tom Morris was born to carry on. Determined to spend the club’s money wisely, he would pioneer a handful of greenkeeping techniques, including several that were widely imitated and more than one that became universal.
Many of Prestwick’s bunkers had walls that were crumbling, falling inward. Tom could have shored them up with sod, but that would be expensive. Railway ties, however, cost
Fairlie would wave and shout hello to the man he called “Lord E.” Tom would turn and see a man in spotless white breeches and a cape, dark hair spilling to his shoulders. Archibald Montgomerie, Thirteenth Earl of Eglinton, was western Scotland’s leading sportsman. His stable of racehorses featured Flying Dutchman, winner of the 1849 Derby at Epsom. Eglinton raced greyhounds and sponsored archery, curling, and lawn-bowling clubs. Tall and almost pretty with his heroic hair parted in the middle, he could have played Sir Lancelot in a pageant—or tested the knight in a joust.
“Hullo, Jof,” said Eglinton, using J. O. Fairlie’s nickname, “and Tom Morris!”
“M’lord,” said Tom, doffing his cap.
The smiling Earl was always full of questions about the course. How good would it be? When could they hold a first-rate event on it? Fairlie explained Tom’s latest plans to build a prodigious first hole, to trick the eye at the second, to move a green or two or three and possibly shoot several hundred sheep. Tom was happy to let Fairlie do the talking. He was not certain how to speak or even stand in the presence of this Eton-educated noble who lived in a castle. Should he keep his shadow off Eglinton’s boots? Would it be improper to turn his back to the Earl? Fairlie wasn’t shy around Eglinton, thumping the Earl’s noble shoulder and speaking of horses and hounds, club dues, prospective members—Mister This and Sir That—and the upcoming season. Eglinton nodded winningly. “Jolly good! Well done, well done.”
Fairlie said Prestwick’s links would do the Earl more honor than “the Mudbath of ’39.” Mention of the Mudbath made them both laugh. Fairlie had told Tom the story: In 1839 the world went mad for medieval nostalgia. There were pageants, parades and minstrel shows in every corner of the empire, but the Camelot craze found its greatest proponent in Eglinton Castle. There the Earl, who could trace his lineage twenty-four generations to the wellsprings of chivalry, decided to stage an event that would make history live again. And on the twenty-ninth of August, 1839, nearly 5,000 spectators came from all over Scotland and England to witness the chivalric spectacle of the century. Thirteen armored knights on armored steeds paraded from the castle to a newly built arena to reenact the jousts of old. One of the knights was Napoleon III, prince of France. Another was James Ogilvie Fairlie, canned in a suit of armor that had cost him £400. The parade of knights and their retinues stretched for half a mile. As it neared the arena, the skies opened. A downpour turned the castle grounds to fast-flowing mud. Spectators tumbled under skidding, kicking horses; squires ran for dear life; knights dropped their lances, tumbled into the mud and lay there like turtles, weighed down by their armor. The Great Medieval Tournament was a debacle that cost Eglinton £40,000.
“Forty thousand pounds!” said Fairlie, waving his cigar. Such a fortune would pay Tom’s salary for a thousand years. At least Fairlie had gotten some good out of it. He won the rescheduled joust as well as the favor of the tournament’s Queen of Beauty, who went on to become Mrs. James Ogilvie Fairlie.
Tom, ever the agreeable partner, would nod and smile while the Earl and Colonel laughed. Then it was back to business. “Carry on, Tom,” said Eglinton.
Tom Morris was born to carry on. Determined to spend the club’s money wisely, he would pioneer a handful of greenkeeping techniques, including several that were widely imitated and more than one that became universal.
Many of Prestwick’s bunkers had walls that were crumbling, falling inward. Tom could have shored them up with sod, but that would be expensive. Railway ties, however, cost
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