Why Links Golf and Britain’s Ancient Courses Hit Different Than Anything We Have in America originally appeared on Athlon Sports.
I’ve never been to Scotland. Everything I know about links golf comes from television and magazines. But from my home course in Florida, where developers spent millions trying to recreate the Scottish experience, the difference is obvious. You can build something that looks like links golf, feels like links golf, even plays like links golf. What you can’t manufacture is 500 years of history.
Right now, as the Scottish Open kicks off golf’s most sacred month, we’re about to witness something American golf will never possess: authenticity.
We’re Playing Someone Else’s Game
Here’s what stings: golf isn’t ours. While we’ve perfected titanium drivers and GPS yardage books, the game itself was born on Scottish shores where shepherds whacked stones with sticks. Those early courses weren’t designed — they evolved. Nature carved the holes, wind shaped the strategy, centuries of play refined every bunker.
Links golf strips away the pretense. Sandy soil drains perfectly, creating firm conditions that reward creativity over power. No trees means nowhere to hide from wind. Pot bunkers punish wayward shots with medieval cruelty.
Old Tom Morris understood this when he refined St. Andrews and designed Prestwick in the 1860s. At St. Andrews, he maintained holes that had evolved naturally over centuries. At Prestwick, he designed new holes that worked with the land’s natural contours. Morris wasn’t imposing his vision — he was revealing what the land wanted to become.
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Compare that to how we build courses in the United States. We move mountains to create “natural” terrain. We install drainage systems that cost more than most people’s houses. We manufacture difficulty instead of discovering it.
Our Magnificent American Interpretations
Look, I’m not bashing American golf architecture. We have incredible courses here. When I walked off the 18th green at Streamsong’s three courses, I shook my head at how good they are. Tom Doak’s Blue Course was pure genius. Coore and Crenshaw’s Red Course feels like it’s been there forever. Gil Hanse’s Black Course — completely different vibe, but it works.
Cabot Citrus Farms blew me away. The Karoo course is everything you want in modern American design. They call it “a modern take on classic links-style golf,” which sounds like marketing speak, but they’re right. Even older attempts like Grand Cypress and Innisbrook’s South Course understood what made links golf special.
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But here’s what nags at me: they’re all translations. Beautiful translations of something born somewhere else. It’s like watching a perfectly dubbed foreign film — you get the story, you appreciate the craft, but you know you’re not experiencing the original.
These American courses nail the technical aspects. They understand firm and fast. They get the strategic elements. But something’s missing, something you can’t engineer or budget for. Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s the weight of history. I don’t know what to call it.
The Men Who Built a Tradition
The great British golf architects weren’t artists — they were craftsmen. Old Tom Morris approached design like a carpenter: solve the problem, work with the materials, make it last. His routing at St. Andrews follows natural contours because fighting the land was pointless. The famous Road Hole wasn’t designed to be iconic — it became iconic through decades of championship drama.
Later architects like Harry Colt, Alister MacKenzie, and James Braid each brought distinct sensibilities to British golf. Colt’s work at Sunningdale showed how heathland could provide links-style golf away from the coast. MacKenzie learned his craft on British courses before revolutionizing American design. Braid brought a player’s perspective to architecture.
These men weren’t just designing golf courses — they were preserving something precious. Their work represents an unbroken chain connecting modern golf to its ancient origins.
Britain’s Rich Tapestry
Links courses get all the attention, but Britain’s golf landscape offers incredible diversity. Heathland courses like Sunningdale and Woking provide firm, fast conditions while incorporating heather and gorse as natural hazards. They’re the middle ground between links wildness and parkland precision.
Parkland courses like The Belfry and Celtic Manor showcase lush conditions, water hazards, tree-lined fairways. Moorland courses add another dimension with elevated terrain and peaty soil that emphasizes accuracy over distance.
Each style emerged from specific geographical conditions, creating a rich tapestry that American golf simply cannot replicate. We can build great courses, but we can’t build centuries of evolution.
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The Sacred Season
The next month represents more than major championships — it’s a pilgrimage through golf’s most hallowed grounds. The Scottish Open, Open Championship, Women’s Open, and Senior Open celebrate the game’s heritage in ways that American tournaments, no matter how prestigious, cannot match.
Watching the Open Championship will be a masterclass in links golf strategy. Players will adapt their games to firm, fast conditions and unpredictable weather. The course will reward creativity and punish stubbornness, separating those who understand links golf from those who merely play it.
What We’ve Lost
American golf has achieved remarkable things. We’ve built courses more beautiful and challenging than anything the early Scots imagined. We’ve democratized the game, making it accessible to millions.
But most of our courses, no matter how well-designed, lack the organic relationship between environment and design that defines great British golf.
Here in the U.S., we’ve created golf courses. They’ve preserved golf landscapes.
The difference is profound. When you play Pebble Beach or Kiawah Island, you’re playing spectacular golf courses that happen to be in beautiful locations. When you play St. Andrews or Royal County Down, you’re playing golf as it was meant to be played, on land that seems destined for the game.
This isn’t criticism of American golf architecture — it’s acknowledgment that certain things cannot be manufactured. History, tradition, and the accumulated wisdom of centuries of play aren’t commodities you can purchase.
Living With the Translation
From my base in Florida, surrounded by places like Streamsong and Cabot Citrus Farms, I’m constantly reminded of what American designers are trying to recreate.
These magnificent American interpretations capture the essence of links golf but miss some of its deeper meaning. It’s like reading Shakespeare in translation versus experiencing it in the original English.
The best American courses don’t try to be exact replicas — they apply links principles to American landscapes. Yet the original remains irreplaceable. The courses where golf was born offer something that cannot be duplicated: authenticity.
When we watch the world’s best players tackle these historic courses in the next month, we’re seeing something special. These courses have been testing champions for hundreds of years, and they’re still doing it.
The wind will blow, the ground will be firm and fast, and players will have to adapt to challenges that haven’t changed in centuries. That’s when we’ll see golf as it was meant to be played. That’s when we’ll understand why links golf hits different than anything we have in America.
It’s not just about the courses. It’s about the history. It’s about playing where the game was born, where it belongs. You can’t fake that. You can’t build it. You can only experience it. And that’s what makes golf special.
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This story was originally reported by Athlon Sports on Jul 10, 2025, where it first appeared.
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