A few years ago, I was fortunate—no, blessed—to spend three months on sabbatical at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. That was the good news. The bad news was that the three months were January, February, and March, not the best of times to be living on the edge of The North Sea. Horizontal rain and gale force winds bracketed occasional splashes of cold sunshine and frigid starry nights; it wasn’t uncommon to pass through all four seasons in the space of a single day. Thank God the local pub was a warm and friendly place!
St. Andrews is, of course, the epicenter of the golfing universe. It’s also where Wills met Kate. But once upon a time, it was part of Fife, the ancient and honorable Kingdom on Scotland’s blustery east coast, the ancestral home of Scottish monarchs. (In even earlier times, Fife was part of the Pictish realm and known then as the Kingdom of Fib, but what’s in a name?) Up until the 15th Century, the Earl of Fife reserved the right to crown Scotland’s kings, but it was James VI (later James I of England) who described Fife as “a beggar’s mantel fringed wi gowd.” The golden fringe to which the King referred were the chain of little fishing ports that lined the coast of Fife, “golden” because of their rich trading ties to the Low Countries of continental Europe just across the North Sea. And it’s there my tale begins, in the village of St. Monan’s to be exact, about halfway along the Fife Coastal Path.
The Fife Coastal Path runs from the Forth Estuary at the southern boundary of Fife to the Tay Estuary, Fife’s northern border, a distance of about 120 miles. As its name implies, the footpath follows Fife’s picturesque coastline, winding its way among the charming fishing villages along Fife’s East Neuk, over stiles and through farmer’s fields, and across the occasional golf course. Sometimes on a pleasant day, it’s an easy stroll along a calm and gentle sea but when the wind and weather turn, it can become a grueling trek over steep and rough terrain. And that was before the snow squall began.
My friend Robert (a student at St. Andrews) and I decided to tackle about 25 miles of the path in early February. Our plan was to ride the local bus to St. Monan’s and then simply walk back to St. Andrews. We figured it would take about a day and a half. We prepared for unpredictable weather as best we could, bought ourselves hiking staffs, stuffed our backpacks, and mapped our route. The first day would be an easy stroll starting at the “auld kirk” in St. Monan’s, on through the fishing villages of Pittenweem, Anstruther, and KIlrenny to an overnight stop at an inn in Crail, a good stretch of the legs of about 12 miles.
And despite a spatter of cold rain at the start, so it was. Like pilgrims along a holy road, we passed by Don Quixote windmills and ancient salt pans, the ruins of a seaside castle, and one long-abandoned and windowless homestead that told a sad tale; and their more modern counterparts: a caravan park, a golf course, a pig farm. In Pittenweem, we stopped to fortify ourselves with hot chocolate and by the time we rounded a point and saw Crail in the cold distance, the winter sun was low in the sky. It was just short of 4 o’clock in the afternoon.
The next morning we were on our way just as the sun was coming up, walking along a country lane that skirted another golf course and put us back on the coastal path. Within minutes, the snow squall set in and when we saw a farmer sheltering in his barn, in we went, refugees from the storm. The old saw is that if you don’t like the weather in Scotland, wait a few minutes and it will change. And so it did and so off we went, turning with the coastline slightly north and west back toward St. Andrews, walking through one season after another, up one hill and down the next, mile after mile after mile. At one point, the path seemed to fade away and unsure of which branch to follow, Robert and I separated, he picking his way along the rocky coast while I turned inland, trying by fits and starts to regain the coastal path. Somewhere along the way, by Kingsbarns I think, I took a wrong turn down a long road and had to backtrack a couple of unwanted miles. Did I mention that I had an appointment with the Vice President of the University, the very man who would be overseeing my sabbatical, at 4 o’clock that afternoon?
I saw a sign for a golf course. Figuring that in Scotland, almost every golf course features a seaside links design, I headed down the road and only when I got within sight of the private clubhouse did I realize that I had become a trespasser, not a hiker. I detoured as best I could across a fairway or two trying to be as inconspicuous as possible without a golf bag over my shoulder, making my way toward the sea along which the Coastal Path must lie. Finally, I clambered over a fence and there just below, on the clearly marked Fife Coastal Path, Robert came walking along, fresh as gowan—a Scottish daisy. I knew how Robinson Crusoe must have felt upon encountering Friday for the first time
Together again, we picked up the pace. I couldn’t miss that meeting. And that was when we came to Farmer Logan’s field. It was a steep, rocky pasture, full of large cows and what large cows leave behind. I was spent; we still had a few more miles to go and the wind was beginning to bite but tired as I was, I plodded on through the muck. Robert became my cheerleader that day. I wasn’t going to make it back in time for my meeting but I wasn’t going to quit either.
We rounded a point and there she was: the “auld grey toon”—St. Andrews—just just across a half moon bay. And another miracle: our path led us out onto a paved road, and that road ran downhill, curving into town, ending up right along the street where I lived. It was 3:30, just enough time for a quick change of clothes and to make my aching and weary way over to the Vice President’s office, arriving on his doorstep as the clock struck four.
The Vice President was preoccupied; the meeting was polite and short, inconsequential by any standard. He seemed slightly dubious of my claim of having walked from Crail that day but gave me the benefit of the doubt when I mentioned Farmer Logan. “Och, no very pleasant, that one,” he said as he ushered me out, “ but he’s quite wealthy. Has the biggest farm in the kingdom; lots of big coos.”
It wasn’t even 4:30, but outside the Vice President’s office, it might as well have been midnight. And cold. And I was tired to my very bones. Did I mention that the local pub was a warm and friendly place?
After careers in both international development (Special Olympics) and secondary education (Landon School), Jamie Kirkpatrick bought a home on the Eastern Shore in 2011. Now he’s a happily married freelance writer and photographer who plays golf and the bagpipes with equal facility. Jamie’s writing and photography have appeared in The Baltimore Sun and The Philadelphia Inquirer. He is currently at work on a new book called “Musing Right Along.
Briggs Cunningham says
A fine yarn, laddie…well done!
Scott Bramble says
Nothing that a warm fire and a tennents lager at the Dunvegan couldn’t cure…