A High-End Campsite
Manchester, England
July 23, 2007
The airline industry has been rough the last several years. After 9/11 Delta has re-trenched, severed employees, cut pay, and entered bankruptcy. But the corner is being turned, and a few perks remain.
Among them are the ability to travel the world, often in the premium cabin. Sometimes, in my particular role, that travel occurs in the course of business. This weekend is another in a recent series of egregious examples.
I landed in Edinburg Thursday morning, hopped in a waiting car, and was driven directly to Carnoustie for the opening round of the British Open. After an hour and a half ride, we pulled up to a private entrance. Under a ubiquitous rain, the chauffeur carried my bag and chaperoned me to the Unisys hospitality “tent”.
This place is a tent the way Versailles is a house. But even the Sun King never enjoyed such an unending procession of booze, beef, sweets, and seafood. This was a high-end campsite.
Unisys has been very good to me the last couple years. They are the official score-keeper for the PGA, and a vendor for much of Delta’s pricing software. I help select the suppliers for our systems, so they often select me for these junkets. A few weeks ago, they hosted Rita, Alexander, and me at the US Open at Oakmont, outside Pittsburgh. Last year, they welcomed us to the PGA Championship at Medina, outside Chicago.
As I walked toward the Unisys venue, I looked up. There was my mother, leaning against the balcony rail, scanning the adjacent 18th fairway, waving down to me with one hand while clutching her champagne flute in the other.
She had arrived earlier on a Continental flight from Tampa thru Newark. When I met her on the balcony, she said she had considered going to the 16th green, to await Ratief Goosen. But then a chilling realization restrained her. Knowing what she thinks of Ratief Goosen, I couldn’t imagine what concern could’ve been so severe.
Within moments, I understood.
My mother pointed at her champagne glass. She then looked disapprovingly at the nearby green, shaking her head as if admonishing it for not offering similar sustenance. Like westward pioneers who never strayed too far from a fresh-water source, she decided to remain safely at camp. We would be there four days. She could track Ratief down later.
Within minutes, a waiter appeared bearing a tray laden with sparkling supplies. I grabbed mine, and we migrated inside. Filling one of the rooms were several tables covered in white cloth. We found one, grabbed seats, and awaited our steak and seafood lunch.
At our table were my boss, Fran Fox, and her brother, Ladell, from Alabama. Her boss and head of our Cargo business, Ben Darnell, was also with us, as was his wife, Shawn. After choking down lunch, chatting with my Delta co-workers, and mingling with our Unisys hosts, we decided to stroll the course. Cameras nor Blackberries were permitted, so we left both at the tent. Good thing we did.
The weather is always dicey in these parts, and can change in an instant. Grey clouds still covered the sky, but they had lifted for moment, and were not particularly threatening. But, like an insurance policy in a floodplain, wind breakers and umbrellas should always be carried. Within an hour, both were needed. As the wind rose and the rain fell, we rushed back to the tent, dried off, and warmed ourselves by the soft warm glow of chilled white wine.
The first round continued, but we started to fade. After thanking our hosts, we grabbed our things, and hailed our cab. Within an hour, we rolled up the drive to the hotel, and checked into Gleneagles.
Named for a glen thru the nearby Ochil Hills, the hotel is worthy of the G-8 Summit it hosted a couple years ago. Set amid several golf courses (one designed by Jack Nicklaus) and owned by Diageo, it was well-suited to hosting us this weekend.
Our room was along the wing, facing the entrance oval in front of the main façade. We cracked the window. Within moments, as we started to unpack and the sun began to die, we paused to enjoy the daily dirge of the evening bagpipe.
We awoke Friday for a brief breakfast, and for the bagpipe’s morning reveille. As my mother lingered over coffee under the chandeliers at Gleneagles, I had serious business to which I needed to tend.
In a conference room off the lobby, I joined a thirty minute presentation Unisys provided to explain the merits of their latest IT offerings, and how it could benefit our business. As it ended, I thanked the presenter, who appreciated my crossing the ocean to hear his pitch. It was a worthwhile meeting, insofar as it qualified this boondoggle as a business trip.
Obligations out of the way, we gathered our things, and returned to Carnoustie. The late-morning air was damp. Rain threatened, but play continued. This is Scotland. If rain stopped play, there’d never be an Open. But that doesn’t mean we needed to be soaked in it. We decided to watch from the “tent”.
While there we grabbed some lunch, and learned that skies were expected to clear. In the interim, we made the obligatory trip to the concessionaire, and bought Open shirts and souvenirs.
Our timing was perfect. The clouds lifted, and the sun appeared. It was time to walk the course. At the first fairway we noticed David Toms, and followed him thru the next hole. As we approached the third green, we spotted Sergio Garcia on the fourth fairway. We caught him on the 6th tee, and joined his group till they made the turn.
Unlike “normal” courses built for American convenience, at Carnoustie the 9th green is about as far from the clubhouse, and our bartender, as it could be. We had over-extended our supply lines. We ditched Sergio, and skipped to the adjacent 12th fairway.
There we found Ernie Els, and followed him to the green. On the next tee, we saw John Daly. Knowing anything could happen, we ran up to watch him play the par-3. Nothing happened.
Skies were now clear, and we were getting warm. We followed the course to the 15th green where, at long last, we found Ratief Goosen. We watched him play a remarkable bunker shot on 16, then crossed the 17th and 18th fairways back to our “tent”. We had plans that night so, after a reinvigorating glass of wine, we considered our options for the return to Gleneagles.
The shuttle was one. It was comfortable, and just outside the gate. But we decided to take advantage of the calm weather, and took a longer walk. We retraced our earlier steps down the second fairway. About a hundred yards beyond the third tee, on the way to the shore, our ride awaited.
Like taxis at an airport, a half-dozen helicopters waited to carry our contingent back to Gleneagles. With Ben and Ladell, my mother and I climbed aboard, put on our headphones, and prepared for a unique commute.
After squeezing in, testing our earphones, and receiving brief instructions, we were ready to go. As the speed and sound of the blades increased, we slowly rose from our small grassy plot, and drifted cautiously from the course. As we approached the water, we gained speed.
Floating across St. Andrews Bay, its eponymous town soon came to view. We buzzed the Old Course, and continued southwest along the River Tay. Castles, dales, and firths glided beneath us. Several small villages dotted the verdant landscape. Sheep roamed the hills. It was straight out of a postcard. It couldn’t be real.
Our slow descent offered a gorgeous view of Gleneagles and the golf courses surrounding it. After our soft landing, we disembarked, cleaned up, and made our way to the “Famous Grouse Experience” at Glenturret. Established officially in 1775, but operating illicitly since 1717, this hooch mill staked its claim as Scotland’s oldest distillery.
A private tour and festive dinner had been arranged. The proprietor brought us thru the facility, explained the process by which their single malt scotch was produced, and provided several samples to illustrate its smooth taste and intoxicating efficacy. We then adjourned to the dining room, where young women greeted us with traditional Scottish dance. We found our table, grabbed our seats, and switched to red wine.
We woke for breakfast the next morning, relieved to be functioning, and ready for the return chopper to Carnoustie. Upon landing, we decided this would be the day to find Tiger, trying to win his third straight Open.
We found him first on the practice tee, and later tried trailing him on the course. That lasted one hole. The crowds resembled those around Jesus on the Mount, or Martin Luther King at the Lincoln Memorial. It was pointless, and unpleasant. We bailed on Tiger, and on the steady rain that began to fall.
We went back to our “tent” for a quick bite, then to the Media trailer for an extended tour.
We were guided past a series of screens, and saw how networks produced and televised the tournament. Unisys being the Open’s official scorekeeper, we naturally received an overview of their processes as well. Then, we were taken to the post-round press conference.
At the podium was Boo Weekley, whose accent left no doubt that he is from Alabama. Questioning him was a reporter whose accent left no doubt that he was from Scotland. Neither could understand a word the other said. A British official then came to the rescue. For the benefit of both, and to the amusement of all, he proceeded to translate English into English, and allowed the press conference to continue.
Dinner that night was a gala at Gleneagles, where between courses we were serenaded by bagpipes and speeches. For some reason, our hosts were thanking us for attending. We were happy to oblige. But they owe us big time for the imposition.
Yesterday, it was down to business. Time to focus on golf. Particularly since I was offered an opportunity to play Carnoustie the next morning.
Maybe.
Unisys was allotted two foursomes to play the morning after the tournament, and one member of the second group hadn’t confirmed. If he couldn’t play, I would. While I awaited word from my prospective benefactor, the final round unfolded.
It was Sergio Garcia’s tournament to lose, and he did. Under a rain that threatened to halt even the British Open, his four stroke lead eventually washed away.
By the time Padraig Harrington teed off on 18, the rain had stopped, and he led Sergio by a shot. My mother and I watched from our balcony beside the fairway as Harrington succumbed to the hole that immortalized Jean van de Velde eight years ago. Like that unfortunate Frenchman, this Irishman lost his luck in the Barry Burn.
Twice.
Once off the tee, and again on his approach.
He somehow escaped with a double-bogey. Sergio again led by one, and was walking past us on the final fairway. From a green side bunker, he would leave himself an eight foot putt to win. It lipped out.
Yay! More golf! We didn’t have to leave! We re-filled our wine glasses.
The playoff would cover the first hole, and then the last three. On the first, Harrington took a two-shot lead, which Garcia almost erased in one shot on the par-3 16th. His tee shot hit the pin, narrowly missing an ace, then drifting twenty feet away.
That is as close as he would come. Two holes later, just below us and to our left, Padraig Harrington would hoist the Claret Jug. We stayed for the ceremony, after which I learned I’d not be coming back. The ambivalent member of the second foursome had made up his mind. He would play, and I wouldn’t.
Which is why, after saying an early morning goodbye to my mother at Gleneagles, I am sitting at the Delta Lounge in the Manchester Airport, recalling a wonderful weekend rather than continuing it.
And doing so under an implicit soundtrack of somber violins.
JD
