I was competing at the time and was pretty certain that my own competitive pursuits would prevent me from making the journey across the pond to the Holy Land. Sacrificing our happiness in the name of self betterment is such fun.  

To my surprise the fixtures in my calendar had parted, like the red sea itself, paving a glorious path to a lush green world beyond. Not Etham, but Augusta, Georgia. The early April date was subsequently I pencilled in, highlighted, underlined, and circled with two different colour sharpies.

Getting There

As a pasty white boy with blonde hair, wearing cream slacks and a french workwear jacket, I thought it best to hurry between the taxi (now parked in a darkening downtown Atlanta back alley) and the bus station that would lead me to the Promised Land. 

As I hurried into the relative safety of the station I was transported into the 5th chapter of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The interior designer’s moodboard for this bus station project was heavily 1960s-hospital inspired. Blue and white floor tiles, cracked cream painted walls, erratic seating and a perimeter lined with vending machines. I didn’t dare take my phone out to document it. A bus would be leaving to Augusta in one hour.

I sat gingerly in the waiting area atop my suitcase (backpack lodged firmly between my tensed legs) and soaked in the clientele. A man with a gandalf style magician staff taller than him sauntered around the queuing area. A gaunt lady with her hood up meandered toward a vending machine revealing the washed out ‘get your kicks on route 66!’ graphic on the back of her jumper. Chicaning between them was a large man shouting anti government conspiracy. But not the whimsical kind, the proper lizard underworld White House, 9/11 was a hoax, global PLANdemic kind. The good stuff. 

The call for my bus eventually came through the speakers.

Someone was beheaded on a Greyhound bus last year. On the plus side it's cheap, and has a varied clientele. The seat beside me lay empty for a tantalising amount of time but eventually a young lady appeared, equipped with a locked metal box (I didn’t ask, you shouldn’t either). 

The woman was an Atlanta stripper heading home for a well earned rest, but more importantly to kickstart the pole dancing accessories business that would take her, and the rest of her family, to the moon. Two hours later, following a FaceTime call with her mother that I was both reluctantly and heavily involved in, I was ready to invest.

Eventually the bus pulled in to the Augusta Walmart and I ordered an Uber to my accommodation. 7 hours later I awoke and made a beeline for Augusta National.

You are allowed your cameras in the grounds on practice days (no phones though). Naturally, I walked round Augusta with my eye fixed to the lens and quickly realised it was near impossible to take a bad photo. The colour palette of the place is graphic designer approved. The pink of the azaleas contrasts with the green, and the green is complemented by the yellow. All before we’ve added in those crisp white boiler suits. 

Along with the ridiculously photogenic nature of the place (they fill muddy areas with green sand so it blends with the grass, by the way) there were countless delightful nuances to the Masters experience. Here are a few that stood out:

Seating

The seating arrangement is perfection. Most people buy or already own a Masters foldable deck chair. You simply put your business card in a handy little poly slip at the back and place it down wherever you please. What results is an ageing population of speedwalkers (no running allowed, sir) making a beeline for a spot behind the 12th tee. Once your seat is down, you effectively own that piece of real estate. You can go and get lunch, empty your wallet in the merchandise tent or grab a beer, and whilst you’re doing that someone else is more than welcome to sit in your seat. But once you return, you simply tap the temporary occupant on the shoulder and reclaim your hard earned spot.  

What results is a grandstand like sea of green Masters chairs that fit perfectly with the aesthetic of the course. From the washed out pastel greens of vintage ‘Masters 1992’ renditions, to the fresh out the wrapper darker tones, the fairways are lined with an archive of memorabilia. Each chair playing its part in telling a piece of the legendary Masters story.   

The seating etiquette encourages interaction too, which, after telling fellow patrons that I was from Scotchland, AND that right there is my friend playing in the bloody event, became almost overwhelming. As I prized my way out of the grasp of another Barbara from *insert country club name* I thought it better to keep my accent, and my friends, to myself.

Atmosphere

Everyone there is happier than they were on their wedding day. They literally wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. But maybe that's the Georgian disposition. If the entire world existed within the grounds of Augusta National during Masters week, Putin would be high fiving Zelensky over a holed Rory McIlroy bunker shot whilst Sunak sipped a lemonade on his new Masters deck chair.   

You can buy beer from multiple points on the golf course (I recommend keeping hold of the empty cups) and yet no one misbehaves. It's as if the cumulative history of the event and the course resides permanently at the back of everyone’s minds. You wouldn’t dare put a foot out of line within view of where Tiger holed the most famous chip of all time, would you?! These legendary moments, and the historical figures that orchestrated them, fill the air with a feeling of grandeur, to which everyone happily adheres. 

Elevation Changes (forgive me)

Yes I know, I know, I haven’t even mentioned the elevation changes yet. All the rumours are true. Despite being prepared at length by every single past patron I encountered before my travels, I still gave the elevation changes an approving tip of the hat: ‘sizable’ I muttered. Most notably from the 6th tee to the 16th green, oh brother! And not to mention the entire 10th hole which encompasses a 110 foot drop from tee to green. That's like, totally a big elevation change folks! Like almost as tall the statue of Trafalgar in London!

Surrounding Area 

But what’s the town of Augusta actually like?! Tell us what’s going on outside those dark green gates of capitalist tyranny. The contrast isn’t as stark as you might think. It's a far cry from the front cover of that Geography textbook where the infinity pool of the 5 star hotel laps into the favelas below. The surroundings are very commercial. Wide American grid pattern roads lined with a minefield of enormous supermarkets (along with multiple camped out ticket touts). Half a mile down the road the local Hooters installed a temporary gazebo. John Daly was in town flogging his highly anticipated SS22 line to the unassuming beer and chicken wing consumers. The road sign read ‘MEET JOHN DALY HERE ALL WEEK’. I wondered if they were referring to this week or if that was a permanent arrangement. My Hooters virginity remains intact.

The Masters can seem pretentious; the guests are called patrons, the exclusivity of the place borders on elitism and they have a chequered past to say the least. 

But truthfully, it's difficult not to get swept up in the magic of it all. 

Every detail, from the staff to the spectators, from the par 3 competition to the manicured grass creates this otherworldly feeling of escapism. Whether it’s memories of hazey Georgian sunsets glinting on dewy foreheads, the Golden Bear raising his putter in anticipation of victory or azalea pollen drifting across the frame as Tiger stalks his landing zone: somehow that visceral hair-standing-on-end feeling of nostalgia and legacy and excitement imparted by decades of TV footage is all packaged up in the place. To go there is to be in it.  

A place that has the ability to make grown men shed a tear (I saw it) is probably worth checking out.