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Highland
Fling
Patrick Doyle
 “The
world is a great book…they who never stir from home read only a
page.”
--St Augustine
I had a decent routine last semester. Rays of sunlight would wake me up
most mornings and I would roll out of bed. I’d scratch my head and
stumble over to the sink to get a glass of water. Then I’d walk
over to the window and watch the sun rise over the North Sea.
It wasn’t a typical semester by any means. St Andrews, a small town
on the eastern coast of Scotland, is the home of the University of St
Andrews and the renowned birthplace of golf, the Old Course. Walking to
class in the morning was a little farther than across Villanova’s
campus, but the view was more scenic: I passed the Royal & Ancient
Golf Club, the beach, and Prince William’s apartment. Sometimes
I would get tea and a scone and sit at a park bench overlooking St Andrews
Bay. Other days, I would get lunch and walk past Sean Connery’s
house to the castle and cathedral ruins.
The University of St Andrews itself is ancient, founded a few decades
before Christopher Columbus could say “la barca.” Today, the
university is very modern, and has around 6,000 co-ed students, roughly
the same as Villanova. You’ll find internet hookups in every dorm
room, and flat screen televisions in the common rooms. Despite the modernity,
St Andrews maintains many of its ancient Scottish traditions. And although
that means customs like eating haggis, the Scots have other great traditions,
like the kilt.
Call it a skirt if you want, but there is nothing more manly than wearing
a woolen kilt like a “true Scotsman.” Going to a formal with
nothing more than a huge piece of wool wrapped around your waist is like
throwing lighter fluid on a fire: pure danger, but a ton of fun. Plus,
you get a cool jacket, a dagger, and many drafty breezes. It was not uncommon
to see students wearing kilts around town on weekend nights—nearly
every campus group throws an annual ceilidh, a formal Scottish ball (pronounced
“kay-lee”).
Ceilidhs are important occasions in Scotland and even have their own form
of dancing. Ceilidh dancing has no real comparison—a little bit
folk, a little bit waltz, and a whole bunch of roaring traditional live
Scottish music. Most people don’t take it too seriously—it’s
an excuse to spin and dance and have a good time.
After imbibing some liquid confidence, I hit the dance floor with a female
friend. I had already learned a few steps at a crash-course a few days
earlier, so I was prepared to step, waltz and spin. I held my own for
the first dance, doing fairly well for a newcomer: at minimum, I didn’t
embarrass myself. Four songs later, though, I was dripping in sweat—ceilidhs
are on the athletic end of the dancing spectrum. Luckily, neither the
band nor audience was averse to hitting the bar for some timely liquid
nourishment. The night was a smashing success: a few beers, lots of dancing,
and no kilt exposures. A success indeed.
Another incredible St Andrews tradition is the annual
May Dip, held on May 1st of every year. University students wake up at
the crack of dawn (or party all night) and dive into the North Sea, an
ancient custom to dispel failing grades.
To give you an idea of how cold the water is, you should know that St.
Andrews as roughly as far north as Juneau, Alaska. Granted, year-round
weather is not as cold as Alaska due to the warm Gulf Stream, but the
water is still frigid.
The northern location, however, doesn’t stop thousands of students
from diving into the sea. Bonfires roar on the beach, the student singers
belt out hymns, and scantily-clad goose-bumped students run amok. Many
students fail to remember bathing suits or towels, and resort to stripping
to their underwear and diving in. One eccentric student even donned a
full tuxedo, monocle, and cane, and strutted into the ocean. After getting
out, groups of students huddle together for warmth like crowds of penguins.
The experience is not one that I will ever forget, and one my feet will
never forgive me for. When I ran into the frigid water, my feet turned
into size 11 icicles. The rest of the experience feels mild in comparison:
sure, your breath is sucked out of you and you feel like you are bathing
in a cooler of ice, but nothing will prepare you for the shocking numbness
that will hold your feet for hours.
Although it sounds insane, the May Dip is a life-affirming experience
that makes you realize, “Wow, it really was a great idea to wake
up at 5 a.m. to jump in the North Sea. Life is good.” Not only that,
but you also think, “Thank goodness I brought this bottle of Baileys
to warm my iced, numb body.”
My parents used my studying abroad as an excuse to plan
a long-wished-for trip to Ireland and Scotland. Their visit was a nice
reminder of familiar things, and it seemed almost like a family vacation.
We walked around town, did the touristy things: visiting the ruins of
the old cathedral and castle, checked out the shops, ate at the local
restaurants. And of course, we had to play golf.
 My
father belongs to the recent post-Tiger Woods golfing group. He’s
gotten into the sport pretty hard-core and is very competitive. He plays
a weekly round, subscribes to Golf Magazine and watches golf infomercials.
He watches the Masters with a critical eye and somehow is able to bear
the unbearable Golf channel. But, at best, he is an okay golfer; I, on
the other hand, just like to swing the clubs on occasion. Neither of us
were good enough to have earned a handicap card, an Old Course requirement,
so the New Course (over 100 years old) had to suffice.
So, on a Tuesday morning sometime in the middle of April, I found myself
teeing off on the first hole of the New Course. In the pouring rain.
Okay, to be fair, the sky didn’t really open up until the 7th hole.
But it was coming down fairly heavy for the 1st hole and darker clouds
were rolling in. We kept playing: there was no way we could quit the greens
at St Andrews, the golf mecca. Surprisingly, everyone else kept playing
too: apparently, golf is meant to be played in the rain in Scotland. By
the end of the round, our clothes were soaked and hitting the golf ball
felt like using a jarring jackhammer.
As eager as my father was to play golf, my mother was
eager to find Prince William, who attends St Andrews. She kept her eyes
peeled the entire time she was there—at one point, she spotted three
“Prince Williams” in the matter of five minutes. Something
about royal blood turns rational American women into puddles—a few
of my female friends were borderline stalkers. One girl told me how she
pretended to tie her shoe in front of a store window just to catch a glimpse
of the future British heir.
William does, however, maintain a low profile and lives a somewhat normal
life in the small town—well, as normal a life as a prince can live.
He goes to class and the pub, and rides a mountain bike around town, always
with a baseball hat, just like any other student.
St Andrews treated me well. The people were great, the
adventures were incredible, and classes were…well, classes. When
it comes down to it, you don’t think go abroad for the classes,
since they really aren’t too different. Sure, the professor’s
name is Hamish and he has a splendid accent, but class is class. You read,
you take notes, you write. But the opportunity to do so in a foreign setting
provides a more important learning experience: an international one on
life. You’ll learn more about others and yourself than you can while
in America. After backpacking across Italy for a week when you can’t
speak Italian, the struggles at home don’t seem as important—or
nearly as satisfying upon completion. You’ll come home refreshed
and with a new take on life. After all, when else in life are you going
to learn how to pour a pint of Guinness, play dominoes with old Scotsmen,
and go to a beach in Barcelona? It’s an experience you will never
forget…
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