BEFORE leaving St. Andrews on Wednesday morning, we had a big Scottish breakfast, like we did almost every morning.  In doing so, it was hard for us to avoid the item on the menu that was screaming for attention.

Blood pudding is a food unique to Scotland – and the rest of the world doesn’t mind that it stays there.  (We’ll be getting to Haggis a bit later.)  In some places it’s called “black pudding,” but it always refers to the fact that blood of an animal was use as a congealing agent.  So, at the recommendation of our very Scottish waiter, we ordered it in the Rocca Bar and Grill, overlooking the 18^th green of the Old Course, at ground level of the Rusacks hotel.

This black pudding was mostly oatmeal (some are closer to sausage), so it came as a little round piece, looking similar to a black cork coaster to keep a drink from staining a tabletop.  It was neither moist or dry, and it tasted rather innocuous.  After subduing a natural reflex that wanted to stop it from going down in my stomach, I swallowed hard and moved on.  Not something I would necessarily do again, but something my father enjoyed immensely.

I don’t want to get too caught up in the food of Scotland, but because most people are wary of the cuisine, I think our experiences need to be stated.

The bottom windows outlined in white are in The Rocca Bar & Grill, at the Rusacks hotel, overlooking the Old Course opening and finish.

I’m not sure if it’s because we mostly ate at restaurants that were recommended from the hotel concierges, but it seems that there is a conscious effort in Scottish cooking to be overtly high-end.  Going on a trip where I was looking forward to simple meals, with fresh ingredients and engaging menus, I got a lot of artistically plated masterpieces that were aimed to awe me rather than satisfy me.  A lot of the menus were small – which I like – but were limited to dishes that were so complex, it was hard to find one where every ingredient seemed to be of your liking.

But that’s not to say the food wasn’t good, because it was.  All of us were afraid that we might not be able to eat well during this week, but we all ate wonderfully.  The fresh fish was abundant (especially the Scottish salmon) and the lamb was of the highest quality.  A standard fish-and-chips order can always do you right, while a Shepherd’s Pie, although on a surprisingly small percentage of menus, is a delicious staple.

One thing that should be noted is that the service is Scotland is not comparable to that here in the States.  Like most of Europe, the pace of service is slower.  The people are almost all very nice, but you have to shed your New Yorker skin a bit and learn how to relax at the dinner table.  It might take you almost three hours to complete a full meal, but more often than not, it’s worth it.

THE drive from St. Andrews to Carnoustie is about 45 minutes, and as we moved north over the River Tay we entered the industrial city of Dundee.  Roy, our esteemed driver and Scottish Sherpa, pointed out Dundee's new oil rigs in the river, as well as the floating casino.  Then he started explaining the town of Carnoustie, which we began to approach.

“Dare’s rally nuthin’ ta do here basides a golf," Roy said, making the understatement of the trip.

Really, the word Roy was looking for is dour.  The narrow streets of Carnoustie were clogged with double-parked cars and were littered with people aimlessly walking around, staring at our eight-person bus rolling through.  Golf is the only reason people come to this town, and they normally do as we did: drive right up to the hotel on the course, never stopping to look around.  There is a beautiful old castle, Glamis Castle, only 30 minutes inland, that the women checked out and loved.

A look at the Carnoustie Hotel, the 18th green in the foreground.

The story of the Carnoustie Hotel starts with the pinning for the Open Championship to return after their last Open Championship in 1975.  The Links Management Committee was told they needed a luxury hotel in order to secure the tournament, so the way to get back into the rotation was clear.

A local businessman named Michael Johnston put up the ₤4 million to build the thing.  The Open came in 1999 and resulted in the dramatic and historic collapse of Jean Van De Velde, who threw away a two-shot lead on the 72^nd hole by making a double-bogey.  Now there on the second floor of the hotel sits the Paul Lawrie Suite, the no-name winner of the Open’s return to a historic venue after he beat Van De Velde and Justin Leonard in a playoff.

Before the Open returned again in 2007, Johnston had taken a financial bath and sold the property to Oxford Hotels, who now slapped its name in big letters (see: eyesore) on the façade facing the golf course.  They put in a lot of money in to spruce it up, and then Irishman Padraig Harrington came along and won the championship, much to the delight of the Scottish people.  (The Scots and Irish get along splendidly.  Funny enough, although Scotland is still under the Queen’s rule, the Scots and the English aren’t exactly chums.)

The hotel is a nice place to stay if you’re there to play golf.  If you’re going to Scotland just to visit, there is no need to go anywhere near Carnoustie.  The rooms in the hotel are tidy and functional, while the ones that overlook the golf courses are the real treat.  On the ground floor, out the back doors of the restaurant and bar area, there is a nice patio with ample seating that overlooks the flat links land.

There are three courses at Carnoustie – the Championship, the The Burnside Links, and the Buddon Links – but the Championship Course is the one you’re most interested in.  (The other ones are shorter, but are acclaimed by many as more fun and enjoyable.)  It’s easy enough to get on the championship course through their website, and it will cost you ₤135 (about $220) if you’d like to play just the Championship.  (Better deals for combo packages.)

From that back patio, you can see the infamous Barry Burn snaking its way through the treacherous final two holes, and you can’t wait to get out there, at the very least to see where Van De Velde folded up his pants and changed his fate from famous to infamous.

The course starts with a semi-blind uphill tee shot on a 400-yard par-4, out of bounds all along the left side, deep bunkers and sandy, rough-covered knolls to the right.  The second hole is much the same, only 459 yards from the back and a more narrow landing area, made so because it’s 200 yards from tee to carry Braid’s Bunker sitting in the middle of the fairway.  The presence and name of this hazard should remind you of the twisted history behind the layout of this famed links.

The plaque for Ben Hogan, the 1953 Open Champion at Carnoustie.

Locals say the game has been played over this land since the 1500s, but it wasn’t until the original pro at St. Andrews, Alan Robertson, came up here and laid down 12 holes in 1850 did it become somewhat organized.  About 20 years later Old Tom Morris came and extended it to 18 holes.  Then in 1926, James Braid redid the majority of the course (hence his bunker on No. 2).  Prior to the second Open in 1937 – the first being in 1931, won by the esteemed Henry Cotton – the club was still not satisfied with the finish.  So a local man named James Wright reconfigured the final three holes and made it the toughest finish in Open Championship golf – and possibly anywhere.

With many tweaks between 1937 and now, it all adds up to the fact that Carnoustie is a conglomerate, which might explain why it’s so difficult.  From a design standpoint, if you are laying out 18 holes, to draw up a couple easier ones is necessary.  If you’re only redesigning a handful of holes, you’re going to make them tough, strong holes, to show your acumen as an architect.  After 150 years of tweaking, there are no easy holes at Carnoustie, and it’s corny nickname of “Carnasty” is nothing if not appropriate.

The 6th hole, "Hogan's Alley," with OB left and trouble right, with the crowded green in the distance.

After those opening two holes, we reach the high point of the course, the tee on a 355-yard par-4 3rd hole.  This hole, short and seemingly easy, played as the ninth hardest on the course at the 2007 Open, with a 4.11 stroke average.  Most of the 10 double-bogeys came with players hitting it into the ditch, which runs up the left side of the fairway and then cuts in before the green.  With the pin in the front, it could be easy to spin the ball back into the hazard.

At the sixth hole you get to a boarder of the course, where all along the left side is a picket fence that signifies out-of-bounds (on the other side, the Burnside Links).  Between the fence and two large bunkers in the middle of the fairway is the famed “Hogan’s Alley,” a strip of land no more than 20 yards wide that is where Hogan hit it every day on his way to winning the 1953 Open, the only one he ever played in.  It takes a courageous shot to put it there – unless you’re my Dad, who started a comfortable 30-yard slice over the fence and brought it back with ease.  Although we played in very, very benign conditions, we had a slight wind at our backs here.  With the tees moved up to have the hole play about 500 yards (instead of the tips, back to 573), I hit driver, six-iron just left of the green.  The course guide calls this the “signature hole of Carnoustie Golf Links,” but it was clear those came later.

When you get to holes eight through 10, all of a sudden, on the periphery of the fairways are tall pine trees.  It’s an oddity, for sure, but it doesn’t feel too out of place.  That’s because although Carnoustie is technically on linksland – the sandy soil between the fertile inland and the coastline – you never see the water.  Our caddies said that on clear days you have a chance to see the North Sea from a select number of vantage points, and although our day was calm and clear, we couldn’t spot it.

The approach to the long 12th hole, with some of Carnoustie's boardering trees in the distance.

The tenth hole is unique in its own right because there is a single tree sitting next to the green.  It lurks over the right side of the putting surface, and any approach coming from that angle has a good chance to get swatted down into the Barry Burn that runs in front.  It’s named “South America” because of its distinctly different feel, and Bernard Darwin wrote in 1910: “Certainly this hole seems at first sight to be dragged in by the heels, but we readily forgive it its inland character, because it is really a very good hole indeed.”  We can’t agree more.

Although the par-3s at Carnoustie get ridiculed quite a bit, I very much enjoyed No. 13. Playing only 171 yards from the back tees, the green is the real showstopper here.  Shaped like an hourglass with a deep horseshoe bunker in front, there are a handful of delicate pin positions (especially back-right) that can lead to big numbers.

The next hole is Carnoustie’s version of “The Spectacles,” and it certainly resembles an actual pair of eyeglasses more than the original at St. Andrews.  Either a 510-yard par-5 (for amateurs) or a 461-yard par-4 for the modern pros, the approach over the humps is a very exciting blind shot.  It was here in 1968 that Gary Player hit what he called the finest 4-wood of his career to two feet for an eagle (it was still a par-5 back then) that helped him beat out Jack Nicklaus.  It’s also here in 1975 when Tom Watson and Jack Newton teed off tied for the lead, and when Watson chipped in for eagle, he was on his way to his first of five Open Championship victories.

Carnoutie's version of "The Spectacles," No. 14, to the red flag in the distance.

Now we get to the three closing holes; the trio of reasons which bring you to this place.  The 16^th is a monster par-3, 249 yards from the back tees, which has a hill crest about 20 yards short of the putting surface.  After a little swell, the ground rises again to reach the green, which is 46 yards deep.  If it’s into the wind, it’s a tough par-4.

The 17^th is named “Island” because the fairway is just that.  The tee shot has to carry the Barry Burn only a couple yards away on this 460-yard par-4, but then the Burn snakes around the left side of the fairway and cuts it short at about 260 yards from the back tee.  I hit a 4-iron up the right side, and with the wind helping, came up short of the burn by about 20 yards.  Then the approach is to a green that is highest at its front near a small opening, with four small, penal bunkers surrounding.

Then there is No. 18.  With out-of-bounds all down the left side, the burn again comes into play off the tee, cutting in at the start of the fairway and then heading up the left side, near the OB markers (and the adjacent Buddon Links).  With bunkers up the right, including the Johnny Miller bunker – “Don’t know what it’s called that,” my caddie, Derek, who’d be there 40 years said.  “The man’s never here.” – it’s a tough tee shot to say the least.  Maybe that’s why Van De Velde played a mile right into the rough between here and the adjacent 17.

With the burn cutting back just yards before the long narrow green, you have to make a decision if you are going to go for it, or if you’re going to be smart and layup short.  We all know what Van De Velde did, but as I approached my ball sitting on a sidehill lie in the left rough, I knew I only had one option.

The "heroic" approach shot to the harrowing 18th at Carnoustie.

“I didn’t travel across an ocean to layup,” I told Derek.

“No,” he said, “most people say the same thing,” and he handed me my 4-wood.

From about 225 yards, into a breeze, I hit a towering high draw that carried the burn, landed next to the front pin and then ran all the way to the back of the green.  A lot of risk-reward golf architecture requires shots that people deem “heroic.”  It’s a stupid term, because there’s absolutely nothing heroic about playing golf.  But if I’ve ever hit a shot that deserves that title, this was it.

So maybe that’s what allows me to think on Carnoustie with a smile.  Some people say the links are a reflection of the town, dour and bleak.  The author James Finnegan called it “a meadowy plain, a landscape monotonously pedestrian, covered with holes that, too often, are neither memorable nor inviting.”

A look down No. 18 from Carnoustie's back patio.

Nicklaus, in the early 1990s, described it to Finnegan like this: “When I first went to Carnoustie in 1967 . . . I thought Carnoustie was the worst golf course I’d ever seen.  And by the time I’d finished the Open in 1968, I thought it was the hardest golf course I’d ever seen, but a darn good course, and I really had great respect for it.  And the last time I went back in ’75, I had even greater respect for it.  Now Carnoustie is one of my favorites.”

Well I’ve only been there once, but I found the respect to be inherent.