Lessons from playing 100+ courses across four continents
I've been fortunate enough to play well over a hundred golf courses across four continents. From the sandy pine barrens of Melbourne's Sandbelt to the windswept links of Scotland, from jungle-framed fairways in Brazil to clifftop courses in Portugal, from the frozen-ground opening days in Finnish Lapland to the manicured perfection of Victorian private clubs.
Along the way, something became clear to me: the courses I remember most vividly aren't necessarily the longest, the hardest, or the most expensive. They're the ones with character.
Golf Digest's panellists have wrestled with this same question for decades, eventually landing on a definition that resonates: how much does the course exude ingenuity and uniqueness and possess profound characteristics that you would consider outstanding for its era? I'd simplify it even further. Character is what happens when a course stops trying to be something it's not, and starts being exactly what it is.
The Championship Trap
There's a persistent belief in the golf industry that a course needs to be a championship venue to be relevant. Longer holes, tighter fairways, more bunkers, more rating, more slope. Build it hard enough and maybe the tour will come.
For 99% of courses, this is a trap.
The courses that have made the deepest impression on me are rarely the ones that tried to host a Major. Prairie Dunes in Kansas doesn't need a PGA Championship to be magnificent — its yucca plants, rolling terrain and wind-shaped design make it entirely its own thing. Barnbougle Dunes in Tasmania became a world top-50 course not by imitating Augusta, but by leaning into its wild, rugged coastline and building something that could only exist in that exact place.
Sand Valley in Wisconsin understood this when they built not just courses, but an entire identity around the unique sandy landscape of central Wisconsin. Each of their five courses has a distinct logo that tells a story about the land it sits on. That's not an accident. That's a brand strategy built on authenticity.
The lesson is clear: you don't need to be a championship course to be a great course. You need to be unmistakably yourself.
What the Best Courses Have in Common
After playing courses across the world, I've noticed that the unforgettable ones tend to share a few traits — and none of them require a seven-figure renovation budget.
They have a story, and they tell it. Sleepy Hollow Country Club in New York leans into the centuries-old tale of the Headless Horseman. Merion Golf Club uses wicker baskets instead of flags — and has done so for over a hundred years. These aren't gimmicks. They're authentic expressions of identity that turn a golf course into a destination. Every course has a story. Most just don't bother telling it.
They know what they are. Cypress Point in California made a conscious decision not to add back tees to combat modern equipment. Instead, they chose to celebrate the original Alister MacKenzie architecture. The result? A course that feels timeless rather than outdated. Oakmont stripped away thousands of trees to reveal the original penal design underneath. Both courses got better by becoming more of themselves, not less.
They embrace the landscape. Cabot Links in Nova Scotia didn't just build a golf course by the ocean — they built a course of the ocean, the cliffs, the wind, and the Maritime character of Cape Breton. Royal Dornoch, tucked in the Scottish Highlands with Tom Watson calling it the most fun he'd had playing golf, is inseparable from its landscape. The best courses feel inevitable, as if the land was always waiting for someone to discover the routing hidden within it.
They're visually distinctive. Fishers Island Club's logo is simply a map of the island. Pine Valley's identity is forged from its sandy pine barrens. Pinehurst has the Putter Boy. These visual signatures are instantly recognisable because they're rooted in something real about the place. A logo designed in a vacuum is forgettable. A logo drawn from the land is timeless.
They invest in conditioning, not just construction. A well-conditioned course with firm, fast fairways creates an impression that lasts far beyond any individual hole. You can spend millions on design, but if the greens aren't true and the fairways are soft, the experience falls flat. Conditioning is the silent brand ambassador of every great golf course.
Not Every Course Is Links. That's the Point.
There's a tendency in modern golf architecture to chase the links ideal. Sandy, firm, windswept, fescue-covered. And while true links golf is extraordinary, the reality is that most courses in the world aren't on linksland — and they shouldn't pretend to be.
The Melbourne Sandbelt is perhaps the best example of a region that found its own identity without copying Scotland. MacKenzie, Russell and others used the sandy soil and native tea-tree scrub to create something entirely new: courses that are fast, strategic and tactically demanding, but look and feel nothing like the Old Course. The Sandbelt didn't try to be links. It became something better — it became the Sandbelt.
The same principle applies everywhere. A forest course should celebrate its trees. A coastal course should celebrate the sea. A parkland course should celebrate its landscape. A course built on sandy ground with boreal forest and ocean nearby... well, that's a combination that doesn't exist anywhere else in the world. And that's where it gets interesting.
Creating a New Category
The most ambitious courses don't just compete within existing categories — they create new ones. Sand Valley created “sand golf” as a distinct identity. Cabot made Nova Scotia a global golf destination from nothing. Barnbougle proved that world-class golf could exist in the middle of nowhere in Tasmania.
I believe there's an opportunity for something similar in the Nordic countries. Imagine a course where you play on sand-based terrain that drains beautifully and plays firm and fast, but you're surrounded by boreal pine forest on one side and the sea on the other. Where midnight sun extends your season and the landscape shifts between dunes, forest and shoreline from hole to hole. Where the design takes influence from Scottish links, Melbourne's Sandbelt, and the highest heathlands — but belongs to none of those traditions entirely.
This wouldn't be links golf. It wouldn't be parkland golf. It would be something new: Nordic Links — a way of thinking where pure, untouched forest, the sea, the sand, and the player meet in harmony.
I don't know yet whether this concept will take root somewhere. But I know the ingredients exist. And I know that the courses that dare to define themselves — rather than imitate others — are the ones we remember.
The Real Question
So the next time you think about what makes a golf course great, don't ask whether it can host a championship. Ask instead:
Does this course know what it is?
Does it have a story it's willing to tell?
Does the brand reflect the land, the history and the community?
Would I tell a friend about it?
Because in the end, that's all that matters. Not the slope rating. Not the celebrity architect. Not the length from the tips. Just the feeling you carry with you long after you've left the 18th green.
The unforgettable courses are the ones brave enough to be exactly what they are.