Bernard Darwin, the most renowned and prestigious golf writer of the time, predicted it in one of his final chronicles of the Open Championship of 1925, held at Prestwick, the original venue of the tournament. “I seriously doubt that a championship should be held there again,” he wrote. The reasons? According to various reports of the time, that edition of the Open (the sixtieth, by the way) led to certain chaotic situations, especially during the final round, with more than fifteen thousand people on the course, some of whom, due to lack of space and organisation, ended up seriously interfering with the game.
Many of them, it seems, had literally stormed the course by accessing from the beach, crossing the dunes. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back at the end of an era. Prestwick, which gave wings to the tournament, which started it as a course of only 12 holes, designed by Old Tom Morris (in 1882 it was finally expanded to 18 holes), bid farewell exactly a century and twenty days ago. On 26 June 1925, the second and final day of that Open (*) was played, which Jim Barnes, an Englishman naturalised American, would win, to the dismay of Macdonald Smith, another citizen of the stars and stripes, but born in Carnoustie, who started with a five-stroke lead in that final round and, overwhelmed by the chaotic situation, ended up signing an 82 and falling to fourth place.
Several curiosities should be noted. On one hand, Bernard Darwin was the grandson of Charles Darwin, the legendary naturalist, geologist, and biologist, a revolutionary and insightful scientist with his theory of evolution. On the other hand, it is interesting to note that Bernard was an experienced golf player, who competed in 26 editions of the Amateur Championship between 1898 and 1935, reaching the semi-finals on two occasions (1909 and 1921), as well as being part of the British team in the 1922 Walker Cup. He wrote articles for more than fifty years in The Times, the newspaper where he precisely published the chronicle that predicted the end of Prestwick as the Open venue.
As a final curiosity, we now present a chronicle reinvented by Artificial Intelligence, written in the literary style of Bernard Darwin and referring to that last service of Prestwick:
Prestwick, 1925 — By Bernard Darwin (reimagined)
There was something in the air of Prestwick that July of 1925 that smelled less of the Clyde’s salt than of nostalgia itself. The wind, which once pushed the gutta-percha balls of Tom Morris and Willie Park over these venerable dunes, now blew with a kind of resignation, as if it knew this would be its last act in the great drama of the Open Championship.
The course, always mischievous, seemed to resist modernity. Those whimsical holes —with names more worthy of an epic poem than a scorecard— had challenged generations with more character than distance. But times change, and balls fly today like rifle bullets, and men hit them as if competing with thunder itself. Prestwick, noble warrior, now seemed a stage too small for such a noisy spectacle.
The crowd —oh, the crowd— overflowed the ropes like an impatient tide. Many did not come to see golf, but to see people watching golf. On more than one occasion, a promising shot was lost not among bunkers, but among shoes and straw hats. One wonders if the game remains the protagonist when the gallery becomes a crowd.
And yet, there was beauty. In the shadow of the old clubhouse, one could still hear the echo of giants’ footsteps: Tom Morris’s cane, Willie Park’s restrained laughter. One could almost see them, kind spectres among the rolling rough, approving with a sad smile.
It was then that I knew, with that serene certainty with which one recognises that summer has ended. This was the last Open at Prestwick. Not by decree, but by destiny. The game has grown, and the stage is no longer enough. And that’s fine. The greats do not disappear: they retire with dignity.
Prestwick will not host the Open again. But as long as golf is played with a minimum of reverence, as long as there are still those who tip their hat to a west breeze or a flag on the horizon, Prestwick will live.
Video made by Ten Golf last year at Prestwick
(*) At that time, the Open was played in just two days, 36 holes each day. In fact, that Open of 1925, the last at Prestwick, was also the last to be played in that way. From 1926, the Open was played over three days: on Wednesday, 18 holes were played, on Thursday another 18, and on Friday, with the cut already made, a final round of 36 holes, a format that lasted until 1965, inclusive.
