Ayrshire, on the southwestern coast of Scotland, is a place of land and sea, lochs and firths, sands and bluffs, sunshine and strong winds—a place that is and feels ancient. Since mainland Europeans followed the retreating ice here some 8,000 years ago, it has remained unspoiled, unchanged. Even in modern times, it is appealingly remote, seemingly further from Glasgow than the one hour it is. Here, in a silence of rare completeness, is Turnberry. Bright green grasses glow against dark waters. White walls and red roofs divide grey skies, like a permanent flash of lightning. Gorse dots the idyllic countryside with bonny yellow blooms, though it pricks those who come too close. When a traveller finds himself at the mercy of a sudden storm or the vagaries of fortune, he might cast an eye about for the bogies and fairies of Scottish lore.

But for all its challenges and contradictions, this land has an inescapable power to attract. Since before Robert Burns, before even Robert the Bruce, people have felt drawn to this spot, to the magic it possesses that is beyond explanation. Is it the call of nature? The unfailing hospitality that is a remnant from a culture old but not gone? Or the sport that began in this country long ago whose pull cannot be denied?