Golf architecture has a language now. Golden Age architects wrote about strategic philosophy, heroic design, and penal architecture. They documented templates: Redan, Cape, Alps. By the modern era, architects like Pete Dye and Tom Doak were publishing books and creating frameworks for evaluation: risk-reward, half-par holes, shot values. Golfers of all levels added their own preferences, and layers of documented thought now sit between a golfer and the ground beneath their feet.
Elie Golf Links dates from 1589, with the current course formed 1895, long before we had language to describe what made a course good or terminology to label its features as 'unfair' or 'impractical.' Old Tom Morris walked the ground and let it dictate the golf. Elie wasn't designed to answer questions about templates or strategy because those questions hadn't been asked yet. It just is what the land wanted to be.
Early architects had almost no tools to reshape the land; they didn't have bulldozers, graders, or irrigation networks. They also didn't have the time, budget, or desire to get in the way. Without the means to fight the land, architects had no choice but to trust it, and the subtle rolls, odd tilts, and irregular slopes that give older courses their character emerge naturally because there was never anything to erase them.
Modern architects face the opposite condition. With heavy machinery and mass grading, they can pursue whatever theory or vision they want. The downside is that those natural details — features that might have anchored a unique hole — often disappear in the process, erased to make room for hazards or shapes that fit preferred ideas. The irony is that the ability to create anything has led to courses that feel less varied than the ones built when architects could create almost nothing. When you can reshape everything, it becomes easier, almost natural, to repeat the forms that have been praised before.
The most distinctive feature of Elie is its eight front-to-back sloped greens. Members at Elie even claim that William and Henry Fownes took inspiration from their club when designing Oakmont, which also features many front-to-back greens. It's a design feature that is largely dormant, with most courses opting for back-to-front slopes that punish short misses and reward aerial precision.
In an era where distance overwhelms most classic designs, front-to-back slopes are a built-in defence that length can't defeat. Draw spin that puts you two yards deeper on a green anywhere else is likely to send the ball running off the back. A short iron from 150 yards demands a real decision about trajectory, spin, and landing zone rather than the automatic stock shot. It keeps the course honest without adding length or artificial difficulty.
Front-to-back greens fell out of favour for both practical and philosophical reasons. Modern green construction standards are built so that nothing drains on to the putting surface. A back-to-front green can drop off sharply at the back without issue, because that edge isn't in play. Front-to-back greens don't have that luxury. But the main reason is philosophical. Golfers perceive them as unfair because a shot that's slightly long runs away from you in a way that feels disproportionate to the mistake. The shift towards aerial approaches stems from the belief that they offer the clearest, most objective measure of a "good shot." Early Scottish golfers had no such expectations. Rub of the green was literally in the rulebook, covering everything from a divot to a sheep kicking your ball.
These golfers didn't feel entitled to see every shot either; blindness was part of the sport, and to repeat what has been said many times in Scotland, "A shot is only blind once." Modern golfers expect to see the entire putting surface and flagstick from the fairway, and back-to-front slopes naturally provide that visibility, whilst front-to-back greens hide the back portion and obscure depth perception. The 6th at Elie is a clear example of that divide. The tee shot climbs over a rise to a fairway you can't see. The land falls and tilts in a way that feels both natural but slightly off-balance. Four bunkers sit in the middle of the fairway, 240–270 yards from the tee, and right beyond them begins a steep fall off to the green, which is severely sloped from front to back. By modern standards, it violates multiple "rules," and yet the hole works beautifully.
Holes like the 6th and 10th are appreciated by everyone who plays the course, but they wouldn't be replicated by a course today. Everyone claims to love links golf and its quirks, but there's an unspoken limit to that appreciation. The assumption seems to be that because these courses were built in golf's infancy, we can appreciate their oddities, but we shouldn't actually design like this any more.
I am wary of assigning too much blame to modern architects. Linksland is the best canvas the game has, and the early designers had first choice. Modern architects who've been fortunate enough to work on similar ground have produced plenty of great courses, even if they're more polished and less quirky.
Great routing requires understanding how the land wants to be walked, and trusting that natural variety is enough. With the ability to reshape the ground freely, there's pressure to make every hole theatrical and to manufacture drama where the land might be quieter. The result is that many modern courses feel disjointed. It's like an action film that fills every scene with car chases.
Elie doesn't work that way. Some parts of the land are naturally dramatic, and some aren't. Elie's routing works because Old Tom didn't have that temptation, which gives the round a pacing modern courses rarely achieve. The round builds gradually. The early holes are solid but not spectacular; they feel like a warm-up, partly because a long stone wall confines them. The middle stretch opens up, revealing the course's range. Then, at the 10th, you reach the top of a hill, and the sea appears all at once. It's the natural climax because that's where the land delivers its most dramatic moment. The stretch along the shoreline that follows contains some of the best holes in Fife, with a feeling that the course has been building towards this all along.
Then there's the finish. The beauty of it is how unremarkable it is. The course is built into the land, so naturally, at some point, you have to start working your way back to where you started. And that means the ending can't be, and shouldn't be, as grand as what came before. A modern architect might try to manufacture a grand finale here, to end with a flourish that matches the coastal stretch. But that's not what the land offers. The holes returning to the clubhouse are good but not breathtaking, and that restraint makes the whole course feel more honest. Not every part of the ground can be spectacular, and Elie doesn't pretend otherwise.
At Elie, we don't know what Old Tom was thinking. There's no overarching technical pattern, no documented philosophy to guide our interpretation. That lack of explanation is what gives the course its purity. You're forced to experience it on your own terms, to figure out what works and why without being told what the design is supposed to mean. That might be the most valuable thing courses like Elie offer: the chance to encounter golf before it had to answer to anything but the ground itself.
Authored by Sam Weitzman-Kurker
Edited by Jasper Miners
