Edinburgh - I am not sure what Scotland’s national poet, Robbie Burns, who so fervently championed the plight of nature’s weaker creatures, destroyed by ploughs, from “Wee Mousies to Mountain Daisies”, would have thought of one Donald Matheson, the general manager of Caledonian Railways, who in 1910 built his rail line smack through a verdant valley bordering on the Ochil Hills of Perth and Kinross, decimating fields of hapless fauna and flora.
Then while surveying this glorious surrounding countryside from one of his own trains, decided his next step should be to build a Grand Hotel in this same Glen of Eagles. Ironically the name is derived not from the swooping raptors, which typically inhabit Scottish Glens, but after the similarly sounding French word for a nearby church.
And certainly a century later, many dedicated golfers would go down on their knees to thank Matheson for his vision in creating the proverbial “Gleneagles”, the most sought-after golfing destination in the world and home of this year’s Ryder Cup.
No doubt even Burns would salute an establishment so synonymous with wildlife pursuits, ranging from falconry, to fishing, to dog training and the four golf courses, including the PGA Centenary Course designed by Jack Niklaus, adding a vast swathe of emerald green and at this time of the year, gleaming gold to the gravel ridges and enclosed hollows of this valley, which dates back to the last ice age.
My partner, ex-South African tennis No 1 Abe Segal, and I took the road less travelled from Edinburgh to this golfing mecca, meandering past historic pubs, through majestic conifers and undulating farmland and descending like eagles out of the swirling mists to drop into the glen below and arrive at the imposing threshold of a proudly Scottish landmark whose flags fluttered in the breeze.
The architecture of this steepled ivy-covered French Chateau with its fountains and stone trellis walls is reminiscent of Versailles, only more dour in colour, more conservative in design and more enduring in terms of social status.
In the 1950s golf and grouse shooting at Gleneagles was a fixed part of the high society calendar, after yachting at Cowes and polo at Deauville and after massive contemporary refurbishments in the 1980s, the addition of the Jackie Stewart Shooting School, Mark Phillips Equestrian School, the first British School of Falconry and hosting the Ryder Cup, the tradition of elitism continues.
Gleneagles is a resort designed on a scale to suit an ambitious railway tycoon, used to endless horizons and vast tracts of land: you could lose your way walking from one end of the hotel to the other, let alone embarking on a walk to the King or Queen’s golf course.
We were lucky enough to be staying in the new business wing, overlooking the golf course, and which boasts split-level suites to accommodate the Ryder Cup entourages. The suites are adorned in plush tartan and leather, with every mod-con including gas fires and bathrooms large enough to practice your golf swing in. While an inherent formality and opulent aura meet the eye, there is an understated elegance and edginess about the modern Gleneagles that you have to experience to be able to define.
You might be intimidated by the high beaux art ceilings in the Streathearn Restaurant, and the knowledge that Chef Andrew Fairlie has earned two Michelin stars for his French Scottish fusion food and the fact the expertise required in slicing the cured salmon on your plate takes six months to acquire; however the down-to-earth Scottish traits of the waiters and the sheer good taste of the food, regardless of the gastronomic charade attached, will make you smile faster than Tom Watson sinking a winning putt.
Forget Norwegian salmon or anything else masquerading as the real deal, once you have tasted a Brown Trout or Rainbow Salmon fresh out of a Perthshire river, you are ruined for life. Likewise, swanning down the in-house shopping arcade with big brand names like Dunhill, Mappin and Web and Pringle vying for your attention, will lure you into whisky-tasting sooner than a Scottish sunset; somehow quaffing the world’s most expensive single and double malts is a lot easier on the palate than swallowing the Rand exchange rate.
The Ryder Cup course itself is breathtakingly beautiful, especially decked out in autumn colours… yet each hole is a rollercoaster ride unto itself and you have little or no view of adjacent holes.
On a long run in the rain, around what I thought was the “Wee” course, which turned out to be the “Kings” course, I ended up dovetailing my way back to civilisation through acres of shooting range and dog training turf, trying hard to avoid becoming a game target myself.
Abe Segal had, meanwhile, befriended the head of falconry, another South African and avid tennis player. I found them discussing Andy Murray’s merits on grass – betwixt fairways and tramlines. Segal then decided the six tennis courts flanking the hotel’s hallowed East wing should be sunken and that the Scots, having been robbed of Independence, could at least host their own Scottish Open Tennis to rival Wimbledon and the American Ryder Cup onslaught.
These sumptuous surrounds ultimately rekindle the glamour of a past era, while languidly embalming you like warm honey in the luxury of every conceivable contemporary high tech gizmo and the latest sporting equipment.
Deborah Curtis-Setchell, Saturday Star