Editorโs Note: This story on bespoke watches originally appeared in Volume III of B.H. Magazine. For access to future issues, subscribe here.
Itโs one of the toughest tickets in sports, a hallowed ground for golf lovers, and an event cloaked in so much mystique that it barely seems real. Even for those who donโt follow golf, Augusta National is one of those places that seeps into the collective cultural consciousness. Itโs less a course and more a stage โ a stage where sports history has unfolded, generation after generation, against a backdrop so pristine it feels airbrushed.
For anyone fortunate enough to walk its hallowed fairways, I can assure you itโs an experience that stays with you long after the last putt drops.
What makes The Masters extraordinary isnโt just the golf (although the golf is undeniably great), Itโs that everything about Augusta National is both larger than life and improbably intimate, grandiose yet understated. Itโs a place where contradictions coexist comfortably. The same event that draws millions of viewers across the globe insists on a strictly enforced ban on mobile phones. A club synonymous with exclusivity charges pocket change for its famous pimento cheese sandwiches. Itโs as if Augusta exists in a parallel dimension, one where modern inconveniences โ hustle, clutter, noise โ simply donโt apply.
Getting inside the front gate, however, isnโt easy. Tickets are elusive, to put it mildly. Most are held by patrons with annual allocations, and the waiting list to join that lucky club stretches so far into the future itโs practically a generational bequest. The rest of us mere mortals are left to gamble on the ticket ballot, or shell out big dollars to tour operators to secure access. I, like many, took my chances with the ballotโฆ for over 20 years.
Every year I entered my name and waited. And waited. Then, last year, I finally got the email. It felt less like winning a ticket and more like being knighted.
On the Wednesday before the tournament, I arrived at Augusta National for the practice round and Par 3 contest, clutching my pass like it was Willy Wonkaโs golden ticket. The first thing that strikes you as you enter isnโt the grandeur โ though thereโs plenty of that โ itโsโฆ perfection. Every blade of grass, every tee box, every magnolia, every impeccably dressed patron seems to fit the script. If youโve ever dreamed of a golfing utopia, this is it.
Augusta National owes its splendour to Bobby Jones, the 1930 Grand Slam winner, and Alister MacKenzie, a visionary course designer who also conceptualised Cypress Point and Royal Melbourne. The land โ about a two hour drive from downtown Atlanta โ was once a massive nursery owned by the Berckman family, who cultivated flowering plants and trees from around the world. That legacy endures in the courseโs floral abundance โ each hole named for a plant that blooms nearby: Holly, Dogwood, Firethorn. Itโs the botanical equivalent of Tiger.
And yet, the TV broadcasts donโt prepare you for the sheer physicality of the place. The rolling hills are steeper, the greens more undulating, and the fairways wider than they appear on screen. Television flattens Augusta into something manageable, but in person, itโs a sprawling masterpiece. Thereโs also a kind of hyper-reality to the colours. The greens are greener, the whites whiter, and the azaleas pinker than they have any right to be. It feels like stepping into a world where every colour is turned up a notch.
At the heart of the course stands the clubhouse, an elegant white Southern homestead that once housed the Berckman family. Nearby, a towering oak tree serves as the unofficial meeting point for patrons โ a spot so storied that it might as well have its own GPS coordinates. โMeet you under the treeโ is a refrain that echoes throughout the day. From this vantage point, you can gaze down the property, taking in the vast expanse of fairways, the towering pines, and the fastidiously raked bunkers. Itโs a view so iconic that even casual fans would recognise it.
But Augusta isnโt just about scenery. Itโs about tradition. Everything here feels deliberately timeless. Mobile phones are banned, a rule that initially feels draconian but quickly reveals itself as inspired. Without the constant buzz of notifications, youโre free to lose yourself in the moment. Patrons walk, never run. The menu doesnโt change โ pimento cheese sandwiches, egg salad, pecan clusters, Georgia Peach ice cream โ because why mess with perfection?
The merchandise shops are another story. For an event that prides itself on understated elegance, the demand for Masters-branded gear borders on chaos. Hats, shirts, pins, ball markers โ theyโre all emblazoned with the iconic Masters logo and only ever available on-site. No online store. No second chances. Patrons stock up like theyโre preparing for a souvenir apocalypse, lugging armfuls of green bags filled with everything from umbrellas to coffee mugs.
What struck me most during my visit wasnโt the grandeur or even the golf itself. It was the sense of history. Walking through Amen Corner, with Raeโs Creek winding through the property, I couldnโt help but think of all the moments that had unfolded here. Jack Nicklausโ miraculous birdie putt on 17. Tiger Woodsโ chip on 16 that hung on the lip of the hole before dropping in. Larry Mizeโs playoff-winning chip on 11. These arenโt just highlights; theyโre pieces of a narrative that has unfolded over decades, each year adding a new chapter.
Unlike other majors, The Masters never leaves Augusta. Itโs played on the same course, year after year, creating a sense of continuity thatโs rare in sports. Watching a shot on TV, fans know exactly where itโs landing, because theyโve seen it a hundred times before. This familiarity gives the tournament its unique rhythm, a blend of nostalgia and anticipation. Youโre not just watching a golf tournament; youโre watching the continuation of a tradition.
As I walked the grounds, I was struck by how much Augusta National defies expectations, even as it meets them. Itโs grand without being ostentatious, exclusive without feeling elitist, and steeped in history without ever seeming outdated. After two decades of waiting, Iโd imagined every detail of what The Masters would be like. Somehow, the reality was better.
For those lucky enough to attend, itโs not just a bucket-list item. Itโs a memory that stays with you forever, a reminder that some things โ like a perfectly manicured fairway or a well-struck putt โ never go out of style.
If youโve enjoyed this feature article about a golf fanaticโs sacred pilgrimage to the Masters, consider a few more of our favourite stories โ direct from the pages of B.H. Magazine:
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