By Tyler Dillon

There is magic in the air in the southlands in the springtime. And this isn’t just a southerner missing his home (I hail from Georgia), waxing on and on about how nice it is down there. Other people also notice the transformation of winter to spring that’s particular to this region. Songs have been written by non-southerners about the awakening of the land, the smell of the earth, the magnolias and pines breathing out after a long hold from November through March.

In April, something happens almost overnight: You go to bed and it’s winter, then you wake up the next morning and the flowers are in bloom! One event, perfectly timed to take place in the midst of this grand awakening, captures this experience perfectly: the Masters. (Admittedly, the instant blossoming is no accident; at Augusta National they dry-ice the plants to make sure they bloom the week of the Masters.)

I know people who are fans neither of the PGA Tour nor golf in general, but absolutely love the Masters. It has its own cachet, and while it is certainly about golf, it is also so much more than that. There is a sense that the world has been deliberately shut out, a suspension of disbelief. It’s as if they had collected everything worth being nostalgic about from the 1950s and then decided “no more.” Prices are set and will not change. There are no cellphones, no cameras, no sponsors, no electric scoreboards. Pimento cheese sandwiches still cost only $1.50. You are not allowed to run; to do so is uncouth.

It is almost a living embodiment of all the times my grandparents used to say, “It was better in my day.” I’m sure their day had its own set of ups and downs, but at Augusta National, that cathedral of golf and monument to the best of Americana, I feel it.

I grew up an hour west of Augusta, Georgia, in a place called Madison. Known as the town General Sherman did not burn on his march to the sea, it was a quaint, Norman Rockwell sort of place to grow up. The winters were mild, the summers hot. It was a place where you could play golf almost year-round, with only a few weeks in the winter for a break to breathe before the season opened up again.

My father was steeped in golf—his father was a scratch golfer and a member at Winged Foot—and I was taught early on how to strike the ball, to walk the course rather than drive it, and to use this game as a venue to experience nature as well as ourselves.

Embracing the ‘cathedral of golf’
Golf is a game that happens both outside and within, the course providing the perfect analogy for the mind. We played golf, and we watched the Masters, and we thought of the event less as a sporting competition and more like something associated with church or ritual. It was like a rite of passage that ushered in spring. After the Masters, we could wear white, wear shorts and go barefoot through the fields.

From my perch in chilly Toronto, when I think of the Masters I feel the warm spring air of Georgia, smell magnolias blooming, see the blues skies above and perfect shadows forming on the bark of old-growth pines.

In short, I remember the Masters just as I should—with great nostalgia.

Now I get to show this to people, I get to take them to this place of mind and spirit and guide them through the whole event. There is an excitement in experiencing the Masters for the first time that can crowd out normal decision-making abilities. You can be so overwhelmed that you forget to eat or, more likely, where you put your chair.

So now I help people get to Augusta with style and gusto, and navigate its myriad wonders once they’re inside. Instead of sitting in traffic for hours on the final Sunday, why not use a police escort to make sure you don’t miss a beat (or a stroke)? We arrange to use a house across the street from Magnolia Lane as our base for the day, a place where you can leave your cellphone and camera and come back for a reprieve in case of rain or heat, or take a midday break to catch up on TV replays of anything you didn’t see in person. You can also grab a bite to eat from the plethora of gourmet food and drinks available, or—if you’re feeling especially inspired—get in some practice on the putting green.

Of course, after I facilitated this kind of experience at the Masters for the first time, I realized that other events, such as the British Open or the Kentucky Derby, could be similarly sublime. Just as the appeal of the Masters is independent of golf, so too do events like Wimbledon and the British Open transcend their sports. They are events in the purest sense of the word, icons of sport and place, and we take great pride in helping to guide folks through the experience.

At the risk of sounding too preachy, these sorts of trips become not just about the place, but a state of mind that you can take back home with you. After the Masters, you may feel you’ve acquired a code to live by. It teaches you to dress appropriately; to observe quietly until it’s time to cheer—and then to do so vociferously; to appreciate that few methods are better for beating the heat than a perfectly timed cold drink; to realize that there is virtue in leaving your camera and phone behind for an afternoon out in the sun; and to enjoy the inherent value of a day spent among the pines.

Almost imperceptibly, the code seeps into everyday life. Weeks after trips like this, you may find yourself taking a lunch break by strolling around the neighbourhood, searching for that feeling of spring in the southlands.

Tyler Dillon was born in California and raised in rural Georgia. He spent his early adult life travelling and working around the world—largely in  Ireland, China, Myanmar and Peru. Tyler now makes Toronto his home, where he designs golfing, biking and walking trips for luxury travel company Butterfield & Robinson. He still steps in, when he can, to guide trips with Butterfield & Robinson to Ireland and Scotland.

Photos: Butterfield & Robinson and Dreamstime