This week, golf websites everywhere are splashed with images from the game’s most hollowed grounds. The site of this year’s British Open is taking center-stage…perhaps more than the tournament itself.

Now I’m not saying St. Andrews doesn’t deserve it – ever since the Scots hit stones down rabbit holes, the Old Course has been a monument to the game. But these days the place has become sacred.

Every year golfers make the pilgrimage to Scotland for a chance to play where the game (as far as we know) began. But think about the words we use: A pilgrimage. That’s what it is, no? It’s a spiritual journey; a religious experience. Let’s ponder that for a second. Scotland is golf’s Mecca, its Jerusalem. Compare that to your home course, which is just the local congregation.

These local places of worship consist of a plethora of courses all over the world. Some are of championship quality, while some appear better suited for grazing a herd of bison. But golf courses don’t have to be legendary for you to remember them, no sir.

I’ll bet not many people outside your local area have heard of the course where you scored your first ace or eagle on. But that place, that hole – it means something to you, doesn’t it? The track could be a mortar range, but it’s still etched into your memory like your first born.

This year, the PGA Tour has really played the historical card well – Pebble hosted the U.S. Open; St. Andrews hosted the British Open; Augusta…well, we have that every year, but you get my point.

The thing is, whether I’m playing at the center of the golf universe or at my local executive 9, it’s all hallowed ground to me. The first tee jitters; the being one with nature; the whole nine yards. It doesn’t matter if there’s a beautiful ocean vista or if a historic tournament was played there…I mean, that would be great but, it’s not necessary for me.

So, does this suggest I’m OK with playing the same course all the time? Hell no! I want to experience as many golf courses as possible! But I won’t regret it if I never play Pebble or St. Andrews. You see, when I pull those clubs from my trunk and slip on the soft spikes, it doesn’t matter where I am – my pilgrimage has begun.