Back in the dark ages, before the iPhone, before the steam engine and even before golf, the only thing in Scotland that had real value was land. Land produced food crops, it harbored fish and game. Land was life sustaining and therefore valuable.

Of course, there was some land that wasn’t valuable: the sand dunes parallel to the beaches, for instance. That land was useless. Couldn’t grow anything on it and nobody had thought of building condos yet.

A few sheep might wander in for a chew of spring grass, but other than that, the land was like a large neighborhood vacant lot. The locals used it as a commons area: a place to stroll, walk the dog, take a little afternoon sun — if there was any — and catch up on the local gossip: “Did you see what she wore!?”

Maybe it was inevitable that somebody would devise an activity that transformed it into something useful. Like… pick out a rabbit hole, take a stick and try to hit the rock into the hole. By George, I like that! Let’s do it again.

Soon the rocks became “featheries,” little leather balls stuffed with feathers, the sticks became clubs with wooden heads, and the rabbit holes became … well, actually the rabbit holes became pot bunkers, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

All of a sudden, that useless tract of land, land called “links” by the old Scots who whacked away at those featheries, gave birth to the greatest game: “gawf.” And the term “links” became synonymous with the game.

It was on this common links land that the “gawfers” elbowed the other townies out of the way long enough for the game to slowly evolve and codify its form, rules and decorum. Of course, once enough folks were bitten by the game, and once the benefits — economic and otherwise — were understood, everyone agreed that the use of the commons for golf was a good thing and the courses took their final form.

They sprouted from the natural terrain: no Caterpillar dozers or John Deere mowers. Everything was done by hand. Old Tom Morris would be out there directing a small work gang. Cut here. Plant there. Dig deeper.

In between the dunes, the burns, the rabbit holes, the gorse bushes and heathers, patches of fescue were cut down so one could find the feathery, putting surfaces were laid out so one could put it in the hole, and tee boxes were identified so the hole had a starting point.

In the early summer, when the local herds had munched the spring grasses way down, play began. And it continued through the winter while nothing grew. There was no water, of course. If it rained, good, the grass would green up a bit. If it didn’t rain, OK, the ground baked hard as adobe.

And 170 years later, that’s pretty much what a links course is today: sand dunes and wind complementing the bumpy brown turf and fescue. Hard to tell the fairways from the rough. Hard to tell the greens from the fairways. Sometimes you’ll even see a double green, one that services two different holes (easier to make and cheaper to maintain).

In some places, like the Old Course at St. Andrews, it’s still a commons area. And as you play down the first, or up the 18th, it’s not unusual to see people out for a stroll with kids and dogs wandering across the course. Sometimes a child will run out to your ball and pick it up like he’s found an Easter Egg. “Look, Mommy!”

Oh, and no trees. That nutrient-poor links soil can’t support trees. This exacerbates the wind problem. With nothing to discourage the force, it becomes a constant opponent. All shots have to be played under it, through it or with it. This leads to a low-running golf game. And when the ball runs, there’s really no telling where it’s going to wind up. The “fairways” are wildly uneven and hard as a cast iron frying pan. Your ball will hop around like a Mexican jumping bean on a hot griddle.

Now the typical American golfer is used to playing a high-plopping kind of game. Throw it up and let it settle. This definitely won’t do on a links course. The ball will be blown hither and yon. Mostly yon. So one has to adapt. But once that bridge is crossed, it’s great fun and great golf.

This treeless, windblown, bumpy, lumpy, dry, brown, hippity-hop course next to the beach is what we are describing when we say, “links golf.” In Scotland and the U.K. it’s the opposite of a “parkland course,” one that is inland and that has trees and lots of mown grass.

Links golf has that authentic feel to it. It’s different. It’s a challenge. Golfers all over the world want a taste of it. The “links look” has been copied everywhere. Probably right in your backyard, too. Whack those trees down. Mound up the dirt to make lots of whoop-ti-dos. Let it dry out some. Plant fescue. Dump sand all over the place… and pray for wind.

The Open Championships are played on links courses. Carnoustie, Troon and St. Andrews are among the hallowed. But Prestwick, Cruden Bay and Royal Dornoch are even better. All are in Scotland. All on that old useless land.

Pete Dye has created links courses in the U.S., with the Ocean Course at Kiawah being arguably the best, although his Whistling Straits and Irish Course at Kohler are close behind (on the Irish, they even have a small herd of sheep that tidy up the rough, just like back in the old days).

From now on, when you hear “links course,” think of Old Tom Morris out there, sleeves rolled up, scythe in hand. His mantra had to be, “Let’s keep it simple, lads. I have to do all the maintenance myself!”