Master Liang

Master Liang did not arrive in Scotland as a lord or a laird, but as the grandson of traders who had followed silk, spices and rumours of new harbours ever westward. His family carried stories and small goods along the old routes, drifting from court to port until the North Sea winds and a hard-won berth finally anchored them in the grey stone of St Andrews. They stayed not because it was easy, but because it offered something his father had never trusted the world to give: the chance to build a future in one place.

As a boy, Liang learned two things at once: how to work, and how to listen. He hauled crates, swept floors and translated for his elders when merchants came calling. He watched men in thick cloaks speak in low voices over ledgers and bottles, and understood early that those who controlled the flow of conversation often fared better than those who merely lifted the weight. By his late twenties, he was restless; he wanted more than survival for his family. He wanted elevation.

When the town's charter recognised golf on the links, Liang saw crowds where others saw only wind-burned ground. The local innkeepers grumbled about mud and noise. Liang saw hungry, thirsty men coming off the last green with pockets full of coins and heads full of stories. Though he had never swung a club, his days began and ended with the game. With what little capital he had, he bought a barrow, some loaves, ginger beer and – tucked discreetly out of sight – stronger comforts supplied by the inns. Day after day, he pushed that cart to the edge of the Old Course, serving the players who lingered between the game and the town.

His arrangement was simple: the inns provided the ale and warmth; Liang stood in the cold and brought the right men to the right fires. In return he earned a modest fee and, more importantly, an education in character. He learned whose laughter grew softer with drink, whose boasts hid quiet fear, whose kindness extended beyond their own four walls. He never named it a club, but those who gathered at his barrow knew that if they had walked the links with honour, they were welcome.

In those first years, two regulars became more than customers. One was a local bookmaker with a gift for reading risk; the other, a visiting scholar who could quote scripture and scorecards with equal ease. Liang listened as they debated odds, ethics and the future of the game. Slowly, the three men began to introduce patrons to one another – a brewer to a landowner, a restless apprentice to a retiring caddie master, a ship's captain to a young lawyer in need of passage. What began as a food and drink service evolved into something quietly larger: a living network, stitched together one shared story at a time.

Liang never claimed to have founded anything grand. He liked to say that he had never played the game that ruled his working life, but understood better than most what it did to the people who did. He only insisted that every round deserved a proper ending and that no good story should be wasted on an empty room. But in the space between his cart and the inn doors, the foundations of the Order were laid. The first members did not sign a book; they simply kept coming back, knowing that at Liang's little outpost at the edge of the links, they would find warmth, introductions and a listener who understood that service, wisely given, could change a life.