ST. ANDREWS, Scotland -- Sometimes, Flora Selwyn walks the streets of her beloved St. Andrews and wonders if these are its final days. This morning, she's giving a tour, showing the two halves of her town: the one under threat and the one still hidden, just out of reach. She slips into a university quadrangle and looks sadly at the silent thorn tree.
"There used to be doves here," she says. "They were said to be souls of departed divines. I don't know why they got rid of them. They were white doves. That's the tree that Mary, Queen of Scots was supposed to have planted."
The town is full of things that used to be. Chain stores are replacing once deeply rooted family businesses. Some stay. Some don't. Locals can't afford the space and big companies aren't committed to the town. She points at an empty store front, a recently shuttered wine shop.
"Here's what happens," she says. "They come and they go. This used to be an elegant tea shop when I was a student."
Selwyn walks down the end of Market Street, and that's empty, too. You'd never know that a half mile away, the Open Championship is gearing up, with tourists flooding this small town. St. Andrews, she says, is really three separate places: the golf course, the university and the town itself. She runs a local magazine; one reason for starting it was to open a dialogue between the three factions in town, she says.
They don't mix much. Students, many the children of wealthy London gentry, call the middle-class parts The Badlands. Golfers almost never venture past the hotels and restaurants within a few blocks of the Old Course. The last time the Open was here, Selwyn says, the British tax auditors investigated some St. Andrews' businesses because they didn't believe sales actually dropped when the circus came to town.
The townspeople have long been caught in the middle, but now they're being pushed out entirely. The same families have lived for a half-dozen generations in St. Andrews. But this group has been mostly priced out. Selwyn walks the streets, and where children once played, there is now silence. Once, when it would snow, she could count on the kids to push if her car got stuck on drifts. No more. Many families can't pay the astounding real estate prices, and the best property is sold to resort-seekers and wealthy students.
"The children who come back can't afford to buy a house in the town," she says. "According to the EU, the town is no longer viable."
There are still hidden treasures, places the tourists walk past and never see. St. Andrews puts on a gray, stone face. But if you're ever invited inside, the backs of homes and buildings are often made of glass, opening out to lush yards. The St. Andrews Preservation Trust runs an annual open house, called The Hidden Gardens. It allows people to see behind the curtain.
Selwyn walks to a thick wall with an iron gate on one of the town's main streets.
"Shall I show you the secret parts?" she asks.
She steps into another world. The path is just wide enough for two people, lined with gardens. There are the backs of houses and neighbors saying hello. There's a wide open space that once was the garden for a now demolished hotel. Rabbits run everywhere. She slips beneath a low, stone doorway and the scenery grows even more lush. Everything is six different tints of green; the air is musty and shaded. She smiles.
"I know," she says.
These spaces give her hope. So do the ancient, collapsed buildings all over town. They remind her that St. Andrews has suffered before, that it sat desolate and empty, that fires burned in the cathedral, and, still, it survived.
"I suppose it sounds kind of silly," she says. "We're proud of our ruins."
Selwyn keeps walking, taking small strides. There's another garden behind the Byre, with fuchsia flowers and a mulberry tree.
"I usually stand here and stuff my mouth," she says.
An ancient house abuts the garden; it was built with stones salvaged after the cathedral was destroyed in the Reformation. In the middle of a wall, there's what looks something like an angel. It's a mystery. The next house is the former home of the man who discovered how glaciers work.
She heads to the edge of town.
An old woman, stooped and fragile, stands in front of her house. Her name is Irene Cathness. She is the widow of the beloved town doctor, and she was a champion country dancer.
"It's a nice day," she says. "Typical St. Andrews, always a nip in the air."
Cathness smiles.
"Today is my birthday," she announces. "I'm 88."
A half block away is the burn. It used to be the border of the town, but now entire neighborhoods stretch out to the hills. The burn runs straight to the sea and high tides sometimes bring floods. Nearby residents want the town to turn it into drainage to protect their homes. So far, the town has resisted.
Selwyn walks along the burn, cutting into another narrow path running between a stream and a stone wall. The path winds beneath a canopy of trees. Once, she says, mills lined this tiny ribbon of water, making flour, wire and cloth for tartan and tweed. She bends down to touch a purple flower.
"Isn't that lovely?"
At the end of the path is a set of concrete stairs and, with a few strides, she's left the hidden St. Andrews and returned to the modern one, a few blocks from the Shell station. Directly across the street is the Kinness Fry Bar -- home of the fried Mars bar and haggis pizza.
"That's how a town should be," she says. "Full of secret places."
