Declan Murray gives thanks for a golden day on a famous course. The adventure challenges many of his pre-conceptions, not least just how public an experience it is

So there I am, standing on the most hallowed turf in the game of golf, the first tee of the Old Course at St Andrews, with 500 years of tradition dripping from the greystone buildings that surround me and the first drive I see is . . . a red sports car motoring right across the middle of those famous first and 18th fairways.

It's a tad disconcerting and I'm already nervous enough. Logically, my mind tells me I have heard the Old Course is a public course, but nothing prepares you for quite how public it is (they close the place on Sundays, so people can walk their dogs etc). And I am also aware a road traverses those fairways (the pros fly it, we amateurs try to reach it) but I never thought it was really a road and that people might drive cars on it. But they do - to get from the town to the seaside.

I haven't even driven off yet and already the place is full of surprises. For instance, just now at the starter's hut, we looked around for trolleys, but the Old Course doesn't do trolleys or golf carts in winter and those of us who have come unprepared have left it too late to get one of the local caddies (the female member of our group has booked ahead).

And it's hard to wipe the blank look from your face when the starter hands you a rectangular piece of Astroturf. I mumble thanks in an uncertain way (a souvenir, perhaps) and then he explains you do not play from the fairways at St Andrews, you place your ball on the little mat and swing away. The man from the Links Trust reminds you there are 42,000 rounds a year at the Old Course and does a stupendous calculation of the number of divots saved, but, briefly, your bemusement gives way to disappointment.

There's no time to dwell on it, however. I am called to the tee (over the tannoy when I'd rather no one drew attention to my predicament) and another one of my certainties about the Old Course comes crashing down - the one that says it's impossible to drive out of bounds off the first or 18th. It's nonsense. Standing there you can see that a decent slice, never mind a shank, will take you over the fence on the right. And the Swilcan Burn may be the best part of 300 yards away but there's a spot down the right where it cuts in further up the fairway and well . . . yes, I chickened out and hit a three-iron.

But I hit it nicely down the middle of the fairway and when I place my ball on the little mat I make good contact with an eight-iron which flies straight at the flag and comes to a halt 12 feet from the hole. What a good idea it is to use Astroturf. From now on it doesn't matter what happens. Nothing can spoil my day at St Andrews. Not even my putting.

As I stand over the birdie putt my mind flashes back to the tee. My putter and I having come to an irrevocable parting the day before (it broke under the strain of multiple three putts) the nice man from the Scottish Tourist Board comes to my rescue. He approaches cradling a putter to his bosom. "You'll like this putter," he purrs reverently, "it's milled." I look at him. He speaks slowly: "The . . . face . . . of . . . the . . . putter . . . is . . . milled."

I'm thinking, "it'll be milled all right if I putt like I did yesterday. It'll be milled into the North Sea".

In fact that's another false impression of the Old Course. At no point, except perhaps off the 11th tee, could you despatch a club into the sea and the water never comes into play. Indeed there is so much space to the right of the course on the way out that there is room for not one, but two, courses - the New and the Jubilee.

The locals reckon the New is actually a tougher test than the Old but it's a hard sell for the Links Trust. "We ask the Americans if they want to play the New course and they say 'we didn't come here to play any new course'. At which point we explain that the New course opened in 1895 but they're still not too keen," says general manager Alan McGregor.

To play on the Old Course, you need to enter your name for the daily ballot but as McGregor says, if you put your name in four or five days in a row you would be very unlucky not to come out. And, as the panel (right) indicates there is plenty of good value golf in the area while you're waiting.

Back on the green my ball shows the hole a clean pair of heels and comes to rest . . . eventually. The caddie, sporting a Ned Flanders moustache and appearing to possess a caricature Scotch dourness that would do credit to another Simpsons character, groundskeeper Willie, glares balefully at the effort. The groundskeeper Willie impression is another wrong one. He turns out to be a terrific addition to the group.

On the second fairway we appear to be stalked by a brutish looking crow. "The birds are pretty tame around here, aren't they?" I comment.

Willie (not his real name) speaks. "Aye, he is. That's Stumpy. He has only the one leg and he's staying close to me cos he knows he'll be fed".

Save that blarney for the Americans, I'm thinking, when I see that the bird is indeed doing its Long John Silver best and, while we look, he hops over and takes some crumbs from the caddie's hand.

We're getting into the round now and discovering that while St Andrews has many blind shots, you don't need to see where your ball finishes when you have a St Andrews caddie on the job.

At the fourth: badly pulled approach "It's all right, ye'll be on the green but ye'll have a long putt". We get there and the ball is at least 30 yards from the flag. "This is the longest green (a double) on the course, it's about 100 yards from front to back."

At the par-five fifth: cracking fairway wood in the direction of a fairway bunker 50 yards short of the green. As I look optimistically short and to either side of the bunker, the voice of doom speaks - "on top the hill, where yon gorse is". Ball unplayable. Reaction unprintable.

As we go to the next tee a ranger approaches to give us the hurry up. "You're just falling off the pace there, folks. If you could just step it up." We tee off and run smack into the preceding group. "Rangers!" hisses the caddie. "Dinna pay any heid (stet) to them."

Earlier, on the fifth, we'd been putting out when a ball came careering through the green. We looked in consternation back down the fairway but the apologetic figure approaching was actually someone playing the New Course. There are no boundary fences between the courses.

Willie muttered under his breath "that's some hook to put it through this green from that course".

Now on the seventh green the same thing happens again, and what's more it's the same sad figure approaching.

This time the caddie is, for him, apoplectic. "I have never, I mean never, seen anyone put it on this green from that course!" he barks, "and I've been caddying here a long number o' years."

"What happens now?" I ask. "Is he not out of bounds?"

"Ach no, he plays it as it lies".

So, I've discovered the secret to actually playing a shot from the hallowed turf (as opposed to the synthetic). You simply pay to play one of the other courses (there are six in all) and, if you're wild enough, you're sorted.

The weather worsens around the turn and our lady member retires injured (having holed more single putts in nine holes than I've holed in nine years). She takes the invaluable Willie with her.

Now it is just me and the gallant Dermot and the elements and at this point, the latter are winning. Out of nowhere wind and rain whips us around the most remote end of the course. I drive an approach through the rain and look back down . . . and see a divot! I've forgotten the ruddy mat!

I look around expecting to hear whistles and gesticulating rangers but no one has noticed . . . and I'm not re-playing the shot. The ball is on the green.

As quickly as it came, the squall disappears, giving way to a beautiful late evening of sunlight and shadow, the links like a honey-coloured lunar landscape. We are on the homeward run now and every hole is a treasure.

At the 14th, Dermot finds Hell Bunker but such is the fun we're having that, instead of bitching about his fate, we take a photo of the event. And he gets out first time.

We are at the centre of the golfing universe, you might say, but the place is unnaturally still. The only sound is of people walking along the public path that goes all the way down the right side of the back nine and eventually turns into the road of the Road Hole.

At the 16th I do a silly thing. "I haven't been in a bunker all day," I say. You can guess what happens next. Without Willie to reassure me I can carry the Principal's Nose, I lay up with a three-iron which plugs in the face of the bunker. It takes two to get out.

All the time we're playing the 16th, however, we're really thinking about the tee shot at the 17th - the Road Hole. We wander over to the tee and wait and wait to play that shot - the drive over the sheds of the Old Course Hotel. We're behind a threeball and then a Japanese student takes an age to wander down the path and around the side of the hotel. We wait, mindful that on a previous trip a member of our party nearly took out Prince William with a miscued drive here.

Finally, it is time to play. Caution would dictate a safe steer to the left but hang caution. I'm not likely to be on this tee again with a driver in my hand. I take dead aim over the middle of the sheds and hit my best drive of the day, coming to rest a long way down the right hand side of the fairway. For the second time today, the Old Course has given me a little gift to remember.

"You know," I think, as I walk to the last and savour the sight of that amphitheatre, "as great as this has been, it's not the hardest course I've ever played." We wave through two students (they get to play here for £130 a year) and then the Old Course gives us our reminder. The first student gives it an almighty belt which veers hard right and hits Rusacks Hotel about half way up. You can drive out of bounds at the 18th at St Andrews!

Suitably chastened, we hit scratchy drives up the fairway, thankfully in bounds. But the course has the last word. I leave myself the Doug Sanders putt and it hangs impossibly on the lip. I mill the putter back gently in the direction of its owner and give thanks for a golden day.

St Andrews and Fife: Where to stay

THE OLD COURSE HOTEL

Recently acquired by the Kohler group, the hotel is not for the faint of pocket (a suite there could cost you anything from £399 to £599 a night) but it does represent the last word in comfort.

Relax in the Kohler Waters Spa or enjoy the superb food in the Road Hole Grill (holds a coveted third AA rosette) or test yourself on the hotel's own golf course, the Dukes. The course is located two and a half miles outside the town and, recently redesigned by American architect Tom Liddy, it features the massive ragged edge bunkers its owner made famous at Whistling Straits in Wisconsin.

Above all, the Old Course Hotel has location, location, location. Just lean out the window and catch any stray drives coming down the 17th.

THE ABERDOUR HOTEL

38 High Street, Aberdour KY3 0SW

Tel: 01383 860325

Fax: 01383 860808

Email: reception@aberdourhotel.co.uk

Web: www.aberdourhotel.co.uk

Rooms: 6D 6T 4F

Bathrooms/showers: All en suite

Prices: B&B From £28-£35 pprsn (sharing twin/double)

At the other end of the price scale, but an extremely comfortable, friendly hotel on the main street of the small town of Aberdour. Originally a 17th century coachhouse, the stables at the back have been converted into five new rooms. Specialises in traditional cooking and real ales.

PITBAUCHLIE HOUSE HOTEL

Aberdour Road, Dunfermline KY11 4PB

Tel: 01383 722282

Fax: 01383 620738

Email: info@pitbauchlie.com

Web: www.pitbauchlie.com

Rooms: 17D 24T 3F 6S

Bathrooms/showers: All en suite

Prices: B&B From £38 pppn (sharing twin/double)

In the historic town of Dunfermline, the Pitbauchlie is ideally placed for playing Dunfermline or Forrester Park. A friendly, family run hotel with a lovely landscaped garden at the back. Good food and dangerously fine whiskeys in the bar, there are sister hotels in Edinburgh and Glenrothes.