Golf: Salty ire is St Andrews spice

After the obligatory 12 pints, Willie would go home, get out his air pistol and shoot at passing cars

The starter on the Old Course at St Andrews, a Buddha-shaped man with a permanent scowl who guards the first tee like a Rottweiler, tells players through a loudspeaker when they should commence. He was once approached by a Frenchman, desperate to play the venerable links. The starter told him sharply that there were no tee times available that day, breaking off to bark over the speaker, in his distinctive Fife accent, "Play away noo, Mr MacKenzie." The Frenchman asked whether he could play the next day. "Nae chance," snapped the starter, then leant over his microphone to call, "Play away noo, Mr Campbell".

Undeterred, the Frenchman asked whether he might be squeezed in sometime that week, and grudgingly the starter found a slot. "Name?" he barked. "Fouquet," said the Frenchman. The starter looked startled. "How are ye spelling that?" he asked. "F-O-U-Q-U-E-T," he was told. "Right, Mr Fouquet," said the starter, pronouncing the name uncertainly, as if it rhymed with bucket. "Ye've a starting time on Friday at 8.48am. Be here 10 minutes before. And just one more thing." "Oui?" said Monsieur Fouquet. "When I call through my loodspeaker, ye'll answer to the name Patterson."

I relate that possibly apocryphal story to illustrate one of the curiosities of golf at St Andrews, because it throws together people from all over the world with people who have rarely ventured beyond Dunfermline. This is especially true of the golfer-caddie relationship. A few years ago, there was a caddie called Willie who, when drunk (which was often), was a notorious headcase. After the obligatory 12 pints of heavy on a Friday night, Willie would go home, get out his air pistol, and shoot at passing cars. But he was always back at work first thing on Saturday morning, and once teamed up with a 6ft 7in Texan. "Howdy," growled the Texan. "I'm Big Tex from Fort Worth." Willie, who stood five foot three in his shabby socks, rose to the occasion. "How are ye, Big Tex," he said. "I'm Shotgun Willie from Broughty Ferry."

Last week, I played in the inaugural St Andrews Charity Open, and returned an 82 off the medal tees on the Old Course which, for me, was good going. I stayed at the super-swish Old Course Hotel, in a sumptuous room overlooking the 17th fairway. Heaven can't be dramatically different, although I suppose room service there would be delivered by Michelle Pfeiffer. And in heaven, I wouldn't have bogeyed the Road Hole.

The Charity Open, organised by the St Andrews Rotary Club (for next year's details, call 01334 474371), pairs up visiting golfers with locals. I played with Steve Toon, amiable secretary of the Duke's Golf Club, which has a course designed by five-times Open champion Peter Thomson and is owned by the Old Course Hotel. And I employed a caddie, shamelessly pumping him for caddie stories, like the one about Archie, who was carrying for an elderly American nowhere near as good as his 28 handicap suggested.

The American, who was inclined to lift his head too early, topped almost every shot, and on the 18th hole topped his drive into the Swilcan Burn. It was the final straw. "Throw those darn clubs into the creek, Archie," he roared. "In fact I might jump in after them and drown myself." "Ye'll nae manage it," muttered Archie. "Ye'll nae keep your heed doon lang enough."

My caddie told me that many of his colleagues have nicknames. "There's one called the Crocodile," he said. Why? "I hav'nae a clue." Did he have a nickname? "Aye, they call me Cowdenbeath." Why? "I come from Cowdenbeath." Never let it be said that St Andrews caddies are deficient in logic. Indeed, some of them are downright intellectual. Cowdenbeath pointed out one with a first-class degree in economics.

Cowdenbeath turned out to be an excellent caddie, and could name practically every bunker on the Old Course. "Mind Cat's Trap and Walkenshaw on the left, and the Lion's Mouth on the right," he said, as I prepared to play my second to the 13th. I followed his instructions to the letter, thinning a six-iron to the heart of the green. This left me only about a quarter of a mile from the flag, the 13th/fifth being the largest of the extraordinary St Andrews double greens.

Of all the 194 golf courses I have played - some of them in my special lightweight anorak - the Old at St Andrews is easily my favourite. And on the ninth tee on Friday, as I paused to savour the unique heritage of the place, the sound of bagpipes was carried by the breeze from the distant medieval spires of the auld grey toun. It was an almost religious experience, rudely punctured by Cowdenbeath. "That," he mused, "is a truly shite pipe band."