The Hacker: Snaffled ball leaves sour taste but meat pies aren't bad

Our annual visit to St Andrews performed its usual replenishment of our spiritual respect for the game's soul. It also left us totally knackered.

We were there during the recent storms, and the effect of three daily blastings took its toll even on the youngest of our 12-man group.

Four of us didn't even play on the third day. It was my fault. I came down for breakfast and announced that my aching limbs would not permit me to venture out again.

Three of our party immed-iately volunteered to keepme company. They didn't have the courage to chicken out themselves, but they leapt at the opportunity to use me asan excuse.

So while our comrades pulled their woollen hats firmly down over their ears, we adjourned to the leathered comfort of the St Andrews Golf Club (est 1843) whose clubhouse hums with history and offers a warm and genuine welcome. The beer and the meat pies are not bad, either.

We needed the respite. The previous day on the Old Course had been particularly hard going in the wind.

It doesn't help that you can't use a trolley on this most hallowed of courses. And if, like me, you haven't got the sense to jettison half your clubs and turf out all the weather gear, it can be wearying.

The other tiring factor is the strip of artificial turf you have to use to protect the ancient fairways. Unless you secure the strip to the ground with a tee-peg, it will blow away, so you are constantly stooping down. When you take as many shots as I do, that's a lot of stooping.

Added to all this palaver was the fact that I was playing a load of disheartening rubbish. The wind can destroy the best of swings, so one as flimsy as mine had no chance. I scored one point against the wind on the outward nine.

I managed to scramble two points on the 10th and, on the 11th, a wicked par-three on the best of days, I hit a beauty that bounced on the green but was blown just over the back.

I knew there was no trouble there so I wasn't worried until we saw a golfer who was playing another hole make a shot from roughly where my ball would have been.

When we reached the spot, my ball was nowhere in sight. He had either played it by mistake or picked it up.

We shouted after his group but they merely shrugged unconcernedly and yelled something that was snatched away by the wind.

There was no doubt in any of our minds that he had snaffled it. Such an instance rarely happens in golf, and when it does it leaves a nasty taste – on the Old Course, of all places.

I played better on the way back, but despite getting a par on the 16th, I had the grand total of 11 points.

Not playing on the third day cemented me into my accustomed last place, but I didn't get my usual consolation of three chocolate golf balls.

The organiser hadn't had time to buy any prizes so he awarded me a fiver. You wonder where the game is taking you when you have to buy your own booby prize.

p.corrigan@independent.co.uk