The golf links at Turnberry are dominated by two natural phenomena. There is Ailsa Craig, a monolithic dome of volcanic rock in the Firth of Clyde that provides a dramatic backdrop to many of the holes on the course. And then there is Colin Montgomerie: the best player of the modern generation never to have won one of the sport's four major tournaments, a fixture in the gossip columns and a man whose imprint is everywhere to be seen at Turnberry.
The Colin Montgomerie Links Golf Academy, part of a complex which includes a luxury hotel and two championship courses, was founded only in 2000, but already it has become established as an essential destination for those who want to bring down their handicap. So it was that I, along with two dozen other hopefuls, went on a pilgrimage to Monty's academy for a weekend's intense tuition in the hope that he is the man who can turn a rabbit into a Tiger.
But, first, a little about my golf. To say I am an enthusiast would not be entirely accurate. Very often, I go to sleep on a Sunday night with my last conscious moment spent reliving that majestic six iron to the heart of the fifth green or that missed four-foot putt on the 16th (more often the latter, if I'm honest). I play every weekend, and last year I won our club's singles knockout championship. When no one's around, I find myself watching the Golf Channel on Sky. I sometimes read an instructional manual at bedtime and I find it hard to pass by a golf shop without slipping in, you know, just to have a look. Yes, it's true, I'm not an enthusiast. I'm a borderline obsessive.
I play my golf at a small, unpretentious club in the village of Kirtlington in Oxfordshire. And when I say unpretentious, I mean it. No oak-pannelled lounge with honours boards stretching back a century or more here; the club has only been going 15 years, and, as well as (or possibly because of) its lack of history, it has no litany of peculiar rules and regulations, none of the time-honoured dos and don'ts, of other, more established clubs. It is relaxed, friendly and gloriously unstuffy. For instance, the gentlemen's captain at most clubs in the Southeast would, typically, be public school, Cavalry or Guards, wear a tweed suit and spend much time at the bar snapping his braces. Our captain has an earring, a rather alarming tattoo of a Viking on his right bicep, and runs a mobile disco. The captain at other clubs in the area might have a double-barrelled name; next year's holder of the most prestigious office at Kirtlington is called Tommo.
My form this year has been patchy, to say the least. The defence of my knockout trophy was shortlived, ending in ignominious defeat in the first round. And I have let down my regular partner, the local vet, on numerous occasions. (He wants to get his own back by neutering my dog.) When my putting is good, my driving goes to pieces; when I'm driving well, I can't hit a short iron to save my life. And so it is, the burden of every club golfer. Thus, armed with a handicap of 18 and an unquenchable desire for improvement, I headed north to that strip of Ayrshire coastline, which is about as close to golfing paradise as it's possible to get.
Sitting proudly above the links, gazing out to sea, the Turnberry Hotel is in the midst of celebrating its centenary. The hotel's main reason to exist may be the golf, but there is a wide enough range of other pursuits (from rifle-shooting to horse-riding) and a fabulous spa centre to ensure that non-golfing partners need not feel neglected, and, with a mixture of formal and casual restaurants, a bar where one can drink in the stupendous sunsets, and the full panoply of five-star luxuries, the hotel is justifiably a destination in its own right. But the main purpose of my visit was not for self-indulgence but for self-improvement.
