'To the Immortal Memory of John Henrie and Pat Rogie who at Edinburgh in the year 1593 AD were imprisoned for 'playing of the gowff on the links of Leith every Sabbath the time of the Sermonses' also of Robert Robertson who got it in the neck in 1604 AD for the same reason.'

The above is the dedication at the beginning of the Golf Omnibus, being the collection of 31 Golfing stories by P G Wodehouse, the only writer of the English language that can make one laugh out loud in public places. And, as Mrs Fox will tell you vehemently, in some private places too.

These stories were put together when the grand old man was ninety one and his preface is as witty as anything he wrote:

'If only they had put a putter in my hands when I was four and taught me the use of the various clubs, who knows what heights I might not have reached. It is this reflection that has always made my writing so sombre, its whole aroma like that of muddy shoes in a Russian locker room.'

It is not just the fact that the Archaeologist has returned to Edinburgh for his second year that brought the subject of golf to the forefront of my mind. The autumn/fall is traditionally the finest season for golf. Not only are the Gods of the game both amateur and professional seen at their very best - witness the recent Walker and Ryder Cups - the hackers are released from their summer chores of childrens' holidays and gardening. Courses, which this brave summer have burnt like overdone Creme Brulee and created dust bowls, with or without irrigation, to rival the Kalahari desert, are now recovering like faded beauties after a face lift.

Nothing could be finer than to stand on the first tee in an early morning autumnal mist, one's breath smoking slightly as the sun winks a promise of warmth through the trees.

Starting a round of golf is like starting a new love affair. Everything is going to be perfect this time around. The bits which need power and speed of action will get it; the bits which need delicacy and precise touch will also.

Alas and alack it is seldom if ever so. Sometimes the disaster strikes early, often with the first strike of all - the drive on the first tee. In fact with the majority of golfers worldwide it is this first swipe of the round that sets the tone for the rest. If one is playing with strangers on an unfamiliar course the tension is heightened, from the usual heart twitching horror, so that today will be the day when 20,000 balls struck in practice will be as grass and the wafting of the club will be as a feather or a battleaxe. The ball may be missed altogether, probably the nearest thing to a golfer's mortal sin, or it may be clubbed brutally away in a totally unpredetermined direction.

The former of these shots causes deep embarrassment for the perpetrator. The latter may develop into litigation if the direction the ball takes coincides with the presence of the club captain, or worse his wife, or worse still his car.

Slow boats to China or economy class to Uruguay have been the only way out for the hapless striker of the first drive from Hell.

Why, oh why, should such a simple task as striking a stationary spherical object require such skill and balls?

Most games played by mankind are played in hot blood. With some training and mediocre ability humans can strike a ball with foot or hand or racquet if it is to an extent an involuntary reaction. It is when the contact is in cold blood that the problem occurs. Okay, so the Test batsman has only one chance at the thunderbolt but he has been fired up by the excitement and his response is to a flying object not a stationary one; he has no choice in what is delivered, at what speed or when. So all in all it is often an involuntary but trained response.

The class tennis player is fine when in motion, in receipt of the service or in open play. The brain may come in but in the main it is the countless hours of practice that produce the unthinking, unfeeling winning response.

The service is something else. Here they have to stand and deliver. Watching the greats over the years has caused many a minor heart attack. Is the guy ever going to serve? Interminable ball bouncing, endless swaying and twitching may preceed an incredulouus double fault as the nerves bite and muscle memory pulps into inertia.

That's golf. Don't think it's not a gutsy game because no one leaves the course covered in blood, although it has happened. It is the ultimate in gutsy games alongside snooker because the player has all the time in the world to think what can go wrong with the next shot and also has the joy/despair of the opponent's offering which must be greeted in the correct manner.

The correct manner is over-polite praise if the opponent manages a good result however manky the shot and polite sympathy if the shot is a disaster.

Remember all those po faces at the Crucible Sheffield as the opposition clears the table, well it's the same in golf when a bunker shot is skulled into the flagstick and sinks into the hole without trace instead of flying out of bounds; it's just desserts.

Under any circumstances the player has to walk to the next shot while the demons rise in the mind to taunt and tantalise with the likely outcome of the next blow.

It is often easier to play well on an unfamiliar course as the 'I always hit it in the trees/out of bounds/in a bunker on this hole' horrors do not arise. To find that one has avoided some unseen and unknown hazard creates a feeling of euphoria and high confidence.

The really extraordinary mind set amongst golfers is that they all believe that they are going to improve however old or decrepit they are.

Witness the waggling, the grunting and groaning and the pent-up frustration at any driving range. Millions of balls are sent hurtling down the range as their hopeful hitters strive for the perfectly timed shot that flies by the 250 yard marker.

The urge to play golf has led to an unprecedented rush to join golf clubs. This is often difficult and expensive and may include the Catch 22 that to join a club you must have a handicap and to get a handicap you have to be a member of a club.

A way to join a golf club and become a life member to boot has arrived. For the the princely sum of ú50 you can become a life member of Isle of Harris Golf Club or Comann - Goilf Na Hearadh in Gaelic.

This nine hole course is on the picturesque west coast of the island at Scarista. The most famous visitor so far has been Nick Faldo, who described it as one of the most beautiful settings for golf he had experienced.

In addition to his green fee, Faldo left a ú5 note - don't tell me he's not generous - on which he wrote a message of gratitude and thanks. That note was glazed, framed and mounted and the Faldo Fiver is now competed for annually.

Just send ú50 payable to Harris Golf Club to

Willie Fulton (Captain) 3 Drinshader Harris PA85 3DX

or e-mail Grey Fox for more details.

Finally a demonstration that little changes in life by quoting from the letter to new members. Remember the local sheep are the greenkeepers.

'Because of the observance of the Sabbath in this part of the world we, in consultation with the Scarista Grazing Committee, operate a policy of no Sunday Golf.'

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