You know you’re getting old when you are about to watch a ninth Open at the home of golf.
My love affair with St Andrews began 62 years ago when I first set eyes on the most iconic piece of golf real estate on the planet. I was still at primary school when my paternal grandfather introduced me to the delights of the oldest major. He was an accomplished player himself, a club champion with a low single figure handicap who had already tried - largely unsuccessfully - to teach me the rudiments of the game while I was still in short trousers (not at all a pretty sight).
I regret now that I didn’t pay more attention. Many times over the years I have wished that I could have another lesson from a man who was blessed with a perfectly calm temperament as opposed to his eldest grandson who is not at all blessed with a remotely similar mindset. But I suppose it’s a bit late now, given that my first golf coach left us in 1976.
