The British Open at Carnoustie and memories of Tony Jacklin in 1969.

The British Open at Carnoustie and memories of Tony Jacklin in 1969.

Next year it'll be 50 years since the great British golfer Tony Jacklin won the British Open at Royal Lytham Saint Annes on the Lancashire coast. Fresh faced and cherubic Jacklin, still pretty chipper and infused with a good deal of hale and hearty good cheer, will undoubtedly look back on that wind swept, summery day of 1969 and wonder whether British golf has ever produced a more popular and likeable sportsman. He grinned delightedly for the TV cameras, probably bought the first pint for BBC commentators Peter Alliss and Henry Longhurst and thought what a jolly good game golf was and still is.

And indeed it is. But there are times when the mind dwells on the famous Mark Twain quote about golf being a good walk spoiled, wondering whether the notable Mr Twain may have had a valid point or simply complaining and moaning about nothing in particular. Besides, the successful completion of a long and seemingly interminable 18 hole course in any part of the world does seem a major slog and unnecessarily demanding. But maybe this couldn't be further from the truth and is just some nonsensical objection based on total ignorance.

Of course the perception of golf as a middle class elitist sport designed for the respectable property developer or the dynamic City stockbroker who now lives in deepest Surrey, could hardly be more inaccurate. Golf is marvellously relaxing, mentally and physically good for you and bracingly invigorating. It is sport for the purist, hand to eye coordination employed to the best use and great exercise on a Sunday morning. Or any morning and perhaps the entire day.

Tony Jacklin may have good cause to remember the 1969 British Open because it was here that Jacklin swung his driver with a vengeance and did what very few had done before him. Jacklin achieved a hole in one and to this day the image is engraved on the minds of all golfing aficionados both in Britain and the rest of the world. The ball gently plopped into the hole from quite the most remarkable distance and ever since the British golfers who have followed Jacklin have always been grateful for Jacklin's lead.

The conveyor belt of British golfers who have since reached the most exalted heights is endless. There was Nick Faldo, Sandy Lyle, Peter Oosterhuis, Ian Woosnam, and more recently Justin Rose, players with fashionable pullovers, huge, booming swings, perfectly pitched chips out of the roughest fairways and the most controlled of putts on carpet greens. All of course had and may still have their very own distinctive styles, temperaments, lovable idiosyncrasies and a natural flair for the game that should never be questioned.

Nick Faldo of course was, allegedly, the bear with the sore head, a grizzly who could hardly control his emotions, irritable, irascible and, according to some, just infuriatingly slow. And yet Faldo would always address a golf ball with a good old fashioned iron and impeccable concentration on his face, swivelling his hips perfectly in line with the ball and blasting the ball into mid air as if he knew exactly where it was going to land. Faldo always oozed class and complete control on a golf course.

Then there was Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam, players with an immense geographical knowledge of a golf course, carefully weighing up their shots, crouching on their haunches and measuring their putts with a formidable commonsense and discretion. Lyle always seemed to be a perfectionist and stylist while Woosnam was always confident and sure of himself. Oosterhuis was a good, old fashioned professional, thorough in his preparation and full of cunning strategies.

Tomorrow though, the latest generation of British golfers will wake up at the crack of dawn, stretch their flexible shoulders and arms, clench their irons and woods with supple fingers, and then spend the better part of half an hour swinging at thin air, following through with the ball, practising, practising and then rehearsing over and over again because that's how dedicated golfers are. They live, eat, drink, sleep and  eat their sport  as if it was  the only thing on their mind, their overriding pre-occupation, a livelihood that may well be financially lucrative - and handsomely so- but a sport to be treasured.

In the early hours of Thursday morning the likes of Rory Mcilroy and Ian Poulter will be driving off from the first tee at Carnoustie. The hugely appreciative Scottish public will be gathered in their multitudes, perhaps with umbrellas over their heads or maybe basking in the sweltering Scottish heat. They will huddle together, agog with an enduring anticipation and hardly able to hold back their lifetime love of the game. They will then launch into thunderous applause when the first drive from the first hole is thumped decisively into the air.

Golf has always had its gifted legends, its players of craft and technical genius, players with the most infectious humour and sense of fun and men who, for just a couple of days, happily share their bubbly effervescence and gushing enthusiasm for the game. Down the years and decades their names have been like gleaming gold shields, sparkling jewellery, precious diamonds that can never be valued.

There was the late Arnold Palmer, one of golfing's greatest technicians, a player of grace and graciousness, politeness and utter charm. Palmer would seem to float around the fairways, bunkers and greens with that gentlemanly demeanour that very few of his peers could ever match. He would joke with the crowds from time to time, roll his wrists in search of the most flawless swing, chip the ball out of fairways with an uncanny accuracy and then check his score card.

Who could ever forget Lee Trevino, the ultimate joker and comedian on any golf course whether it be the US Masters or the British Open? Trevino was of course one of the game's greatest entertainers, extrovert, hugely talented, sociable, a man for all seasons and never afraid to try the unexpected. The memory remains of Trevino audaciously holing from a bunker as if it were as natural as breathing or brushing your teeth.

When the subject of golf comes up for discussion in any clubhouse or bar the names of Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson are almost recited like a familiar song. Nicklaus of course was born to be one of the greatest golfers the game has ever given us. In fact, he was probably memorising his drives from the tee in his cot. Nicklaus was a stunning exponent of the game, majestically striking the ball with eye popping accuracy, mapping out his game, planning his every shot, studying his next moves with a remarkable foresight and then beating his opponent out of sight with a merciless menace.

Watson also won the hearts of the British golfing public with that cheerful but steely eyed determination that always demoralised the rest of the field before they'd had even time to swallow their first bowl of Corn Flakes. Watson was similarly cool, calculating, methodical and the firmest of favourites with British crowds, charming them, captivating them and making them feel as if they were always the most important people every time he set eyes on them.

And so it is that our Irish showman Rory Mcilroy will be the main, headlining attraction, a golfer of smoothness, suppleness and exquisite gifts. Mcilroy is very much the player of our times, embodying the very best that golf can offer. His long and short game is well documented and there is a growing belief that this could be his year to win the British Open.

It is hard to believe that the football World Cup has now left with us with so many delightful images that it may be impossible to forget them. Still, it's time for British and world golfers to turn their attentions to the British Open tomorrow. Then we remembered the words of Mark Twain and couldn't quite understand what he was talking about. The finer points of golf seem to be permanently lost on him and besides when was the last time he won the British Open. We will never know.