Golf- a good walk spoiled, surely not.

Golf- a good walk spoiled, surely not.

When somebody proposed that the venue for the 2019 golf  Open would be Royal Portrush in Northern Ireland the wise commentators sighed for a minute, gazed out of their living room windows and wondered if life could get any better. For the first time since 1951, the green emerald isle of  Royal Portrush has opened up its clubhouse to the wealthy elite who ply their trade on the driving ranges, fairways, bunkers and putting greens of the world.

If there is any romantic symmetry in this famous golf tournament then either Rory Mcilroy or Darren Clarke, who both hail from Northern Ireland, will walk down the 18th hole fairway, their ears pounded by the tumultuous applause of  hundreds and thousands of fans cheering themselves hoarse because that's what usually happens to British golfers when they win the British Open.

It was almost 50 years ago of course that a man dressed in a black polo pullover named Tony Jacklin swung powerfully at a St Andrews ball and sent the ball soaring into the air not thinking for a minute that the said ball would go so far that by some wondrous twist of fate, it would plop into the hole for a hole in one. Since then the British exponents of this surprisingly and fiercely competitive sport have come and gone.

There was Peter Ooseterhuis, single minded, purposeful and dedicated to the cause. There was Nick Faldo, ferociously ambitious, driven at times and determined to sweep all comers aside in a flurry of birdies, superbly measured under par cards that had the whole of Britain gripped. Then we had Sandy Lyle, undoubtedly one of the most polished golfers Britain has ever unearthed. Lyle had the most beautiful of swings, an insatiable hunger for victory and the devil may care willingness to take on the very best and win.

More recently there was Colin Montgomery, the ultimate perfectionist and, by his own admission, irritable, bad tempered, petulant, grumpy and downright cantankerous. But Montgomery always knew how to play the big occasion, a man with the winning mentality, a man who could play some of the most skilful and electrifying golf  ever seen. Montgomery sneered at convention, did things his way and didn't care who knew it. He played to the gallery and took the flattering plaudits in his stride.

Now of course there's Rory Mcilroy, Darren Clarke, Justin Rose, a teenage prodigy, Lee Westwood who seems to have been around for years now and many a thrusting newcomer ready and waiting in the wings to dethrone the new generation. Mcilroy is a towering genius capable of playing some of the most sublime golf you're ever likely to see, Clarke is powerful, consistent, shrewd and always up with the leader board. Rose was,- and still is- that brilliant, young whipper snapper who started winning major tournaments at a ridiculously young age.

But for those who remember the BBC's coverage of the Open with nothing but warm affection golf  seems to have been unforgivably marginalised by those who have yet to invest in Sky TV and BT Sport. No longer can the nation settle down to watch and listen to the whisperingly melodious tones of Henry Longhurst and the immensely knowledgeable Peter Alliss, a former Ryder Cup player of some note.

Today the immaculately sweatered professionals stroll up and down the world's most well appointed and designed golf courses with lethal irons that send the ball formidable distances. Eventually they land on a green of billiard table quality while around them the crowds swarm in idolatrous delight. It is golf at its most ritualistic, the British at their most appreciative and discerning and a game showcased in its most natural setting.

Tomorrow evening those same crowds will stride onto the fringes of the Royal Portrush fairway, gentle or blustery summery winds tugging stubbornly at the hole flag posts. The final two contenders will take out their very striking putters that begin to look increasingly like broom sweepers. They will both look admiringly at their golfing public and hold the ball as if it were some precious ornament. The winner of the British Open will bend over to pick up the ball, display it like a gold nugget and then milk up more applause. Mark Twain may well have been one of the finest of American writers but what did he know about golf? Besides, what did Twain know about the finer points of  the tournament where the lucky recipient gets a Claret Jug? Very little one suspects.