On one level, the Old Course at St. Andrews is no more than a fragile layer of fine-bladed turf stretched and squeezed over the heaving sandhills of Scotland's eastern shore.

On a more sublime plane, the course is a microcosm of golf's rampaging history, electric moments from 600 years hanging heavy and timeless in the rich atmosphere of this royal and ancient city.

St. Andrews has seen it all, from the days of lovingly-crafted slender-headed woods and ill-shaped feathery balls to the flashing blades of titanium that now rip through the sacred turf. The distillation of those six centuries of golf is a rich and heady brew that gives the imagination as swift and satisfying a jolt as a nip of 50-year-old malt.

The unblemished performances by the leading players, from Tom Morris through the Bob Jones years, the Palmer-Nicklaus era, the exploits of Seve Ballesteros and Nick Faldo, to the still unfolding genius of Tiger Woods, have been pock-marked with quirky tales of the playoff that never was, the whiff with a putter that cost an Open title, the win with clubs that were made illegal five days later. The great highs and gruesome lows that golf regularly bestows on all who play the game come into particularly sharp focus in the story of St. Andrews.

And there were surely none more bizarre than the Open of 1876, which, at that time, was a 36-holes-in-a-day add-on to the Royal and Ancient Golf Club's autumn jamboree at which the new captain drove himself into office. Unfortunately for the 34 entrants taking part in that championship, the captain that year was Prince Leopold, the fifth son of Queen Victoria.

It was the first royal visit to St. Andrews since Charles II some 200 years earlier, and the old gray town went to extraordinary lengths to show its allegiance. The streets were adorned with flags, flowers, banners and streamers, and the Prince was toured around from town hall to university, from an outing of the local fox hunt to the Ladies' Putting Club. He hit a shot from the first tee to officially drive himself into office as the R and A's captain, attended the club's annual dinner, played a six-hole match partnered by Old Tom Morris, and attended a glittering ball where he led off the dancing with the Countess of Rothes. He stayed until the early hours before being whisked away in a horse and carriage.

What he didn't do was wait to watch the Open, leaving by train on a wet morning the day before the championship. Yet the disruption his visit caused to the normal running of the club's autumn meeting, and the additional number of members who'd showed up to share the links with a royal, turned the Open into a farce.

The local paper of the time reported: "Competitors went out in a very straggling manner; the result of the haphazard start being that several gentlemen got between the couples, and much time was lost in waiting until the previous players had holed out." In plain English, what that means is R and A members, by getting themselves mixed in with Open contenders, caused havoc. There were vociferous complaints as those competing for the title fought their way through uncontrolled crowds, only to wait endlessly for seriously inferior golfers to complete the holes.

As the second round reached the final holes, it became evident that two St. Andreans, Bob Martin and Davie Strath, were the only possible winners, leading the rest of the field by handfuls of strokes. Martin was the first to finish, adding a 90 to his morning 86. Strath was having his troubles, however. At the long 14th, his powerful second shot, again in the quaint words of the local paper, "struck Mr. Hutton, upholsterer, who was playing out, on the forehead and he fell to the ground. We are glad to say that, although Mr. Hutton was stunned, he was able to walk home."

But the incident cost Strath a six, which he replicated at the next hole, so that, by the time he stood on the 17th tee, he needed to complete the final two holes in 10 shots to secure victory. His tee shot strayed over the wall, into territory that is now but was not then out of bounds. The intrepid Strath climbed over the stonework and hammered the ball back into play.

His next shot was to determine the outcome of the Open. Whether he realized, against a backdrop of heaving humanity, that players in front were still putting out, or whether he simply lost patience after the delays and frustrations of the chaotic afternoon, we will never know. Either way, his ball thudded into a player on the green, preventing it from reaching the infamous adjoining road. After holing out in five, he made an untidy six at the last to tie with Martin.

Meanwhile, protests had been lodged about his play at the 17th. The rule was quite clear: golfers "must wait until the other party has played out the hole, and on no account play the balls up less they should annoy the parties who are putting." The penalty for infraction was disqualification.

It seems likely that, after their royal exertions, insufficient members of the organizing committee were present to make an on-the spot decision about the situation. Whatever, after much confusion it was decreed that Martin and Strath should play off the following Monday, but with the committee meeting after the playoff to rule on the latter's misdemeanor.

When so informed, Strath, supported by many sympathizers, at first refused to play until a decision had been reached, then offered to give up his chance of winning the trophy and the £10 first prize and merely play for the honor. Come Monday morning, when that offer was not accepted, Strath again refused to play and stood by the first tee, nursing intense anger and resentment as he watched Martin set off to walk the course and thereby claim the title. Three years later, still a young man, Davie Strath died of "consumption" (tuberculosis).

More Confusion
There was to be more confusion 12 years later, in 1888, when St. Andrews hosted its sixth Open. At the end of 36 holes, a large crowd thronged around the final green awaiting the announcement of a playoff after Jack Burns, Ben Sayers and Davie Anderson all finished with totals of 172. At that point, a sharp-eyed member of the R and A brought the championship to a swift conclusion.

The man spotted an error in Burns' scorecard for the opening round, where 47 had been entered as his first-nine total instead of the correct addition of 46. Accordingly, by a stroke and an immense stroke of luck, Burns was declared the winner.

No mathematical shenanigans were necessary to identify the champion in 1895. It was the same golfer who'd claimed the trophy a year earlier when, for the first time, the Open was played outside Scotland. Significantly, he was also the first English winner in what had been a Scots-dominated event.

J.H. Taylor, as he was always known, in preference to the less formal use of John Henry, had won the 1894 Open atRoyal St. George's on the southeast coast of England. It was to be the start of a remarkable personal record and a period of incredible domination of the game by what soon became known as the Great Triumvirate. Scot James Braid and Channel Islander Harry Vardon were, of course, its other two members, as, between them, the trio won the Open 16 times in the space of 21 years.

By 1895, the championship had been extended from 36 to 72 holes. Taylor's four-shot victory at St. Andrews was achieved with an outstanding final round of 78, hammered out in the teeth of an easterly gale and driving rain. Third-round leader Sandy Herd could do no better than an 85, and only two other contenders managed scores of 82. Taylor's short, stocky build and flat-footed swing served him well in the adverse conditions, allowing him to maintain the steady driving and accurate approach play for which he was renowned.

Taylor came within a whisker of making it three in a row at Muirfield the following year, but tied with Vardon and lost the 36-hole playoff. Back in St. Andrews in 1900, Taylor put together four rounds in the 70s, the first time this had been achieved in an Open at the home of golf. Vardon by then had won three titles, but trailed his much smaller compatriot by eight shots this time. Braid, as yet winless in the Open, was another five shots back in third place. But his time in the sun was about to be firmly established.

The burly Scot, born just a few miles south of St. Andrews at Earlsferry, was a powerful hitter who finally overcame his weakness on the greens by using an aluminum-headed putter from long distance, but employing his more traditional putting cleek for close work. Braid won his first Open in 1901 at Muirfield, by three shots from Vardon and four over Taylor.

On more familiar ground at St. Andrews in 1905, Braid had amassed a handsome lead with only four holes to play when he had a close encounter with the railway line that ran through the heart of the links into the town. Strange as it seems today, the line was not then out-of-bounds, meaning players could either take a two-shot penalty and drop the ball clear or play it as it lay.

After a wayward tee shot at number 15, Braid followed his ball over the fence, checked that no trains were approaching, and attempted a recovery. Unfortunately, the ball struck a spectator and ricocheted against a bush, costing him a six. Knowing he still had shots to spare, he unleashed a booming drive down the next hole, clearing the threatening depths of the Principal's Nose bunker, but finding trouble in the sand trap named after Deacon Syme.

In his own words, Braid recalled: "I was lying rather well, with the result that I became too venturesome and attempted to put the ball on the green instead of settling for a five." The result was another visit to the railway, and an even grimmer situation than before, Braid finding his ball "in a horrible place, tucked up against one of the iron chairs in which the rails rest." He tried to hook it out with his niblick, but the ball moved only a few yards and finished in a similar position against the rail. His fourth shot finally got the ball free, but it skittered through the back of the green 30 yards past the hole.

Without the sophisticated scoring systems that enable modern contenders to know the exact state of play, Braid was aware only that his lead was slipping rapidly away, making the next shot critical. In order to get near the pin, he had to land the ball close to the sloping edge of a bunker and let it run out towards the hole. Misjudge the shot by the merest fraction and it would be a certain seven, a probable eight. The safe route was to the fat of the green into two-putt territory.

Braid's success at golf was achieved with a large measure of steady play, laced with the steely determination to make whatever bold moves became necessary at moments of crisis. This was such a moment, and, without hesitation, he pitched the ball in exactly the right spot and rolled it gently to within six inches of the hole. The title was safe in his huge hands.

Braid Dominates
James Braid had won twice more before the Open returned to St. Andrews in 1910. A summer thunderstorm flooded the course in a matter of minutes, causing the opening round to be wiped out. Braid was at number 13 when word came that play was suspended, but, in his cautious manner, decided to play on in case he had been misinformed. His 76 was a masterpiece in the conditions, and he repeated the score when the round was replayed the following day, going on to set a new record total of 299 that gave him a four-shot victory margin and his fifth Open title in 10 years. Braid was the first of the Great Triumvirate to rack up five wins. Taylor matched that total, but Vardon, never a winner at St. Andrews, surpassed them both, claiming his still-record sixth Open in 1914, some 18 years after his first success.

Jones' Unhappy Debut
Failing eyesight shortened James Braid's career, an affliction that had also prevented J.H. Taylor from enlisting in the military. In an uncanny modern parallel, Tiger Woods is among a number of leading players to admit to poor eyesight and undergo corrective laser surgery.

And it was the Tiger Woods of his era - the legendary Bob Jones - who made his first and not very distinguished appearance at St. Andrews when the First World War finally ended and the championship came back to the home of golf in 1921. As a much-heralded 19-year-old amateur, Jones was in the top 10, only four shots behind leader Jock Hutchison, after the first two rounds. But Jones struggled to an outward 46 in the heavy crosswinds of the third day, dropped two shots at the 10th hole, then took four to exit the devilish Hill bunker to the left of the 11th green, whereupon he tore up his card.

In the first two rounds Jones had been paired with eventual champion Jock Hutchison, a native St. Andrean who had become an American citizen. Jones holed in one at the short eighth hole and hit his tee shot at the par-4 ninth a distance he estimated at 303 yards. The ball hit the hole and spun out, but the back-to-back eagles gave him an outward half of 33 and led to a first round low of 72.

With Jones out of the picture, Hutchison's greatest challenge came from another young amateur, Oxford University student Roger Wethered, a member of the R and A. In the third round, Wethered picked up seven shots to lead the seasoned professional by one, followed up with a final-round 71, then watched as Hutchison made an immaculate par at 18 for a 70 and a tie at 296.

Wethered had been given special dispensation to play early on the last day so that he could catch an evening train and play in a cricket match in England the following day. He took immense persuading before agreeing to abandon this commitment and remain in St. Andrews for the 36-hole playoff. But either the magic had deserted him or his heart wasn't in it, and he trailed Hutchison by nine shots at the end.

Hutchison's short game had been remarkable throughout the championship, dragging the ball back from beyond the pins on the rock-hard greens with tremendous backspin, courtesy of a club with a heavily-ribbed face. J.H. Taylor dismissed it as "buying the shot out of the shop," and, in fact, the R and A's Rules of Golf Committee had met some time earlier and decided that such clubs should not be allowed, selecting July for the ban to come into effect. Hutchison claimed his Open trophy on June 25.

Jones' Redemption
Bob Jones redeemed himself at the Old Course with his Open victory in 1927, setting a new championship record of 285 with rounds of 68-72-73-72.

His most momentous achievement, however, came in the Amateur Championship at St. Andrews in 1930, the year in which he set out to win the Open and Amateur championships of both Britain and America. The series of 18-hole matches over the Old Course was a daunting prospect, but he romped home in the first round with six birdies and an eagle; dispatched Britain's top amateur, defending champion Cyril Tolley, with a stymie at the 19th hole after a titanic struggle in gale-force winds; then came back from two down with five holes to play against fellow-American George Voigt. In the 36-hole final, he made short work of Roger Wethered, who'd so nearly won the Open as a student nine years earlier, defeating the aristocratic Brit by seven and six.

Jones, of course, completed his Grand Slam on his return to America - still regarded by many as golf's all-time greatest achievement - then retired from competitive golf, confessing to close friends that nothing in the world was worth the agony he endured in competing at the highest levels of the game. In 1958, while captaining the U.S. side in the first World Amateur Team Championship at the Old Course, he was awarded the freedom of the city of St. Andrews, then, after his death in 1971, a thanksgiving and commemorative service was held in his honor. Fittingly, Roger Wethered gave the main address to "a golfer matchless in skill and chivalrous in spirit."

Fellow-American Leo Diegel had much in common with Bob Jones, being a shot-maker of the highest caliber but suffering badly from nerves. Unlike Jones, however, he was unable to harness this nervous energy and, although twice winner of the PGA Championship, he threw away a dozen chances to win major events - not least the 1933 Open at St. Andrews. With most of the top contenders slipping in the final round, the lead was shared by American Ryder Cup players Craig Wood and Densmore Shute at 292. Diegel putted dead at the last and had no more than a simple tap-in to join them in a playoff, but missed the ball completely. Shute won the next day by five strokes over 36 holes, while Wood had the doubtful consolation of hitting a shot that is talked about to this day. Downwind on the baked fairway of the par-5 fifth hole, he drove into a bunker located 440 yards from the tee.

The Slammer Prevails
Another American who impressed the locals with his powerful game, if not with his diplomacy and personal charm, was Slammin' Sam Snead. In the aftermath of the Second World War, food and apparel rationing was still in force in Britain and, among many other commodities, there was also a shortage of golf balls. Arriving after a delayed flight, Snead took a look at the course from the train window and reckoned it was "an old, abandoned kinda place." He figured the double greens were absurd, but had enough game to drive three of the par-4 holes - the ninth, 10th and 12th.

In heavy wind on the final afternoon, he proved his great all-round ability by keeping a score together as the rest of the contenders blew away. His eventual margin of victory was four shots.

The presentation of the trophy was delayed when Snead failed to appear and had to be tracked down at his hotel. He later remarked that at St. Andrews he had won "just another tournament" and that any time he left the United States he was "camping out." Where Bob Jones had won deep respect and affection bordering on love for his personal qualities, Snead was recognized solely for his golfing ability.

The Locke and Thomson Years
The post war years were to herald supreme golfers from the crumbling outposts of Britain's once mighty empire. With the exceptions of Max Faulkner's win for England in 1951 and Ben Hogan's supreme display at Carnoustie in 1953, the 10-year period from 1949 was dominated by the ever-more-portly Bobby Locke from South Africa and the consistently trim figure of Australia's Peter Thomson. Both men had won the championship three times when their paths crossed in dramatic fashion at St. Andrews in 1957.

Scotland's fiery trail-blazer, Eric Brown, led the opening onslaught on the Old Course with a 67, putting him two ahead of Locke and five clear of Thomson. With 18 holes to go, however, Locke had established a three-stroke lead over both men, and his measured if unspectacular progress maintained that margin to the 18th green. There, his second shot finished a few feet left of the pin, whereupon he was asked to move his ball marker one putter-head length clear of playing partner Bruce Crampton's line.

What no one noticed, until viewing subsequent replays of the action, was that Locke had not replaced his marker in its original position, and had therefore holed out from the wrong place. The scorecard having been signed and attested, the potential penalty was disqualification. Mercifully, the R and A's Championship Committee made the common-sense decision that Locke, having gained no advantage by his error and with a three-stroke lead over Thomson, should not be penalized.

It was later reported that Locke was so moved by the decision that he vowed never again to wear the knickers (plus-fours) for which he had become famed. Appearing in trousers was his daily act of thanks for his fourth and final Open victory.

The tall, rake-thin Locke of his amateur days was by then a professional of considerable stature, both in terms of international achievement and physical circumference, whose demeanor somehow brought a majestic quality to the mere act of walking a fairway or stalking a putt. He was an outrageously outgoing character with a taste for beer who liked nothing better than visiting local pubs in the evening, where on countless occasions he would lead caddies and other locals in heartfelt if sometimes off-key renditions of popular ballads.

The defending champion that time was Peter Thomson, who had captured the title in each of the previous three years with a tremendous run of superlative golf. Had Locke been disqualified he would, of course, have won again. As it was, he prevailed the following year at Royal Lytham and St. Annes, and so might have achieved an unprecedented five in a row. Looking out over the Old Course many years later he said, "I don't know what I would have done if they had disqualified Bobby. I would certainly not have wanted to win the championship that way."

Peter Thomson's urbane personality and wide-ranging interests outside the game set him apart from many of his contemporaries. There were veiled criticisms that his Open successes had been achieved in the lean post-war years, when opposition was weakened by the absence of American stars. Thomson's answer was succinct and emphatic. Seven years after his fourth victory he won the Open again, this time over Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Tony Lema and the majority of the game's top players from around the world. That fifth title in 1965 put him in an elite bracket with James Braid and J.H. Taylor, bending the knee only to Harry Vardon's total of six victories. Only Tom Watson has since managed to join the five-Opens club.

Palmer Resuscitates U.S. Interest
The revival of American interest in the world's oldest championship was led by Arnold Palmer when he challenged for the centenary Open at St. Andrews in 1960. Earlier that year, Palmer had won his second Masters title and what would prove to be his only U.S. Open crown. He came to Scotland with the firm conviction that winning a British Open was essential to his quest of becoming recognized as a truly great golfer. Where better to do it than St. Andrews? And what better timing than exactly a century since the event began?

At the halfway mark, what the media had foreseen as being not much more than a stroll for the rampaging American hero was put to the test by two record-breaking 67s from Roberto De Vicenzo of Argentina, giving him the lead over a hitherto little-known Australian, Kel Nagle, by two and over Palmer by no less than seven. After three rounds, the heavens opened and St. Andrews received two months' worth of rain in less than an hour, turning the steps beside the R and A clubhouse into a waterfall and flooding the Valley of Sin fronting the home green to a depth of three feet. In the pre-downpour action, Palmer had lopped five shots off the De Vicenzo lead, but still trailed Nagle by four

Expectations were high on the final day. Palmer had overcome a seven-shot deficit to win the U.S. Open just a few weeks earlier, and he started with birdies at the opening two holes. But Nagle was made of stern stuff, and both players reached the turn in 34. A Palmer birdie and Nagle bogey on the back nine brought Palmer to the 17th tee two shots in arrears. After a good drive, he consulted local caddie Tip Anderson, who was carrying the great man's bag for the first time, but was destined to become his permanent partner and friend in Britain.

"Six-iron, sir," said Anderson. "Give me the five," responded Palmer. The caddie pressed his case that the longer iron would certainly put Palmer on the road at the back of the green. Palmer, who'd three-putted the hole in every round, replied: "I'll get more satisfaction getting a five off the road than I have from three-putting the darn thing."

The ball finished on the road as Anderson had predicted, but Palmer putted back up the slope to make his par, hit a drive and a wedge to 15 feet at the 18th, and sank the putt for a 68. Picking the ball out of the hole, he turned to Anderson and calmly remarked, "One too many, Tip."

He was right. Nagle had heard the cheer greeting Palmer's final birdie just as he lined up a vital 10-foot par putt at 17. To his credit, the ball hovered on the lip and dropped. A fine approach at 18 left him with two putts from short range for the centenary title, and he made no mistake. Palmer's St. Andrews hopes were dashed. But he was to achieve his ambition in the two following years with Open victories at Birkdale and Troon, at the latter leaving the field for dead in highly testing conditions, beating Nagle by six and the next man, Brian Huggett, by 13 shots.

A Marriage Made in Heaven
When Arnold Palmer decided not to play the 1964 Open at St. Andrews, he told fellow American Tony Lema to get in touch with Tip Anderson and take advantage of his local knowledge. It turned out to be a marriage made in heaven. Lema, who'd never played links golf before, had less than two full practice rounds, but drove the ball exactly where Anderson indicated on almost every hole. Also, and even more telling, he quickly learned to play the pitch-and-run shot demanded by links courses in general and the Old in particular.

With a superb 73 in the gale-force winds of the first day, Lema was up with the leaders, following which he produced a display of truly immaculate golf with a pair of 68s. Although Jack Nicklaus had caught the worst of the weather and was putting poorly, he stormed through the field with a third round of 66. Lema had started his round shakily, with two dropped shots in the opening six holes. And when, an hour or so later, he looked across the large expanse of the double sixth and 12th green to where Nicklaus was putting out, he saw that seven shots of his seemingly impregnable nine-shot lead had vanished.

A man of lesser spirit might have folded, but Lema played the next 12 holes in six under par to restore a seven-shot lead, and then, later that day, eased to a comfortable 70, beating Nicklaus into second place by five strokes.

Unfortunately, Tony Lema's light shone brightly but all too briefly, a plane crash two years later robbing the golfing world of one of its most elegant swingers and charismatic champions.

Jack Makes Amends
The measure of disappointment felt by Jack Nicklaus in his defeat by Lema only became evident six years later when he cleared his diary of other distractions and arrived extra early for the return of the championship to the Old Course.

Britain's defending champion, Tony Jacklin, looked as if he might romp away from the field when he holed a nine-iron to the ninth green on the first day to be out in 29. But, as he played 14, torrential rain flooded the greens and play was suspended. In the next morning's early cold, Jacklin could not complete what might have been a staggeringly low round in less than 67.

Into the final day, most of the anticipated contenders had floated to the top, with Lee Trevino leading by two from Nicklaus, Jacklin and Doug Sanders. Trevino, however, lost his touch as he began the final holes and was quickly followed by Jacklin, leaving a two-horse race between Nicklaus and the colorful Sanders.

After completing four rounds in 283, Nicklaus stood at the back of the 18th green and watched the distant figure of Sanders get up and down from the Road Hole bunker for a gutsy par, meaning he needed only a par at the wide open 18th for victory. A good drive and pitch beyond the pin were followed by a putt that stayed two-and-a-half feet above the hole. After his next attempt the ball was still visible, and in the 18-hole playoff the next day Sanders lost by a stroke to a Nicklaus so jubilant to have won at the home of golf that he tossed his putter high in the air in a most uncharacteristic release of nervous energy.

Doug Sanders was fated never to win a major, but Nicklaus continued his pace-setting career with a second bite of the St. Andrews cherry - a two-shot victory when the old claret jug was next presented at the home of golf in 1978.

Tom Watson carried that same trophy with him when he made one of the most significant journeys of his life - to the 1984 championship over the Old Course. By then he'd won the Open four more times since his playoff success at Carnoustie nine years previously, meaning that he needed one more victory to match the record set by Harry Vardon in 1914. On day four, standing on the 17th tee, he led jointly with Seve Ballesteros, who was playing immediately ahead of him. The Spaniard parred the hole for the first time that week, but Watson's long-iron approach finished close to the wall that crosses behind the green, from where he could only scramble to a bogey five. When Seve then birdied the final hole as Tom was tapping in, the chance of equaling Vardon's long-standing record went on hold for another year.

If the 1984 Open was a swashbuckling affair right down to the last putts, the 1990 championship quickly became a demonstration of almost flawlessly controlled golf by Nick Faldo that left no room for a sustained challenge. On a course with 112 bunkers, more than half hidden from view, he was only once in sand, to the left of the fourth green in the final round.

Faldo refused to let the dreaded 17th hole upset his game plan by clubbing himself to reach only the front of the green in every round. Tied for the lead with Greg Norman after two rounds with a record-equalling 132, the highly anticipated encounter between the two fizzled as Faldo continued his immaculate play with a 67 that left Norman trailing by nine shots. With 20 birdies and two eagles over his four rounds, Faldo final round was a calm stroll to a five-shot victory.

Finally, we come to 1995 and the second Open to go into short-course overtime, as the mercurial career of slugger John Daly reached an all too infrequent high, pitching him into an immediate playoff against a solid Italian citizen from Bergamo by the name of Costantino Rocca.

Rocca, a happy-go-lucky individual with a streak of steel, came to the final hole needing a birdie to tie the huge-hitting American. After a tee shot just short and left of the green, he elected to fly the ball at the flag with a sand-wedge, but chunked the shot completely, the ball trickling weakly into the Valley of Sin. The engraver was just starting to shape the letter J on the old claret jug trophy when Rocca rapped his enormous putt up the steep slope at the front of the green, up and across the vast putting surface, and bang into the hole.

The playoff was a triumph for an unmatchable combination of power and finesse. Rocca three-putted the first hole, Daly birdied the second. On the 17th tee, Daly unleashed a monster drive, following it with a classy 9-iron punch-and-run that took the slope at the front of the green and curled beautifully towards the hole. The sad-faced Rocca attempted three excavating heaves in the lethal Road Hole pot bunker before the lights went out.

It was a strange ending to the final St. Andrews Open of the 20th century. But, then, strange things have been happening on the Old Course for some 600 years.

Don't expect them to change in the new millennium.