As we meandered our way down the single-track road towards Wigan Golf Club, we left behind the hustle and bustle of urban life and began to ease our way into the rural mindset. The hedgerows full of cow parsley and hawthorn blossom assaulted our senses, while a mosaic of fields peppered across the foothills of the Pennines let us know our destination was close by.

Unannounced, we found ourselves driving across the course itself. Fairways on either side of the road brought memories of previous visits flooding back.

“I think that’s the sixth on the left.”

“I think that’s the eleventh on the right.” I’d hoped I’d remembered to bring extra golf balls, as I recalled what happened last time.

Leaving the course behind, we entered dense woodland, tall trees forming a canopy high above while thick undergrowth strewn with vivid rhododendron bushes hid the ground from the sun.

As we passed through the barrier in the stone wall, we caught our first sight of Arley Hall, an impressive stately country house complete with its own moat.

Having assembled our golf paraphernalia, we made our way to the clubhouse. Passing over the bridge above the moat, I half expected a troll to appear demanding a fee. Instead, I saw the welcoming sight of staff in pristine uniforms waiting to greet our party.

Expecting a warm northern greeting — “Ey up chuck, want a cuppa?”

I actually heard, “Welcome. Tea and coffee are available in the trophy room.” I was delighted and disappointed in equal measure.

As I settled back in the leather-bound armchair, sipping tea, my eyes wandered to the impossibly high ceilings and solid oak panels emblazoned with names of past golfing heroes. I wondered if I could ever have my own name on one of those panels.

Nah, you’re not even a member here. Don’t be ridiculous.

Mike, our leader for the day, in well-rehearsed manner gave the notices to the members. Teams, rules of the day, prizes to be won, honours to be conferred.

Soon — too soon — it was time to make our way to the first tee.

The troll didn’t appear as we crossed the bridge.

Consulting the scorecard, I noted the details: 190 yards to the green, par 3. Easy, I thought. Green in two, down in two, one over par for me, three points for the team.

Soon it was my turn. I sauntered onto the tee, exhibiting external confidence.

I looked more closely.

The tall sentry trees down the right-hand side were now dwarfed by a line of small white posts marking out of bounds. To the left, trees and bushes extended over half the distance to the green. Beyond the trees, the fairway fell away, sloping down a gradient that could divert my ball even further from the green.

The green, which initially looked large, had now shrunk to the size of a postage stamp, while the bunker on its left had assumed Saharan dimensions.

I felt a tinge of trepidation.

The flag was not white — it was a vivid red, shouting defiance.

“So, you think you can play golf, do you?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Let’s play”.

GAME ON !