Ian Wood: Crocked, and at the mercy of gulls

Listening the other morning to what passes as the Dawn Chorus these days, I wondered where things had gone wrong. Was it just my imagination or did we once get all sensitive about noise pollution and attempt to do things to sort it out?

Perhaps events have simply by-passed any measures taken at that time. Among other things, there are, for instance, the sea gulls, which have forsaken the coasts and winged their way into the towns. They're certainly with us in numbers and in good voice, with the result that the Dawn Chorus in this neck of the woods seems less inspired by the lark ascending and more by Jurassic Park.

On the morning in question, a particularly raucous gull led the choir with a catchy number which kicked off with a wild screech before segueing into a manic howl which sounded suspiciously like helpless laughter. As the racket receded, the theme was taken up by the first sirens and car alarms of the day and we were off on another ear-splitting round of fun and frolic.

At this point I decided I might as well get up, which I was reluctant to do as I have found myself at something of a loose end due to a mishap which beset me on the first tee recently and rendered golf impossible for the time being. It has never been easy, but right now it's a non-starter. As any keen observer of the scene - and there must be one somewhere - might be aware, a bout of gout, a staved wrist and a general crumbling of the frame, have made this a dismal summer as far as playing the game is concerned.

It was, therefore, all the more galling when the latest blow dealt out by the merciless Fates who call the shots in this grim sport cut me down just when things were beginning to improve. My feet, if not exactly twinkling, were at least moving more or less at my command and the wrist was no longer flying off the club at impact.

My mood at address on my first drive was buoyant. I had high hopes. However, what actually happened when I swung changed all that. As the clubhead made contact with the ball, a severe pain shot up my right leg causing me to double up and cease operations.

Fellow members who had gathered at the tee stopped talking for a couple of seconds and, as I hopped away from the scene, some of them didn't even laugh, which is an indication of how seriously they were taking the incident.

Once it had become fairly obvious that no-one was thinking about bringing me brandy, I decided to forge on and try to walk off the injury, whatever it was. This stoicism lasted until my next shot - the drive had limped off some 160 yards - which was a tentative attempt with a 6-iron which brought about another collapse and persuaded me that further play was inadvisable.I haven't hit a shot since.

It's a bad time to be away from the golf course, for the Festival is upon us and Edinburgh is awash with visitors fresh from haunts of coot and tern and seeking culture. It's scarcely possible to look in a shop window without being buffeted by a passing backpack. Things are testing enough normally, what with so many folk walking about listening to these pod things or yacking into mobile phones.

So absorbed are they in telling someone where they are, or in being kept fully informed of the whereabouts of whoever it is they're talking to, they're liable to trample you underfoot and go babbling on their way without a backward glance. Now, however, all this has to be contended with, plus an influx of people who have no idea where they are or where they're going and half-crazed by arts and crafts.

However, lest it be thought that golfers are complete Philistines, it should perhaps be noted that the great Sam Snead, three times a winner of the US PGA championship, last heard of being decided with some difficulty at Whistling Straits in Wisconsin, was inclined to resort to music to help him with his swing, which was one of the most beautiful the game has ever seen.

Indeed, Sam had a colourful way of explaining how golfers should feel when attempting to hit a ball and offered a wide range of images.

For example, at the top of the backswing, the right arm (for a right-handed golfer), should be positioned as would that of a waiter - albeit, a pretty stylish one - when delivering a tray of drinks to a table.

Then, in order to keep the weight balanced and centred throughout the swing, golfers were advised to imagine they were standing in a barrel. According to Snead, they should try to feel oily. I have to admit I've played with many well-oiled golfers in my time and been impressed by few.

Sam's musical note was that to help achieve good rhythm, a passage of the Blue Danube should be hummed, so that from the point of take-away to impact, the swing should go: ta-rah-rah-rah - Boff! Enough to bring a tear to the eye.