Holidays are meant to be relaxing.

"On the tee ..."

I'm shaking with very real fear. How did this happen? It wasn't supposed to be like this. Did I want to visit the Costa del Golf, they asked. Play the courses, take a look around? Absolutely, definitely, count me in. You sure? O aye. Okay, right you are, that's sorted.

Then, in subject-to-terms-and-conditions-price -not-including-VAT-your-home-will- be-repossessed-if-you-do- not-keep-up-with-repayments tones, the blithe rider: you have to play in the Media Masters golf tournament.

"On the tee ... from Great Britain ..."

I couldn't back out. Better to lose face in foreign lands in front of people I'd never see again than bottle it in Guardian Unlimited Towers at the mere mention of friendly combat.

You see, I play golf, but I don't play golf. I'm a beginner, a rank amateur, a weekend hacker. I'm not even sure I qualify as a weekend hacker, in fact. I don't play enough for that. I was going to seriously embarrass myself.

"On the tee ... from Great Britain ... Scott Murray."

I hear my name spit out of the speaker and reality takes hold. As does panic. Jesus, this is actually happening. I have to hit this ball in front of those people. My legs become unsteady. My kneecaps feel as if they're spinning round like Catherine wheels. So many beads of sweat form on my forehead that I begin to resemble the dappled white thing I'm about to take a wild swipe at.

But there's no going back. Pull yourself together, man. Take a deep breath. Set your feet. Remember your mantras. Rhythm not power; languor not anger. Pull the club head back slowly and steadily and ...

SWISH CLACK TOK

... actually, the resulting shot isn't that bad. I may have sent the ball into the semi-rough on the right, but at least I didn't top it and watch in shame as it apologetically rolled three yards along the tee. Job done, I strut off down the fairway with a Rat Pack swagger.

And I'm up there with the leaders for the first three holes, playing some really nice stuff and scoring a mammoth eight points. [Note for non-golfers: we're using the Stableford scoring system, which means you're awarded one point for a bogey, two for par, three for a birdie, four for ... you're not reading this any more, are you?]

At the fourth, you have to drive over water. The moment I connect, I know I've hit the worst shot of my life. I don't get any elevation on the ball and it's heading towards the drink. But what happens next beggars belief: the trajectory of the ball is so flat that it bounces twice along the water like a Barnes Wallace bomb and smacks into a small dyke at the end of the hazard. Instead of dropping back into the water, the ball spins up and over the wall and into the centre of the fairway. I couldn't have placed it better with my hand. Literally buoyed, I cream a majestic four-iron onto the green and make par. Factor in my handicap and that's four points. Twelve after four holes: this is my day!

Er, no it ain't. Suddenly, a technical fault manifests itself in my swing. And in my head. I top the ball off the fifth tee, and stand gawping like a Neville brother as it hits a bin and sails back past me. You're supposed to propel the ball 200 yards down the fairway with your drive; after mine, I'm further away than where I started. Gah.

I am totally defeated. I got cocky, so golf slapped me down, put me back in my box, told me to behave. Chastised, and with a brand spanking new inferiority complex, I fall to bits. I'll barely score another point for the rest of the round, limping home with a risible total of 21.

But here's the rub (of the green): I couldn't care less. I'm enjoying every minute of my humiliation. Because this is about as good as it gets.

Like many of the 50 or so courses along the Costa del Sol, the Old Course at the Atalaya Golf & Country Club has been designed in the American style. Crudely speaking, this means beautiful, undulating, bright-green fairways of lush, tight turf; fast, glacier greens; golden bunkers full of dust-fine sand; shimmering pools of icy blue water; and sun. Hot sun. In January!

I'm used to playing tatty, wet parkland courses in London, so this place is like Augusta National. In fact, forget the Media Masters, I'm playing in The Masters. Well, that's what I'm secretly pretending as I go round, anyway.

It's only fair to point out that, although I'm making hard work of it, the Old Course isn't too difficult a test for the high handicapper. I'm just playing really badly. The fairways are wide and none of the greens are heavily guarded, so you don't have to be Ernie Els to register a half-decent score.

Two warnings, though. The rough is perhaps overly punitive (but I'm playing in January when it's a bit damp and thick; in the height of summer, that shouldn't be a problem). And it's difficult to gauge the speed of the greens. (Pro's tip: read the grain by looking at the direction of the blades of grass round the hole. If they're facing in at the point your ball will drop, it's sheet-of-glass fast; if they're not, clatter it.)

I don't get the chance to look at any other courses in the region, but the seasoned golf journos I'm playing with have, and tell me they're (a) much of a muchness in style, and (b) well worth a visit. Take your pick.

Back to the Atalaya complex. There are two hotels, the adjoining Atalaya Park Hotel, and the Don Miguel Golf & Sport Hotel. I'm staying in the latter, which is a 15-minute drive from the complex down the Malaga-Gibraltar motorway. (Interestingly, this highway is the most dangerous stretch of road in Europe, according to the golf journalist who kindly gives me a lift back to the hotel while operating a mobile phone and driving at 90km/h in third gear. If by any chance you're reading this, Paul, thanks again for that.)

The Don Miguel has seen better days. It's by no means a hole, but the 70s wood panelling and general brown-ness of the place brings Duty Free to mind. I'm half expecting to spot a trouserless Keith Barron chasing Johanna van Gyseghem down one of the dark corridors. But at least the baths in the rooms are big, essential for soaking those creaking bones after an 18-hole battering. (I shouldn't feel this old, but I do.)

There's also some strange entertainment to be found downstairs. Firstly there's the Moulin Rouge Club, an "evocative dinner show" that "rediscovers a legend of sensuality and sublime bohemia". Allow me to translate: topless girls dancing to Madonna songs.

Then there's the splendidly titled I Love The Golf Cafe. A fine bar, it takes about 20 minutes to order a drink thanks to a unique system that entails one barman pouring the booze while two others enter the details of your purchase into a large mainframe computer. Still, it gives me ample time to enjoy the performance of a fellow hack, who seems to be going through the sort of midlife crisis that would make David Seaman's ponytail shrivel up in shame. He enters wearing a bright blue Hawaiian shirt, pointing and smiling at all the women as he works the room. Within seconds, he is gyrating furiously to the strains of Achy Breaky Heart. Not wishing my life to completely turn into the nightclub episode of The Office, I drink up and go to bed.

But don't let Finchy put you off; a golfing trip to these parts is worth it. The golf is good - and cheap - and you don't have to rely on the hotel for your evening's entertainment. It's also convenient: wherever you base yourself along the Costa del Golf, you'll not be far from the airport at Malaga. Just don't ask any golf journalists to give you a lift back.

· Scott would like to thank Callaway for being kind/stupid enough to lend him some X-16 irons, a Big Bertha driver and an Odyssey putter for the duration of the tourney. And he promises he wasn't so appallingly bad that he devalued the brand in the eyes of anyone who saw him play.