Getting to St Andrews is a royal (and ancient) pain in the neck. Leave the big road at Stirling and 50 miles of single lane Presbyterian hell stretches out ahead. Drive along this interminable ribbon of villages on a Sunday morning and you can hardly progress for purse-lipped little old ladies in their best clobber making their way to church. Jesus Christ, indeed.

After living this Ian Paisley wet dream for nearly two hours, I needed St Andrews to deliver. There was no need to worry. The town saves the best for first: the famous Old Course at St Andrews Links. A flat, barren area; the home of golf; the eighth wonder of the world. Then the town itself, top-heavy with shops selling gauche trousers and bonnie sweaters. Nirvana.

How disappointing, then, to find myself suddenly shooting out of the other end of the town. You see, I'm staying at the St Andrews Bay golf resort. It's a mile or two past the centre. It's... it's... well, it's not really St Andrews, is it? Not technically. And as I turn into the complex and make my way down its long drive, I can't hide my hurt.

But as I close in and get my first proper look of the place, everything is brought into sharp focus. First, I am an idiot. Because second, St Andrews Bay was worth every single stressful second it took to get there.

The resort - a five-star hotel and two links-style courses - sits on a cliff overlooking the town. It's one hell of view. Rugged cliffs, with the North sea crashing over them, eventually segue into the historic St Andrews skyline - and beyond that, the famous courses of the R&A. Staring into the distance, it's an almost perfect moment, spoilt only slightly by a nagging worry that all the balls I'll later hit will skitter buffoonishly into the watery tumult below.

But first the hotel. The rooms are spacious and comfortable - and they've got satellite TV, which is just as well as it's the final day of the Ryder Cup. A bottle of wine is drained with reckless abandon after Paul Azinger amazingly chips in from a bunker to save the US temporarily from defeat. There's some wild shouting as it looks like Europe will be cruelly denied; but Paul McGinley soon wraps it up and all's well. Tears are shed.

To the restaurant, or restaurants, in celebration. There are two: the cosy Kittocks Den or the grander Squire dining room. Kittocks Den provides elaborate sandwiches and bar meals, but now's the time to push the boat out. And the Squire doesn't disappoint - a rack of lamb causes particular entertainment - although if you're vegetarian the options are a touch bland.

The next morning, and it's the Chateau Elan Spa, which offers "a collection of inspired treatments that nourish body and soul". But not for me. Leaving my girlfriend to treat her soul, I head for the course to destroy mine.

Iain, my playing partner for the day, is a man of extreme patience and mental fortitude, for he watches me shank balls around the Devlin Course with nothing but words of encouragement. The course, which runs spectacularly along the coastline, is good for high handicappers like me; it's testing, but not too punitive. The signature hole is the long par-four 17th, a picturesque one that doglegs right and down towards the platform of a cliff-side green (which, for the record, I would have reached in two if it weren't for a vicious kick into that bloody pot bunker).

The Devlin is a recent addition to the resort, complementing the Torrance Course - which, yes, was designed by Sam Torrance. I didn't get to play the European Ryder Cup captain's creation, but Iain tells me it has more of the characteristics of a traditional Scottish links. (In places, the Devlin, all integral cart path and water hazards, feels almost American.) But whichever course you book to play, you're able to cancel your tee time at short notice without penalty should you win the draw to play the famous Old Course.

A swift half in the clubhouse after a thoroughly enjoyable round. My Mike-Baldwin-and-Alma lifestyle continues apace as I meet up with my girlfriend, who's levitating gently after her spa relaxant. We hear that the victorious Torrance is due to arrive at the resort later that day with trophy in tow. Sadly, we have to leave, so we'll miss the hero of the hour. It doesn't seem to matter.

On the way back through St Andrews, I suddenly realise that I didn't even think to come into the town during my stay. So I'll have to return sometime to do the place properly. Only when that happens, as the man those little ladies worship is my witness, I'll be driving in via Dundee.

Ways to go

Scott Murray stayed at St Andrews Bay Golf Resort and Spa, St Andrews, KY16 8PN. Tel 01334 837000; fax 01334 471115; email info@standrewsbay.com.