Eighteen holes, drawn to scale.

Dew still on the fairway; the honour is decided by coin. The right half of the fairway gives the better line in, but the coin does not care.

A short hole across the old quarry face. Every yard of it is carry, and the chalk throws the light back at you at nine in the morning.

Three honest blows; the wind chooses the third. The green sits in a hollow the mowers call the soup plate.

Follows the old sheep road to a raised green. Anything left of the marker post finds ground that has never once been kind.

The stream crosses twice; the brave carry both. Laying up is respectable, and the members will tell you so at length.

Blind from the tee. Aim on the oak and trust — the fairway is wider than your doubt.

Gorse the whole left side. The card says four; the gorse has other opinions and keeps most of the evidence.

A wedge, in theory. The green is two paces wider than the thorn hedge behind it lets you believe.

Long uphill home; the Steward watches from the window. Stroke index one, and it earns it into any wind.

The highest ground on the course; four counties on a clear day. Take the view first — the drive needs your full attention.

Rabbit scrapes are a local rule. Play generous to the right and putt from anywhere inside the props.

Nothing moves here but your nerve. The pond has kept a century of second thoughts.

Down the lime avenue, straight as an invoice. The only hole where a straight ball is rewarded twice.

His cottage garden is out of bounds. He insists, and the committee has never once overruled him.

Uphill all the way. Take one more club, then take another — the green is a full storey above you.

The green sits in the old chapel yard. Par here feels like absolution.

The members walk it two abreast, by habit. A three-shotter that plays shorter downwind and much longer in conversation.

If your match is alive here, nothing else matters. The clubhouse windows fill with free advice; the beck waits right of the green.