I made the error of allowing myself to be persuaded to enter the Easter tournament at L ake Albert . None of my regular golfing friends were taking part but my next door neighbour worked on me . He was a good golfer , an A grade player , and I was a mere C grader , and not a very good one at that . I think I was on what was a handicap of possibly twenty seven strokes . I am not sure of that , but I was at the full limit allowed .

Lake Albert course was a pleasantly green one ; after all it was next to a lake . I have heard lately that the lake is now very low and though probably pleasant enough still to look at , not at all pleasant to smell . At that time however it was full , the course was green and the playing conditions were good .

Until Easter , that is .

A sudden series of downpours , continuing over several days , soaked the fairways to such an extent that players were requested to tee up their shots instead of playing them as they lay. This is not all that bad a thing if you are a tyro willing to play in the concomitant rain , and it mostly saves having to replace divots .

The rain that Easter , however , was to say the least , excessive , and so the tournament was cancelled. This did not please my neighbour , who would have played through Noah's Flood and without an ark had not the reviled grounds committee banned play.

Perhaps his temper was frayed by having to remain within the purlieus of his home -- as a non-sympathetic , non-golfing wife , two quarreling little daughters and a couple of smelly , damp , long haired Dachshunds did not add cheer to his outlook on life . He came knocking at my door .

Look , he said . Why don't you come with me out to Henty ?

Why Henty ? I asked him . I knew the town slightly having supervised College students there when they were at teaching practice . Small town , and hardly impressive .

He then proceeded to elaborate on its one advantage , for him at least .

Sand greens , he cried joyfully.

I had never played on a course that had other than the usual turf greens , so this was a novelty to me. He pointed out that they would be drained and playable , unlike the grassed greens at Wagga . And he reassured me that the weather would be dry enough to play , of that he was confident .

I was persuaded , especially as he was happy to be chauffeur for the day .

We got there early in the afternoon, and then came my first shock. There was a Saturday tournament underway , and we had to join in. Fair enough , but the club had only two grades , A and B , so I was elevated from my Wagga C grade status . However , I was happy enough about that , and was partnered with a rustic gent of great age , good solid farmer stock of the area.

The interesting thing about him was that he had , because of his age , a special dispensation in the size of his handicap , which I think was about thirty three strokes . We were to be the first pair off the first tee , so we began our game .

Henty , unlike the Wagga layout , was quite flat . It had none of Wagga's gullies trees and creeks that added so much to the hacker's frustrations there . The greatest hazard that one was likely to encounter was to land in a cowpat .

We got to the first sand green , and I was delighted to learn that once on the area , one was allowed a smoother , a sort of flat iron rake with which one could smooth a path between your ball and the hole . Not that it helped my accuracy , but it was an interesting implement to use I thought . The first hole completed , we set out for the second one , and totally against my neighbour's prediction , down came a very heavy shower .

I questioned my ancient partner as to whether we should proceed , as I was concerned that he might go all rheumatic on me and I'd have to cart him in to the clubhouse , but he laconically informed me that as we were already soaked , we might as well continue .

Drenched , soaked , call it what you will , I have never been so completely wet while wearing clothes . I had not long before bought an Italian cashmere sweater and as the water soaked into the arms , they stretched , and before every shot I had to pull them up to the elbows . Whenever after that I wore it , I used to wish my arms were four inches longer .

We did finish the round , sometimes making putts through inch deep water , that not even the smoother helped with , and continually wiping grips and eyes free of the cascading waters. Sheer , blind obduracy kept us both going , and we were able at last to put our distinctly soggy cards in to the committee.

Luckily I had had the foresight to fit a dry set of clothes into my bag , so I changed and settled down for the rest of the afternoon and evening to a pleasant session of drinking and chat . The drink , appropriate for the weather , was rum.

A couple or three hours later -- who would know ? -- I was surprised to hear my name called from the rostrum in the club room.

Apparently the aged rustic and I were the only ones to complete the round , and I had beaten him by a couple of strokes .

For that I was presented with the B grade trophy of a set of embossed teaspoons , the only sporting trophy I have ever won.

Who cares if I ruined a good sweater ! the glory of it was enough !