A pre-Masters Saturday night arrival in Augusta, Georgia, is a bit like interrupting a private weekend celebration. The Interstate 20 from Atlanta will dump you off directly in the shimmering twilight of the luminous Washington Road and its young weekend revellers lubricating themselves for a long night. Unless you follow the tournament signposts for "Golf".

The tournament organisers would like you to receive the very best impression on arrival at the manicured Mecca of golf. You are redirected through the leafy Augusta suburbs rather than by the gaudy Washington Road.

If the weather was more spring-like I could have imagined the residents of these roomy abodes sipping iced tea on their verandas as the sun set. As the temperature gauge showed no upward movement they were probably inside, sipping hot tea by the fireside.

There were some sparse hints of spring breaking as we eased down Berckman Rd, with soft blossoms interrupting the faded winter greenery. The tell-tale signs of a major championship were becoming more frequent. Gas golf carts strategically parked outside restaurants to catch the wandering eye. Flags extended from private homes with the "19th Hole" fluttering on them, and signs offering parking for hire adorned garage doors. A right turn onto the dreaded Washington Road, and my sister, on her first visit to Augusta, was wondering when it was all going to happen. If it was soon, she mused, this four-lane road which boasted an impossible concentration of fast food and regular restaurant chains was the furthest thing from her expectations. Her eyes in the rear-view mirror betrayed her. So where does the mother of all golf courses, the most revered, the most asked about, the most difficult to get a ticket to, the site of the most famous golf tournament in history, fit into this cheesy-looking set up? I pulled up right outside Magnolia Drive; there was a break in the traffic, we could linger. "There it is," I exclaimed in a hopeful and nervous tone. Hopeful that it might stir some enthusiasm in her, nervous that her journey across the Atlantic might have been a costly and uninspiring one for her.

The Magnoliaed avenue "looked short" she said. It's about 300 yards long. "You can't see the clubhouse," she continued. It was nearly dark. It could be a long week I thought, as an impatient driver honked his horn at me to move on.

We checked into an overpriced and under-decorated no-star motel with mock prints on the wall of what was supposed to be Augusta National. It was more likely Macon municipal. A scalper (or tout) was looking settled in his deck-chair in the hotel car park beside his cardboard sign for tickets or badges. A badge, a permit to watch the four days of tournament play, can fetch up to $10,000, so the deckchair did not seem all that uncomfortable, given the possible rewards of the patient wait.

Sunday morning started for me in Denny's and the combination of the clock going forward and the start of the busiest week of the year looked like it was taking its toll already on the sleepy waitresses. Their supervisor was growling at them about being prepared for the onslaught of golf enthusiasts. The contrast was marked when I arrived at Augusta National amid a sense of order and control. My name was on the list that the security guard, on the only open gate to the course. On I went to the credential office where my caddie pass awaited with last year's photo on it. The assistants handed over the pass as quickly as if it was a daily routine. The Sunday before the Masters is not an official practice day. The professionals are allowed to play but so are the members. The members are also allowed invite a guest. So the traditional day for a detailed look at the course without an audience has become a busy members day.

It is possibly the only time that you will see pros playing with amateurs as a voluntary, unpaid venture.

Having made an inauspicious start last year my player, Paul Lawrie, decided to give himself an extra day of intense course inspection. It's a good opportunity to view the course without a crowd and although the greens are running slower than they will next Sunday it's a worthwhile preparation.

Sunday was windy, in caddie terms it was a two-and-a-halfclub wind. The greens were covered in debris which the ever-attentive course superintendents tried to blow away as often as possible. One of the old Georgia Pines beside the 10th green gave in to one of the stronger gusts of the day. It came tumbling down on top of a very sturdy-looking permanent scoreboard beside the green. The board was demolished, but I am sure the authorities have a contingency plan for a replacement by Thursday. There has traditionally been a board by the 10th green and the tradition will continue.

Even my sister might be impressed by the sight of a replacement by the start of the event. If they plant a substitute tree she may well be astounded.