CADDIE'S ROLE:THE GREAT landmark in the annual golfing schedule is almost upon us; the Masters Tournament in Augusta, Georgia, will be decided on the not insignificant date of Easter Sunday.

Augusta, Georgia, to those who are not familiar with the southern parts of the United States is like most surrounding towns south of it; bedecked with churches. It is a deeply religious part of America and it wouldn’t surprise me if the green jacketed gentlemen who run this iconic event would aspire to have their prestigious event as the high altar of golf.

Arguably I suppose it is and this comes largely from the fact there is a permanency at Augusta that has not been established at any other event. No other event of such prominence returns to the same venue year in year out. This sense of returning to an institution is what makes the Masters so special.

My first visit was in 1993 when I was bursting with suspense before my arrival. This expectation is heightened by the fact if you tell people where you are going their eyes widen and a sense of adventure vicariously spreads across their face and the inquisition begins in search of what it is really like to be there.

When I arrived at the top of Magnolia Lane in the 1990s I had to present my passport to the security guard in order to gain access through a water-tight looking perimeter fence around the property. My name had been written beside my player of the time – Anders Forsbrand – which meant I was “good to go”. I was to find the caddie shack at the bottom of the road running parallel to the famed lane.

I had caught a glimpse of the brilliant white-painted clubhouse through the magnolias before I diverted to the caddie shack. It was a Sunday morning, there was little to indicate the biggest event in golf starting the next week.

When I entered the forbidding caddie shack I instantly got the feeling I was somewhere special. But not the elitist special that the sight of the pristine clubhouse through the trees would suggest, this was what I imagined I would encounter if I took a wrong turn on the wrong side of the tracks.

I stepped down to the tatty caddie shack. The door squeaked open and the inmates of the shack turned to see who was entering. Another one of those tour caddies was the collective look that welcomed me.

Four local caddies dressed in the standard Augusta caddie overalls were playing cards in the corner, above them a sign alarmed me, it read; “No weapons allowed on the property, all guns and knives must be left outside”.

I decided to head for the toilet and some privacy to digest the scene I had just walked into. There was no door on the toilet. That was 15 years ago and just as the caddies’ lot has changed in general for the better over the decades the same applies to Augusta National.

There was always a serenity and an air of tranquillity about the place. Everyone moves at an even pace (the rules state clearly that running is not permitted on the grounds). From members to staff it was like they had been programmed to move at three miles an hour.

There was a southern politeness that seemed to infect even those players who would not be known for their warmth during an average week. “Gid mownen” was delivered at the same pedestrian speed that they walked at, deliberately.

The sense of permanence pervades both inside and beyond at Augusta. The same people present you with your credentials, just a little heavier and greyer than the previous year. Likewise in the renovated caddie shack which now has showers and lockers and doors on the toilet. Even the security guards are mostly the same as they were when I first came to Augusta, they even guard the same areas each year and you get to know them by name. We wait for our players, having donned the dehumanising boiler-suits, on the tranquil balcony outside the locker-room. No clubhouse access in Augusta and there probably never will be. The gardeners tend the hanging plants on the deck at seemingly the precise same time as they did the previous day.

The emerald green paint that adorns the areas that are not painted pristine white never overlap. Much like the grass verges are as carefully cropped as the nape of a soldiers neck. Everything is very much in order at the National, from the consistent texture of the painted walls to the even height of the surrounding grass verges.

No wonder then that a colleague who visited Augusta once as a caddie heavily armed with an over-dose of scepticism replied tersely on return to Europe when asked of his impressions of the sacred and secret golf club: “Chelsea flower show with a flag pole in it.”

Despite the elite sense of order prevailing inside the compound there is a similar sense of a different order beyond the fence, outside is truly America. Just as the green-jacketed gentlemen inside look like they have emerged from a wood and leather-bound chamber in the old cities of the east coast the patrons scurrying around the neon-lit Washington Road beyond look like they have emerged from a mall.

For the first time in almost a decade I will not be at the high altar of golf next Sunday. I will be observing from afar on my couch with the most amenable peculiarity of Augusta, the condensed television transmission, beaming out the unique green-jacketed sense of order.