ST. ANDREWS, Scotland -- Golf is a waste of time.

Yes, yes, I've just committed blasphemy against Tiger and Rocco and this seaside patch of grass that is very birthplace of that sacred sport. But before you grab your nine iron and beat me senseless, let me quickly point out that we are legion, we golf heathens. And despite what our links-loving spouses may tell us -- oh, don't bother, you'd be bored -- we are indeed welcome in the navel of these most hallowed links, Scotland.

On this five-day trip, I'll visit four of Scotland's most famous courses: Turnberry, Royal Troon, Gleneagles and the Old Course here at St. Andrews. I will neither par nor bogey -- but I will eagle, sort of, when I fly my hunting hawk. I'll take tea, indulge in a massage, visit Eisenhower's apartments at Culzean Castle and wander along the sea in the shadow of St. Andrews' Cathedral. I'll hoist a pint -- OK, two -- and, I confess, I will even lift a club, if only for the briefest moment.

WEST COAST

Turnberry and Troon

hug the rugged shore

Jet-lagged, I've narrowly missed a Land Rover and a pair of pheasants as I've careened over the roads in the Scottish hills in search of the tiny town of Turnberry. For a place that's hosted the British Open and lent its name to South Florida's own Fairmont Turnberry Isle Resort, it is remarkably hard to find.

And then, suddenly, the road opens to Scotland's West Coast and the strange hump of seabound rock called Ailsa Craig, and I'm here.

The stately white Westin Turnberry Resort appears on a rise, commanding sweeping views of lawn and a lighthouse and the North Channel splitting Scotland and Ireland. It's the kind of place where the staff is chatty and local, and I get a kind laugh of commiseration when I explain that I've sat in a patch of leafy Scottish nettles and my skin is now afire.

The Scots, I'm soon to find, are the West Country's true soul, sweet and chatty and genuinely interested in whatever wee foolishness you offer. Haste ye back, town signs invite as you drive away.

The Edwardian lobby bespeaks a country house gentility of warm woods, chintz and fireplaces. This is a true resort estate, and though I can't see them, I know that a series of outbuildings and far-flung fields are home to horses, an off-road driving course, archery, shooting, falconry, fishing (oh that I'd brought my fly rod) -- and for children, programs where they can play farmer, fly kites and meet owls like Harry Potter's Hedwig. An airy spa sits in a new building nearby -- the balm to my stinging nettle wounds.

My golfing friends have raved about the rough that reaches to the sea, and for the first time I can see a kind of romance to the sport I've long pooh-poohed. Tall grasses fit for a prairie shudder in the salty breeze; an untempered wildness permeates the scene, and the manicured sweeps of Augusta and tamer courses seem worlds away.

''It's not pretty to look at,'' says Chris Brown, head instructor, at the Colin Montgomerie Golf Academy here. ``It's not supposed to be.''

Against my own best interest, I'm handed a club. Brown sets me up at the driving range, aiming toward the famous 9th hole near the lighthouse that sits light years away. ``We've had umpteen beginners here. I've had e-mails that its the best thing that ever happened to them.''

POETRY, CASTLES

Maybe. Me, I'm off to explore the West Coast's non-golfing pastimes.

Wooly sheep sprinkle the hills like dandruff on a green-clad shoulder as the road wends between medieval ruins, postcard towns with cobbled streets and historic attractions. In my two days in Turnberry and Troon, I'll visit an historic estate-turned-museum, a castle adorned with joyous graffiti (part of an art project), and the birthplace of the beloved poet, Robert Burns.

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