Golfing wise, one is eternally grateful to Missus Turner (5'2") and Mister Turner (5'7") for managing to beget Master Turner (6'7"). Not, you understand, for the playing of the golf. Apart from the inability of someone the height of a small Eiffel Tower to stand still in a wind, there is also the problem of attire. Try finding size 16 golf shoes or XXXL waterproofs in your local friendly pro-shop.

But, when it comes to spectating at the Ryder Cup, your correspondent's genes come into their own. They were standing 20 deep around the 10th green by the time I arrived but my overgrown chassis was well able for the task of viewing. And it was a grand place to stand.

The tee, off to our right and around a bit of a hump of a hill, was obscured so you had to sense when they were hitting. It wasn’t difficult. People in crowds of this scale become components of a larger beast so, if you go with the flow, you instinctively know when to look at the green to catch what is what.

Glenegos

And the first to see were Stenson, Rose,and Simpson hitting the green and Bubba knocking it in the left-hand bunker. This led to the Americans making three and

Justin Rose

holing from 15 feet to put them four up. Game over.

Then came Bjorn, Kaymer, Fowler and Walker. All made the green. All missed their putts. The Europeans stayed ahead.

Then it got interesting as the battle of the egos, Glenegos if you will – I will, I will – as Patrick Reed and Ian Poulter hove into view. The battle was pretty well settled at this stage as the Americans were already four up. Reed holing from 12 feet just cemented the situation. Game over.

You could hear a pin drop. Well, to be precise you could hear that noise you get on cowboy films when the tumbleweed is blown through the deserted streets by the desert wind. To be more precise again, it may have been the noise of booksellers all over the land putting more copies of Patrick Reed's self-help book, conveniently translated into Scots dialect as See you Jimmy, I'm Pretty Good, onto the shelves. And putting Ian Poulter's riposte But Not as Good as Me, Pal into the remaindered bin.

Small disaster

The final match seemed to be followed by the largest crowd. The relative silence and polite applause, heralded a small disaster; the Europeans going one down to a Phil Mickelson birdie. So the first two balls on the green were American. Except they weren’t both on the green. One lay on the very far edge, one went through the green onto the fringe. The Europeans response was stunning. Garcia to 20 feet and McIlroy to about 8 feet, just looking at the hole as it rolled past.

Mickelson putted dead. Garcia missed. Keegan Bradley, paced up and down, changed his mind, took out an iron to chip, changed his mind, took out a putter, let Mickelson stand over the ball and have a look, had a discussion, thought about it some more, got behind it, got over it, hit it and it went straight into the hole for a birdie. Ugh. McIlroy missed for the half. Two down.

I describe this hole in detail not because I want to see if I have what it takes to be a golf reporter, [You don't – Ed] but to show that in this competition, in 40 minutes in one small corner of the course, reputations can come and go, matches can be won or lost. Things happen. All the time. And there are two more days of this. And that is the Ryder Cup.

Thoroughbred athletes

Golf is quite a good spectator sport. You get within touching distance of the players, within spitting distance if it is Keegan Bradley. They are just like you and me. And yet they still have that appearance that they are somehow larger than life, almost like the racehorses at Punchestown if you stand against the rails. They have the sleekness of thoroughbred, tanned, clean and groomed with the charisma granted to those who become familiar via the telly.

The amount of adrenalin, buzz, charge, thrill that Ryder Cup golfers must get when cheered and applauded by a vast crowd of people is quite hard to imagine. It is a wonder their heads don’t explode and it is quite amazing that they can harness all that energy in such a way as to improve their golf. It is probably what sorts the champions from the also rans.

We can empathise with the players, after all we are golfers too, but we can never grasp what they’re going through or how they cope with it.

Golf is also good for spectators as it is played in slow motion. It is the antithesis of the Tour de France, for example, where you stand for hours and then blink and miss it. You don’t need the eyesight to watch golf that you need to follow a sliothar, or a hockey puck. And these days, with the big screens, you can follow what is going on elsewhere from wherever you are camped.

‘In the hole’

And your fellow spectators are, generally, grand, polite and well-behaved. I had a dream last week that

Alex Salmond

had won the referendum. In the hiatus between becoming independent and being allowed to rejoin the EU, he had introduced capital punishment (which is against EU rules) but the only crime that would demand the ultimate punishment would be for idiots who go to golf tournaments and shout “in the hole” every now and again. In

Scotland

, the ancestral home of golf, this would have been a game changer, guaranteeing a Yes vote and earning the gratitude of golfers throughout the world.

There has, so far, been little sign of the GITH merchants. But you are out there and Alex Salmond is watching. In my dreams at least.