Thomas,
Doubtless that Constance Havershire, age 83, can totter down the fairway, swatting her pellet with an old brassie, giving wide berth to the Spectacles - or whatever other horrors await to anyone with the temerity to run the Calvinist gauntlet in less than three figures.
However, gleefully tapping in for a Colonel Bogey +1 (a sewing circle par) is more an exercise in exercise - unless the combatants are equally matched refugees from the local Flower Arranging Society.
So true enough, Carnoustie can be navigated by the Calendar Girls on holiday from Yorkshire, but putting across the Barry Burn (now renamed the Padraig Harrington Bridge) is not exactly what I had in mind while plummeting towards my dotage.
In truth, TOC has enough intellectual content at nearly every level to keep things interesting to the bitter end. When that gets too much, you just gracefully drop down a bracket to the New, then the Jubilee, then the Eden, then Strathtyrum, then the Balgove and finally the corner stool at the Jigger Inn.
When I fall off that, bury me in the Coffins bunker . . . . .