Rarely has there been a summer where I have revelled so enthusiastically in the manifold lures of that bit of Scotland at the far end of the M8, the one beneath Fife and above the Borders. The Lothians.

Last month my golf chum Dave and I legged it through to Gullane for a swatch at the likes of Phil Mickelson and Rickie Fowler competing in the Scottish Open. I might be a good few years younger than Dave but that didn’t stop me joining him in a short impromptu snooze under the baking sun in the lee of a raised tee. You wouldn’t do that at a Champions’ League tie, would you?

Then the first half of this month reacquainted me with the peerless pulchritude of Auld Reekie through a series of visits: Comely Bank (flooding my mind with memories of visiting a school friend banished to Edinburgh University to study accountancy; my Walkman tipping The Blue Nile’s Hats into my ears as I sauntered through the autumnal night from Haymarket to his cavernous flat); the cobbled streets of Stockbridge, home to a terrific record shop called Voxbox where, on my first visit, I got lost in a two-hour conversation about music with what, I suppose, you would call the shop assistant — a 61-year-old raconteur and Top Bloke called Nigel.

On separate occasions I have also experienced the kookily great Summerhall and soldiered through monsoon rain for the last train to Glasgow. Edinburgh, I have increasingly thought, why did I ever favour Glasgow over you?

As I write, though, the best the east has to offer is fresh in the mind. I was fortunate enough to be asked to bring my golf bats through to Archerfield Links, between Gullane and North Berwick, to partner a professional golfer in the Scottish Seniors Open, ingeniously – given the gender and age of the average UK golfer – sponsored by Prostate Cancer UK. Having never been invited inside the ropes in my golf-obsessed puff, how could I say no?

On the first day I rocked up late and missed the first two holes. For the remainder of the round I contributed to the combined score of myself and Swedish pro Anders Forsbrand only twice. The wind blew, and blew, and blew. The highlight was drawing applause from 20 or so punters at the 18th green after nailing an 8-iron. My Lord, what a buzz.

My fellow amateurs included Alex Salmond and Alistair Darling (in separate groupings, I should add), Sir Ian Botham, golf scribe Bill Elliott and Dennis Taylor. As for the pros, each and every one sported the mahoganied face of a man born to golf. In short: my kind of people. Not before time, I felt at home. So quite why I am moving even further west next month – to Paisley, no less – I have no idea.