I’m just back from a bucket and spade holiday in the sunshine. I just about kicked the bucket gasping at the cost and will probably need the spade to dig myself out of the ensuing debt.

Interestingly, I have a vague recollection that I first met the woman who would become my wife in a travel agent’s shop when browsing the holiday options a number of years ago. Well, I think that's where it was, because even now she keeps muttering something about me being the last resort.

Anyway, it was nice to get away to recharge the few remaining batteries that still have a little dollop of oomph left in them.

Slumped on a deck chair with a knotted handkerchief  on my head,  I passed the time by reading some of the old golfing pearls penned by the celebrated wordsmith of yore, Bernard Darwin.

“I have for some years earned a precarious living by writing golf articles with as low a percentage of golf in them as possible,” scribbled Bernard back in ye day. The likeness with your Tuesday columnist is quite uncanny, isn’t it?

I suppose I’d better start writing about some golf now, eh? It’s Masters week, that time of the year when spring is in the air and even golfers of unfailing wretchedness have their spirits roused and senses stirred.

Of course, the conditions here in the game’s cradle have been so bloomin’ wet for so long, the idea of actually digging the clubs out and trudging around in the sodden squalor is an appalling prospect, particularly for an unashamedly fair-weather golfer like myself.

Nine holes of grim, attritional toil in the saturated mulch would probably give my 7-iron trench foot.

For some of the best amateurs in the country, meanwhile, two early showpiece occasions have already been scuppered by Mother Nature’s meddling. The Craigmillar Park Open, won by Nick Faldo back in 1976, and the Battle Trophy over at Crail were both scrapped due to the venues being completely drenched.

Both parkland and links courses have succumbed to the indiscriminate torrents. The way the weather is trending in this country, the golf season will probably end up being shoe-horned into a couple of half decent weeks in August.

Gazing at the long-range forecast, which tends to be as uplifting as peering into your own made-to-measure coffin, I’m always reminded of the meteorological musings of the great Inbee Park at a particularly grotty Women’s Open at Turnberry during the height of a Scottish summer. “You guys get a cold winter and a winter and that’s it,” she sighed. Sometimes, it’s not even that good.

As for the impact the weather will have on club membership? I’m sure there will be a few folk questioning the value for money as the ‘course closed’ sign takes up a prolonged residency. But that’s a doom-laden column for another day.

All the focus this week is on affairs at Augusta National. When things get cracking on Thursday, some 283 days will have passed since all the best players and the well-kent faces in the global game went toe-to-toe on the same stage at The Open.

In these fractured times, the majors stand alone as rare pillars of unity amid the schism. Over two years of conflict, instability and unseemly squabbling, the quartet of grand slam events have assumed even more importance. For four weeks of the golfing year, we get a bit of normality and sanity.

As for the other 48 weeks? Well, until we get consensus and a cohesive structure moving forward, then some observers may not give two hoots about what goes on outside these major occasions. That’s not good for the game either.

The Masters, though, will be good for the morale. With its 'timeless traditions', cherished cliches and dewy-eyed, reverential nods to the past, Augusta’s penchant for excessive, syrupy schmaltz just about leaves the tarmac of Magnolia Lane sticky.

The media masses, meanwhile, spend the entire week covering the thing on bended knee amid an oohing, aahing orgy of genuflecting. But we probably wouldn’t have it any other way, would we?

After donning the green jacket last April, Jon Rahm slipped into the LIV-liveried letterman jacket a few months later. It was a seismic switch that went far beyond a sartorial statement.

Rahm has played only five times since November. He may be lightly raced but another major, not the money, will energise his motivation as he squares up to the undisputed world No 1, Scottie Scheffler.

The question, 'can Rory McIlroy complete the career grand slam?', has become an Augusta cliché on a par with, 'the Masters doesn’t begin until the back nine on Sunday'.

This is McIlroy’s 16th assault on a green jacket. Only Sergio Garcia, who won at the 19th attempt, played in more before finally triumphing. Will Rory’s time come? Golf doesn’t dish out guarantees.

When it comes to Tiger Woods, there are no guarantees either. The 15-time major winner had hoped to play once a month in 2024 but he’s only managed 24 holes during one aborted comeback at the Genesis Invitational.

Woods has arrived at Augusta, though, and will no doubt be in a bullish mood when he addresses the media today. Some things never change.

When it comes to the Masters, familiarity breeds contentment. Amid golf's uneasy truce, Augusta provides a comforting haven.