On Troon’s South Beach, two police officers are moving in on a group of middle-aged golf aficionados and I’m sensing the possibility of a towsy intro. There are eight of them and they’re clad in the globally recognised apparel of the affluent golf tourist: designer jerkins, summer shorts and brightly-coloured trainers. There’s a suggestion of year-round tans.

They’ve gathered by the grassy dunes that sit in front of Royal Troon’s first tee as Henrik Stenson, Rasmus Hojgaard and Jacob Skov Olesen take their first drives of the 152nd Open Championship. A blue rope marks the boundary beyond which non-paying onlookers and walkers must not venture. Surely the cops don’t intend to hustle these people on? I move closer, willing for this to be the case so that I can get all sanctimonious and claim this beach-head for the nation.

The police officers merely engage the group in a bit of raillery. “Do you know that if you stand here long enough you’ll get yourselves on the telly,” says one of the coppers. He’s dead right. The BBC’s legendary golf commentator, Peter Alliss (God rest him) seemed to sense there was only so much that your average television viewer could withstand of him and his cohort cooing over millionaires in dodgy Val Doonican jumpers trying to chivvy golf balls into a hole.

Mr Alliss would spot some unsuspecting beachcomber in the distance and gently mock his attire or start an imaginary conversation with him. If it was a woman, Mr Alliss would address her as “madam” and occasionally there would be some ribaldry of the type that would now be called out on social media.

I check my own choice of clothes for this stroll along Troon beach and acknowledge it wouldn’t pass muster here: dark blue granddad sweater; Primark denims and scuffed green and white Celtic trainers which are a source of permanent embarrassment to my children.

I’m fine with this arrangement though: me and golf have had a long and thorny relationship. Being possessed of a swing that descended in jaggy instalments, I was compelled to give up the game at 18. My swansong came after a round at a golf club in Milngavie. The club captain, whose house overlooked the 17th green, had observed us running our trolleys over his hallowed putting surface and phoned ahead so that a florid, puce-faced firing squad could be assembled to issue a ban.

And besides, this was at a time when Jewish people, Asians and women would find it easier to break into Buckingham Palace than access the membership of some of Scotland’s more exclusive golf clubs. Membership of these clubs would confer promotions and preferment in professional bodies. Why do you think it took so long for women to be allowed into their lounges?

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How much more handsome St Andrews would be if every spare inch of green space around the auld grey toun wasn’t swallowed up by stacks of golf courses and the Pringle jumper and blue blazer set that swarm all over them.

For reasons I’ve not yet fathomed, both my sons became scratch golfers and I’ve been forced to revise my jaundiced view of the game. Nor can anyone doubt golf’s worth to Scotland’s tourism sector.

Last year, The Herald reported that an independent study commissioned by The R&A, VisitScotland and Fife Council had found that the 2022 Open at St Andrews had generated more than £300million for Scotland’s economy.

The research by Sheffield Hallam University found the Championship brought £106m of new money into the economy and of the 290,000 spectators attending the tournament, 62.3 per cent had travelled from outside Scotland. The surrounding East Neuk of Fife alone had received more than £60m in new money.

Other research calculated that £201m of “destination marketing benefit” was delivered for Scotland as a result of The Open being broadcast worldwide. Golf directly supports more than 4,000 jobs.

Of all the old resorts that cling to this stretch of the South Ayrshire coast none possess the douce rectitude of Troon. The presence of one of the world’s finest golf courses massages the housing market where the average property price in two estate agents’ windows is in the £400k-600k bracket.

Spectators shelter from the rain on day one of The Open

On the way into the town centre there are more than 20 camper-vans parked up in a field. They indicate the changing and itinerant nature of holidays and account for the demise of hotels and B&Bs in this part of Scotland. But handsome Troon seems to have absorbed the shock more than places like Girvan, Ayr and Saltcoats.

I’d expected to see Troon’s town centre hoaching with the international golfing fraternity, but approaching midday it was tumbleweed empty. This was Thursday, and the first round was proceeding half a mile or so along the beach at Royal Troon’s famously treacherous links. The play started at around 6.30am and would continue for more than 12 hours, affording plenty of time for coffee and lunch in the town centre’s restaurants and cafes.

“So, where is everyone?” I asked Lewis, owner of the Swan Restaurant and Coffee Shop. “This will be a challenging week for us,” he says. “Our regulars aren’t coming in as they don’t think they’ll get a table anywhere. Look around you: there’s no one here. It’ll only kick off after 7pm.”

Three days previously it was the Glasgow Fair Monday, usually the busiest day of the summer season. “This was the worst Glasgow Fair Monday I’ve ever had,” says Lewis. “We took £300 all day when normally it would have been around 10 times that. The golf actively puts them off.

“When you buy a ticket for The Open it comes with a parking space which are all outside the town. Then there’s a shuttle bus taking you directly to the course and back again. The town has no influence over the governance of the R&A when The Open is in town. They dictate that if you leave the course at lunchtime you can’t come back in.

“Something similar happened seven years ago when Royal Troon last hosted The Open and we were promised this wouldn’t happen again. But, as you can see, it has happened.

“We’ll have to stay open a couple of hours beyond our usual closing time to try to get a turn from the increased evening footfall. If we’re lucky, come Sunday night, we’ll be lucky to average it out.”

David Iain Grant, owner at The Jar, Malt Whisky Specialists, tells a different story, though he acknowledges some advantages he possesses.

His shop stocks more than 300 malts, including rare and collectible labels which will always attract affluent global customers.

“We’re doing well,” he says. “The first three days of this week have effectively been three busy Saturdays. We’ve had visitors from Ireland, Texas, the Carolinas, Scandinavian and many from England.”

He’s been operating this high-quality niche wee emporium for more than a decade. It specialises in selling Scotland’s most marketable and internationally-renowned product. Overseas visitors will have checked out his shop on-line before embarking on the journey.

He believes though, that the marketing stimulus generated by The Open shouldn’t be viewed merely over the space of a few days. “There will be a bounce for the next three weeks after The Open leaves town,” he says. “There’s also a bounce for the next three summers. It’s been seven years since people watched the golf at Troon and when they see it on televisions all around the world, there will be an increase in bookings to come here. By the close of this week it might be a bit rubbish but it won’t be the end of my year.”

Walking back to Royal Troon along its ribbed, pristine sands you begin identifying the different registers of applause as you approach The Open grandstands. A gentle ripple of applause indicates a successful putt. An unsuccessful one is similarly greeted … after a moment of silence. A muffled roar indicates a swashbuckling fairway iron and cheers are reserved for birdies and eagles, or simply when Tiger or Rory strikes the ball.

The boisterous winds have carried away two missed calls from my son who’ll be inside the ropes somewhere taking the hospitality. I’d told him I might be popping down to the golf. He’ll just be checking to ensure I’m keeping to my designated space outside the ropes where I can do no harm.