By the time you hit your second shot - and possibly your third - you're breathing heavily. Landing your ball on a smallish, devilishly-undulating green protected by two bunkers at the front and a steep bank at the back with out-of-bounds beyond is tricky at the best of times. You need to factor in the swirling wind on the exposed hillside, pick the right club and commit to the shot.
Picking the right club is key. Be aware of the effect of oxygen deprivation on the brain after your uphill trek to your ball. Don't try to chip it over the bunkers onto the green with an eight iron. Certainly, don't try it for consecutive shots when the first has failed quite spectacularly.
And whatever you do, don't then decide to launch your club across the green into the silent and forbidding wood to your right. Because those trees hate golfers - probably due to the thousands of times they have been urinated on over the decades.
Your eight iron won't hit a few branches and fall a little sadly to the ground, waiting to be picked up and rammed back into the golf bag before being abused again a bit later. Oh no. It will remain high in the tree and the wind will move the branches around a little to shift the club into a more secure position and to camouflage its location. Take your eye of its last known position for a split second and not only will you lose its location, you'll also lose the actual tree it was in.
Word will get around the club and many will laugh at the story. But all will cast a wary eye treewards whenever they walk through the woods to the right of the 12th green, because you never know when the eight iron will be returned - or whose head it will land on in the process.
True story, courtesy of Clive Brakes.