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If Woods gets going the roars that some of the have claimed have been missing from Augusta in recent years will be back with gusto. I got a little sense of what it might be like while down in Amen Corner, with great cheers rattling around the trees from the gallery watching the antics of players practising on the short 16th.

But it was that I found myself drawn to first. It is, after all, the most famous stretch of holes in golf and seeing them in person was like finally putting a face to a name you've known for years.

The , a sweeping downhill left-hander takes you into the arena around the infamous short , with it's isolated, treacherous green on the opposite bank to the patrons' stands. Then , my favourite hole, demands a sumptuous draw around the corner to a green backed by huge bunkers and banks of azaleas.

Seeing the holes on a dullish day with a virtual gale blowing, they lost none of their vibrancy and allure.

There's no doubt blazing sunshine and the tunnel vision of the cameras enhances the imagery. But watching on TV is like reading a good novel. The pictures are the same for everyone, but each person interprets them differently. For me at least, they certainly lived up to the hype, aesthetically anyway. But then I don't have to play them. It's not called Amen Corner for nothing.

LIVING UP TO THE HYPE?

Monday morning, somewhere in Augusta - Rain hammering on my window this morning wasn't the introduction to Augusta I'd dreamed of. But I gave myself a swift talking to and invoked Tiger's favourite phrase: "It is what it is".

However, that was tested a bit further than I was comfortable with as I sat in a traffic jam on , Augusta's main thoroughfare.

My snail's-pace progress towards mecca did give me chance to take in the immediate surroundings of the Augusta National. Plenty of restaurants and motels, some churches, a few car repair places, several small-scale malls. And signs. Lots of very tall signs.
I'm no American aficionado but I get the impression it's a fairly typical scene. But it was obvious there is something on this week: helicopters buzzed over the course, hotels and bars advertised Masters deals, scores of people paced the pavements holding up a finger (or two or three, corresponding with how many tickets they needed). And one car workshop was offering free Masters parking when you bought a wheel realignment.

Once I'd dumped the car I was in business and, fittingly, the sun burst out. First stop, the main entrance to the Augusta National, and the view up , which leads to the clubhouse. I just had to see it in the flesh, even though that entrance is for members and players - Rory McIlroy and Fuzzy Zoeller swung in as I was snapping away.

Actually, it's fairly low key and you could easily miss it. Especially as opposite is a parking lot and a couple of non-descript buildings.

Inside the grounds, though, it was a different story, like finally making it to the promised land. There was absolutely no mistaking where I was. Looking out from in front of the whitewashed clubhouse, near the famous old oak tree, the course plunges away before you. The 1st goes off to the right, with the 9th and 18th feeding back up the severe slope and the 10th diving down into the trees with a big, raking dog-leg left of a fairway.

It is, of course, spectacular and lushly green with trees heading off into the distance and splashes of colour filtering through. The outside world feels a long way away.

"Here at last," I thought, sucking it all in, though it wasn't some quiet, introspective, soul-searching moment. The place was mobbed. With tournament tickets off limits to newcomers these days, practice-round badges are the next best thing and can be obtained in the ballot.

I spotted Ian Woosnam edging through the crowd, stopping for pictures, on his way to the putting green. The little maestro stood in the middle, hands on hips, a former master of all he surveyed. Like me, he appeared to take a deep breath to take it all in. The buzz that went around the throng of patrons showed the regard in which he is held.

Apart from those that couldn't help themselves. "Jeez, he is SO small," whispered one lady, not that quietly.

My favourite spot so far, and I've not walked the course yet, is looking over on the par-three course to the left of putting green.

There's some beautiful, whitewashed, houses perched in the trees above the water and I drifted off into a daydream about staying there and nipping down for a few holes in the evening. Maybe with a glass in hand...

Anyway, back to reality. There's a course to inspect and players to pester.

GEORGIA ON MY MIND

Sunday night, en route to Augusta - I won't lie to you. I'm as excited as a hacker with a tap-in for birdie.

In a few hours I'll be setting foot on the hallowed turf that is . It's my first time at the Masters, and, if I'm honest, it's a bit of a pilgrimage.

The Masters has an aura and mystique that has had me spellbound for more than 20 years, in the same way that Walt Disney's did as a kid.

It's an iconic event in the sporting calendar and one of those very few "must see before you die" sporting occasions. But the waiting list closed years ago, making a pass to the Masters like a golden ticket from Willy Wonka.

The vivid greens, dazzling white sand, great brazen swathes of colour from the spring flowers - it's almost too good to be true, like the golf course you'd find only in your dreams.

is special in an historic, windswept British linksy way, under vast skies with the sea beyond. But Augusta, at least the one I've grown up watching on TV, is an intense concentration of visual stimuli, like watching golf with the colour knob cranked right up to 11.

The Masters also plays a part in the rhythm of the year. To those of us living in more temperate climes, this April ritual represents the final shaking off of winter coats and thoughts turning to summer. Maybe that's why non-golfers seem to love it, too.

But as well as being the golfing Garden of Eden, the Masters generally produces top-quality sporting drama. Think of , , chipping in on 16 to set up victory number four in 2005, to pick just three. Without the theatre, Augusta would still be stunningly attractive. But then so are many garden centres.

Being the only major to be played at the same venue every year the history just keeps on piling up and this week looks a cracker.

Tiger's back from injury, Mickelson's firing, Harrington's going for his third major in a row and a host of Europeans, including the in-form and teenage star Rory McIlory, are jostling to become the first man from our side of the pond since Jose Maria Olazabal in 1999 to win a Green Jacket.

Spotting English pro on the plane over from London I couldn't help thinking that if I was this excited, how must he be feeling? Squashed in like any ordinary passenger, he looked so normal and unassuming. Yet I felt like telling the oblivious businessmen and holidaymakers that this man in their midst is one of the lucky few and is about to play in his first Masters.

But as I chewed up the miles on the three-hour drive east down interstate 20 from Atlanta to Augusta I grew nervous.

Will it live up to my expectations? Or will peering behind the curtain lead only to disappointment, like when you finally snog that person you've fancied for ages and they turn out to be a rubbish kisser?

Cruising through the neon strip of outer Augusta I resisted the temptation to have a late-night peak at the gates to nirvana.

It's taken 37 years to get here, I can wait another eight hours or so. I'll report back then.

If you share my fascination with the Masters and Augusta and want to get in touch or have a question or something you'd like me to look into further drop me a line. I'll be the one with the permanent silly grin.