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Jim Furyk tees off during a practice round Wednesday at Turnberry.

In Scotland, they didn’t even bother with people cutting the grass. They let the sheep do it. And the shepherds who tended the indolent fur-balls, invented ways to occupy themselves between wee nips of usquebea — the “water of life.” The most popular one was knocking rocks at rodent burrows with sticks.

We may assume wagering was involved, which would have spurred advances in technology. Sticks became carved wooden clubs, then wooden shafts with forged iron heads. Some genius realized that stuffing a hand-made leather ball with wet feathers was better than hitting a rock. And so it went, the gutta percha ball — or “guttie” — replaced the feathery, only to be replaced by wound balls and so on, until now we’re hitting balls that Old Tom Morris would have given all his possessions to own with implements that would appear to him as having been constructed by aliens. He wouldn’t know what to make of the perfectly uniform grass and the spongy spring in the underfooting. And greens that always accepted a good wedge would be beyond his ken.

I’m a fan of American courses, particularly the Northern courses cut through hardwood forests. But there’s something special about returning once a year to courses that still retain the features of the courses that Old Tom and Young Tom and Harry Vardon and the early legends played, the courses on which the game was invented and developed into a great sport — perhaps the greatest life sport there is.

I love the British Open for that reason. There are times when I’ll think, “Haven’t these blockheads heard of irrigation?” but it won’t be long. They’ve thought of it, just as they’ve thought of replacing their infernal, sod-fronted bunkers with the occasional water hazard. But they’ve rejected it.

In their minds, it wouldn’t be golf.

May that never change.