At Easter Road, for instance, the people huddled at what was known as the Dunbar end might be treated to a spot of goalmouth action after which, as the play receded to the other end and the players disappeared, the noise emanating from the far, invisible, end of the ground would take over and the lot at the Dunbar end would have to try as best they could to make some sort of rough analysis of what was going on down there. An interesting aspect of this period was that such conditions never prevented spectators from advising referees to have their eyes tested, which was pretty ripe coming from people who could hardly see a thing.

During those foggy times, the suffering was widespread. My father once embarked on an outing to Lanark for a day's racing with a carload of acquaintances. Somewhere along the way, thick fog rolled in, so thick that it became almost impossible to establish the car's exact position on the road. An emergency procedure was immediately put into effect, whereby the passengers were divided into two teams, one responsible for the starboard side of the vehicle, the other for the port.

The big idea was that the team on the left would keep their eye on the kerb and as long as they could see it, all was well – or as well as could be expected in the circumstances. It meant that the car was at least on the proper side of the road. If the team on the right ever got a glimpse of the kerb on their side, they were in trouble and would start screaming. At last there came a point when the team on the left couldn't see their kerb and the team on the right couldn't see their one.

Amid some confusion, the car rolled slowly on and bumped gently into a grass verge, beyond which was a low wall. As the car lurched to a halt, the company realised they'd come to a T-junction and crossed a road set at right angles to the one they had been following – hence the brief absence of visible kerbs. For a while, silence reigned, broken only by some harsh breathing, snatches of prayer and the occasional sob. How they got out of that situation was never revealed, but it doesn't bear thinking about.

The golf course was a frequent victim of fog and mist and, because of the number of courses sited near coasts, it will always have its moments. I had a slightly surreal experience at North Berwick when I set out, with some misgivings, in a fourball on a day when a chill drizzle was fighting it out with a heavy mist. As we got underway, the mist was gaining the upper hand and, as it did so, was beginning to distort the perception of distance, shape and perspective in that strange way it often does.

Familiar things start to look odd and alien. Holes you've known for years look nothing like themselves and clubbing becomes defensive to the point where you don't fancy taking anything more than a putter from any distance. After about five holes or so, when the drizzle had decided to stage a comeback and now seemed bent on becoming a downpour, it was decided that a tactical withdrawal might be in order. Accordingly, each member of the fourball cast about in search of an appropriate place of shelter.

Suddenly, peering through the murk, I thought I'd cracked it. I fancied I could see a haven – safe and dry as a bone. I could see the slope of the roof and reckoned the building had a sporting chance of being a greenkeeper's place of sorts, with ample room for greenkeepers, heavy machinery and wringing-wet wrecks like us.

Yelling to the others to follow me, I set off at a rapid shambles in the direction of the building, which, I reckoned, couldn't be more than 100 yards distant. I then almost tripped over it. It was right there, at my feet. The 'building' was, in fact, a low wooden cover, built to house a set of cutters of the type drawn by tractors. It was about two feet high. We decided we had better keep looking.