Playing golf with Costantino Rocca "Not at all," says the general manager, Jennifer Allmark, a former LPGA Tour player from Sweden. Italian golfers are very competitive, and if we don't organise at least three competitions a week, they start complaining. Visitors are welcome to join in. On which subject, all this conversation is eating into my golf time with Rocca. "What do you want from this?" he asks, as every good professional should. Help, is the short answer. Without dwelling on the shortcomings of my game, the simple fact is, no aspect of it is fit for purpose. My driving somehow manages to be wild but weak. Long irons I rarely use when sober unless the ball needs scuttling out from beneath a tree. Any duffer can manage irons six to nine, but my chipping is hopeless. Sometimes it goes left, sometimes right, usually wrong. If not, there is always putting, the ultimate humiliation. To put it another way, Costantino, I am not much good. I would like to be better, but inexplicably I enjoy my golf and am not looking for the sort of teacher who will show me a drawing board and send me back to it. A simple tip to transform my game, that's all I want. Rocca selects the short 11th for the start of our lesson; an easy eight-iron shot over water to a broad apron framed by autumn foliage, against a backdrop of tawny hillsides dotted with gracious villas. A flick with a wedge sends his ball high into the sky, where in the morning sun I lose sight of it. Where did that go? Rocca looks surprised that I need to ask. Heart of the green, of course. Rocca tackles the Wine Golf Course. Image: James Bedford This is not a difficult shot. The club dignitaries who have motored down to this tee in a caravan of golf buggies are all willing me to succeed - who knows, perhaps even to make birdie, or a hole in one. The ball skims across the water like one of Barnes Wallis's bouncing bombs, scattering bird life. Some lakes of my acquaintance pop the ball up on to the green with a lucky ricochet. But Pete Dye has anticipated the low skimmer and placed a decorative gondola in the water, moored to the bank. My ball torpedoes it amidships with a loud clang, and sinks. There must be a drop zone somewhere, I suggest, but Rocca will allow no such easy escape from the gallery. "Play another," he says cruelly, fetching a ball from his bag and placing it between my feet, at least six inches from where I would tee it up. You are standing in the wrong place, so you are not hitting it correctly. Now try. I can hardly complain that the coaching is too technical. This time my ball - his ball, that is, struck by me - takes the aerial route to the green, where it comes to rest in almost the perfect spot: far enough from the hole for a missed putt to be excusable, close enough for a two-putt formality and a score which, with a little creative amnesia, can be presented as a par. Ecco! Thank you Costantino. Where did you say your clinics are held? Here at Franciacorta? Bergamo? "Anywhere!" he says. The client chooses. I am available! I know how this trick is done. The second attempt from the tee is always easier than the first. Also, the miracle cure has a knack of working brilliantly for the duration of the lesson, then gradually its effect wears off, requiring another lesson. Rocca is a wise old professional, and a few holes is all we have time for. I have never before played golf with a champion of his standing. Having taken the miracle cure on board and tucked it behind my ear for future use, I am keen to watch him in action, anticipating a master class of deft lobs, miraculous sand saves, and trick shots played backhand. Instead, I am treated to a master class in one straight hit after another. On reaching the green in the recommended number of shots, the putt may go in for a birdie, or it may not. I'm not sure this kind of golf would be exciting, but it might be profitable. The Rocca swing is a marvel of economy and punchy timing. "I learned to play quickly as a boy," he says. We caddies were not allowed to play, so we went out in the dark, running along with a torch, and no practice shots. When Rocca made his Ryder Cup debut at the Belfry in 1993, the coach of coaches, John Jacobs, watched him on the driving range and said he had never seen a better swing. Nor did it let him down, but alas the putter did and before flying home Rocca had the misfortune to see himself pictured on front pages as The Man Who Lost the Ryder Cup. "I didn't," he says simply. The team lost. And so to lunch. Marchesi's first creation is a dazzling seafood splatter inspired by Jackson Pollock. Melt-in-the-mouth steak tartare follows, with a crunch topping, and then... da-dah!... Marchesi's signature gold-leaf risotto. It is one of those performance meals where each course comes on a presentation dish that does the round of the table, everyone helping themselves to a polite amount with the result that the plate still has plenty on it at the end of the circuit. One of Marchesi's beautiful women comes to take it away, but Rocca calls her back. I am sorry, but we can't leave food by Marchesi on the plate. He cleans the dishes so thoroughly they hardly need washing. Marchesi's gold-leaf risotto. Of course we do not forget golf, but relive the highlights of Rocca's career. With his five European Tour victories and three Ryder Cups - played 11 matches, won six - he has every reason to look back with satisfaction. But all is not sunshine and roses in the Rocca garden. He is surprised, not to say hurt, that he has not been considered as a Ryder Cup vice-captain. With the Molinari brothers in the frame and no doubt soon to be joined by Manassero, would it not make sense to have an Italian among the greenside cheerleaders and locker-room motivators? Who is the only man to have beaten Tiger Woods in Ryder Cup singles? Rocca. Four and two, at Valderrama in 1997, should we need reminding. His defining moment was the 1995 Open at St Andrews, when he duffed a tiny chip in the most embarrassing way, then holed an outrageous putt to tie. Who can forget the sight of him kneeling in the Valley of Sin, arms raised in an ecstatic salute to the Almighty? John Daly may have won the play-off, but the day belonged to Rocca. "I am the most famous loser!" he declares cheerfully. Challenge this by citing the example of Jean van de Velde at Carnoustie, and a rare cloud crosses the Rocca countenance. Not the same. Not at all," he says. My moment at St Andrews was a triumph, not like stupidly throwing away the Open. All good things end, and lunch at Marchesi's is no exception. My remaining time in Italy is earmarked for playing at as many courses as daylight hours permit. The Lakes offer plenty of choice: this is the nation's golfing heartland, easily reached from the belt of industrial cities stretched out from Turin to Venice. Bogogno, by Robert von Hagge, offers 36 holes of championship challenge and Monte Rosa views. Castelconturbia (also 36 holes) is Milan's most prestigious course. For a more traditional feel, I am tempted by Varese, with its monastery clubhouse, or Menaggio. Rocca suggests Gardagolf for mountain scenery. Before my flight out of Malpensa there may be time for a swift nine at Le Robinie, by Nicklaus. On reflection, however, I decide to stay where I am. Sublime hotel, fine golf course... why rush? Franciacorta is not Pete Dye's most flashy creation, but it betrays the signature of an architect who has studied the landscape, fallen in love with it and designed a course that shows it off, with never a dull hole. I leave my bag at the club between rounds and consider pedalling back and forth on a bicycle borrowed from the hotel - but the driver of its shuttle bus is too attentive. The new stance may not win me the midweek Stableford, but it does help. Time must be found for a tour of L'Albereta's vineyards and its wine house, Bellavista, and the beautiful therapists will not be denied. I need to understand that this is no mere spa hotel with the usual offering of steam, cream and pressed flesh, but a serious medical facility. For what? "That depends: we must assess you," says a doctor in a white coat who sits me down in front of a computer to which I am wired via a clamp on my head and a metal grip in each hand. "Just look at the screen for 10 minutes without going to sleep," she says. Time weighs heavily on the eyelids. Fifteen seconds of tulips, followed by autumn leaves, tropical island, Saharan dunes, snowy wastes... then the tulips and autumn leaves come round again. I am roused by the noise of a printer spewing out reams of incomprehensible bar charts and percentages. These give the doctor all she needs to pronouce on the state of my energy channels and suggest a course of treatment, according to a system devised by Henri Chenot of Merano, who bases his ideas on Chinese principles loosely related to acupuncture. Thank goodness, my energy channels are not in bad shape. "There is just one block," says the doctor, "in the left part of your brain, which is usually related to work. I don't know what it is, your work, but there is something here which indicates tiredness and stress. Well, doctor, it's true my work can be tiring, and a little stressful at times. But unfortunately, someone has to do it. Read more: Costantino Rocca's guide to Italy's best golf courses Contact Rocca Golf Ambition (0039 334 822 1911, roccagolfambition.com) for details of clinics with Costantino Rocca. L'Albereta (0039 030 776 0550, albereta.it) offers a four-night "golf vitalité" package for €1,100 (£950) per person, b&b. The price includes two days of golf at Franciacorta and either Bergamo or Gardagolf, spa treatments and aqua fitness sessions. Momentum Golf Italia (020 7371 9111, golfitalia.co.uk) arranges à la carte golf breaks in all regions of Italy. Costantino Rocca with Gualtiero Marchesi.