The caddie didn't mince his words. "He was a hell of a big fellow and a bad bugger," he said with feeling. "If he drove into the rough, in his rage, he grabbed you and shaked you like a rabbit."

There was an occasion when, after hitting his ball into a pond, he ordered his caddie to "Go in and get it." As it happened, the boy was wearing a new suit and refused.

After the round, all the caddies were called to the pond and ordered to get the ball. Showing solidarity with he of the Sunday suit, they declined, whereupon a handful of sovereigns were flung into the water. As might be expected, this did the trick.

It was said that at the sight of Talbot Clifton driving in his car over St Thomas's Bridge, caddies would hide in the bushes for fear of being hired. This was the Squire of Lytham, a 6ft 4in giant of a man who was president of the Lytham St Annes Golf Club from 1890 until his death in 1928. And to mark the return next week of the British Open to the celebrated Lancashire links, we remember him at this time.

From the extraordinary stories told about him, mostly of an hilarious nature, Talbot Clifton seems to have been a remarkable man. Profligate in the extreme, he dissipated a great fortune with seeming equanimity, while his various escapades around the world would suggest a man either admirably brave or somewhat unhinged, a few cards short of a full deck, you might say.

Both were probably applicable, though we may be drawn towards the latter conclusion by the assessment of author Evelyn Waugh who, after being a guest at Lytham Hall in June 1935, observed in a letter to Katherine Asquith that all of the Cliftons were "tearing mad".

If so, it was a charming madness insofar as Talbot had an affair with Lillie Langtry, the so-called Jersey Lily who, though 16 years his senior, wrote the squire a number of passionate love letters towards the end of the 19th century.

And he had a run-in with the Old IRA in Connemara in 1922. These and other fascinating stories are included in the The Clifton Chronicle, by John Kennedy (Carnegie Publishing).

One brief billet deux from Ms Langry read: "Dear Mr Clifton, The parasol is found! Thank you very much for the chocolates; they are my special weakness. Will you come to supper this evening if you are doing nothing better? Yours truly . . ."

The story which probably characterised Talbot's nature better than any other, concerned the occasion when, on arriving in London and finding himself strapped for cash, he telegraphed his estate office with the message: "Send me five thousand pounds." When the office replied: "Regret no funds available," he responded: "Sell Lytham."

Rent week being only a few days away, however, a mollified Talbot decided to return to Lytham; and, to impress his estate officer, he would travel third-class rather than first.

The Clifton Chronicle takes up the story: "Upon arrival at Euston, however, it occurred to him that he had never seen a third-class compartment in his life, so, buying a platform ticket, he went through the barrier and peered into the carriages of the waiting train.

"Having satisfied himself that, after all, they were not so bad, he returned to the booking office and purchased third-class tickets for himself and his valet. Upon reaching the barrier again, he found to his fury that the train had gone. So he booked a special!" So much for fiscal rectitude.

Talbot's wilful nature might have owed something to a rather spoiled upbringing. For instance, to mark his 21st birthday in 1889, celebrations went on for a week. A wooden pavilion 162ft by 74ft was erected in the grounds and 800 guests were invited. There was a roasted ox and a magnificent buffet provided by the Grand Hotel, Liverpool, along with fireworks and a torchlight procession, with the young squire being hauled by the tenants through the streets of Lytham in an open carriage.

His run-in with the IRA occurred after he bought Kylemore House (Abbey) in Connemara. He had already been commissioned a lieutenant in the RNVR in 1917 so that he could wear naval uniform while patrolling the west coast of Ireland in his own yacht, on the lookout for German submarines.

According to The Clifton Chronicle: "They (he and his wife Violet) now had five children and lived at Kylemore until, in 1922, they had to leave as Talbot was in trouble with the Sinn Feiners.

"A car full of armed men had come and taken Talbot's Lanchester car (a distinguished British marque long since gone); they said they would return it in a day or so but, as time went on, it became apparent that they had no intention of so doing. Talbot swore to get his car back, and when one evening the Lanchester was seen heading on the way to Letterfrack with two men and a woman, he made his preparations to ambush them on their return journey."

The outcome of Talbot's grand, night-time plan was that the car was retrieved after he had shot one of its occupants, an IRA man by the name of Eugene Gilan. When Violet expressed horror at the outcome, the squire replied: "I don't shoot at a fellow without hitting him and it would have been more awful if he had shot me in the back."

On April 14th, 1922, Violet Clifton received the following letter signed by Michael Kilroy, GOC 4th Western Division IRA: "On the night of 12th April 1922, your husband, Talbot Clifton, with others who are known to me, lay in ambush at a point on the main road between Kylemore and Leenaun, and fired at officers of this division who were proceeding to Castlebar.

"As a result of the shots fired, Captain Eugene Gilan of the Irish Republican Army is now hovering between life and death in Mr McKeown's Hotel, Leenaun. I am satisfied, from information received, that you also participated in the ambush, and this is to notify you that an armed guard will be placed on your premises and that you, Mrs Clifton, are to leave Connemara before noon, Monday 17th, 1922. Otherwise, other steps will be taken.

"If you desire to make any statement, it will be necessary for you to come to Castlebar and I promise you a safe conduct."

The next day, with the aid of nuns, Violet Clifton returned to England. Her husband, meanwhile, had already done a flit via Belfast to Scotland, where he bought the Kildalton Estate of 16,000 acres.

And Gilan survived. In fact he sent word to Clifton some time later that if the squire ever needed a faithful servant, Gilan was his man.

One member of Lytham remembered that when the Squire drove off in his green Lanchester,there were bullet-holes in the chassis.

In January 1928, Talbot Clifton fell seriously ill in Dakar where he had arrived with his wife intending to go on to Timbuckto. His last journey home to Britain was for burial on his Scottish estate.

Only nine years later, it emerged that his heir, Squire Harry Clifton, had sold the Royal Lytham course to the Corporation of Lytham St Anne's for £20,000. An absorbing, swashbuckling tale had come to a rather tame end.