Last April, Leonard Owens, the pro at Royal Dublin, said to me, in his quiet way, "Don't you think you're being a little naive?" At the time, I assumed he meant simply that my "goal" of getting from a 24 handicap down to 10 in six months was laughably ambitious. Sure, I knew that: 15 would have done me. Now, in December, I know his little admonition carried much more weight. He was warning me: "You haven't a clue what you're letting yourself in for." I'll tell you what: that's not the half of it.

This series, which looked initially like a good bit of craic for the summer with a few lessons (paid for by the paper) thrown in, became an all-embracing odyssey of enlightenment and self-discovery. That's not exaggeration; I've learned as much about myself as I have about how to play golf. I took golf seriously, and it took me apart. These months have encompassed hard work, dedication, self-control (hmmmm), regular failure, rare moments of satisfaction, plenty of good company, nights of fitful sleep, much laughter, some anger and, of course, the golfer's constant companion . . . frustration.

In short, I've loved it. Still . . .

This article should have been written early last month, but I kept putting it off in the hope that just once, I might be able to walk off a golf course without having to rush to the Well of Self-deprecating Humour. That day did not arrive. And so I come before you now, not a broken man, just that guy left alone at the clubhouse bar mumbling to himself: "It's coming, I can feel it."

In March, my official Christy O'Connor GC handicap was 20. It still is. Not a shot cut (and one or two colleagues will be having drink bought for them on that account). There, however, the similarity ends. For a start, it should have been 24 or 25: I couldn't break 30 Stableford points off 20 then. In the middle of October, I went round a damp Hollystown with a colleague and fellow member: I was appalling, couldn't chip to save my life, couldn't buy a putt and, as ever, couldn't find a fairway with a Garda search party. I had 35 points.

Last week, in a society outing at the Links, Portmarnock, I had 10 points in the wind and rain of the front nine. But when the skies cleared, on the last six holes, I had 15 points. Throughout the round, I didn't have a single three-putt (admittedly, there were two holes on the front nine when I didn't even bother), and I played several genuinely fine, well-thought-out and well-executed recovery shots to the green. All that practise on the short game is beginning to reap dividends.

I tell my acquaintances (I have no friends left) that if you put me in the middle of the fairway with anything from a five-iron to a sandwedge in my hand, I'll score. It's the getting to the middle of the fairway bit which still eludes me.

What have I learned about myself? Well, at that first meeting, Leonard made it clear that if he were to take me under his wing, then I would have to practise for, at the very least, one hour every single day. By any reasonable yardstick, I have done just that, and no one is more surprised at my dedication and hard work than I am.

It was during my second week as an apprentice, when I voluntarily donned my rain gear to spend two rather unpleasant hours popping balls up and down the Bull Island with my sandwedge, that I realised this immersion into the world of golf would have consequences I had not foreseen.

Composure under pressure? In April, May and June I stood on the first tee for a dozen competitions and - without exception - knocked down my tee shot. I feared the first tee.

In August, I stood on the first tee of my first pro-am, knees, literally, shaking, and found the centre of the fairway with a sweet three-wood. Now I look forward to getting out there and starting a round.

This is, in part, a confidence born of repetition and practice. But it is also evidence that I have evolved a more healthy and mutually beneficial relationship to this creature called golf.

I love to hit golf balls, to stand beside a pile of practice balls and fall into an easy rhythm - that easy rhythm we amateurs find impossible to reproduce in competition. I find half-an-hour on the putting green deeply therapeutic and relaxing, like swimming endless lengths in a pool . . .

`Yeah, that's lovely that is," you say, "bloody poetic. So what you're sayin' is, you're sayin' you spent every day for six months wackin' golf balls about and you're still off 20? Plonker."

Yes, life is short and brutish, and it would seem only someone with little imagination could exacerbate things by taking to golf. I rejoice in it.

Have I failed this year? Numerically, yes. Would I take up the challenge again? I'm afraid I have no option; the thing is in the blood now. Next spring, I promise, an article will appear here detailing how I went round some golf course or other in no more than 15 strokes over par. Then we'll take another look at this 10 business.