At breakfast time yesterday in the community of Isleworth, Florida, the temperature stood at 24 degrees Celsius, the sky was flawlessly blue and a gentle wind was whispering in from the south-west.

Eldrick 'Tiger' Woods, Isleworth's most celebrated resident, was said to be at home, tending his wounded knee, snatching the occasional swim and preparing to watch the day's golf in his air-conditioned television room.

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Hard fought: Padraig Harrington struggling against the elements

At the same time, in Waterloo Road, Birkdale, Merseyside, the temperature was struggling towards double figures, the sky was hung with clouds of glowering grey and a bitter north-west wind was gusting at up to 45mph.

As the ice crackled in his tall drink and the morning sun glinted on his pool, Tiger may well have yearned for the Lancashire links and the muffled, ruffled, foot-stamping hordes who trudged through the tempest to follow The Open.

But if he thought himself fortunate to be in Florida, then few would have disagreed.

In his absence, the contenders fought and scuffled like cats in a bag. The best time to win The Open championship is when Tiger Woods is recuperating in Florida, just as the best time to beat Australia at cricket was when Shane Warne was banned. Take out Tiger and ambition blossoms in even the humblest hearts.

Some of the challengers were thoroughly predictable; the defending champion Padraig Harrington and Jim Furyk, the epitome of the American pro. Others were misty-eyed romantics; Greg Norman, David Duval, Jean Van de Velde.

Some were increasingly substantial figures: KJ Choi from Korea and the eternally affable Rocco Mediate. And a few, having creased themselves by climbing into contention, looked distinctly uncomfortable at such an altitude.

No matter. They all came blinking out of Tiger's shadow to take their shot at immortality and as a fascinating day unfolded, great sport started to raise its voice above the weather.

Brolly poor weather! Retief Goosen shelters from the rain

Norman's effort was a thing of enduring wonder. Just when he seemed to have settled for being a corporate golfer - 'Why don't we have a few bucks on nearest-to-the-flag, Mr Chairman?' - he rediscovers the game which made him extraordinary. Sure, we must wade through endlessly sugary yards of bright-eyed, newlywed guff, but the truth is surely more simple and is something to do with class being permanent.

Furyk was a looming presence all through the day, his game pared to the essentials, his swing impervious to wind or weather. If you were seeking a single word to convey his measure, then formidable might come quite close.

Sadly, both Van de Velde and Duval collided with reality.

The Frenchman is followed every step of every round by the memory of 1999 when The Open was at his mercy. Move through the Birkdale crowds and you will hear time and time again: 'Needed a six and took a seven . . . last hole . . . he'll never forget it'. And, of course, he won't.

Yesterday, he frittered shots like a sailor on shore leave. He knows that the crown will never again come within his reach.

Duval, although he has known Open victory, was almost more sad. For two days, there were hopeful signs that the form which so cruelly deserted him might be starting to have second thoughts. Those signs simply flew away on the wind. Ian Poulter threatened, the way he does. Clad perkily in pink, he strutted the fairways with his Jack the Laddish stride and played with pleasing efficiency to preserve his chances.

But he rarely suggested that he was the Open champion elect, far less the natural heir to Tiger. And then there was Padraig Harrington. No Jack the Lad he, more a man at ease with his surroundings. With his rolling swing of the shoulders and his bowling, rustic gait, he looked like a man who anticipates his Sunday pint and the companionship of the lounge bar.

Sure, he sustained a jolting blow to the solar plexus with a double bogey at the 12th, but the smile was swiftly restored and his equanimity endured through it all.

He knows what it takes to win this title and if he should take it home to Ireland once again, there will be no more popular champion. SO, they sat in the grandstands and lined the fairways and watched the passing parade. And then, quite suddenly, the sun came beaming through. A few of the customers pointed at the heavens: 'Look! The sun! Only the third week in July and the sun's out! A miracle!'

And everyone smiled and marvelled at the magnificence of the scene. And one American lady swore she could see Chris Evert: 'Chrissie! Hi, Chrissie! Over here!' And there was more laughter, flung across the links by the whipping wind.

And Norman refused to buckle and Choi refused to bend and Padraig refused to fall away and an Englishman, Simon Wakefield, entered the equation with a bold statement of his own.

And though the wind raged and the temperature dived and the audience started to talk through chattering teeth, you knew that this was real sport, real golf, a real and wonderful Open Championship.

You also knew, beyond question, that over there in Isleworth, Florida, a man with a tall glass and a wounded knee was missing it all like hell.