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A man in a white shirt hits, the noise of contact following a split-second after the ball leaves the club. The ball thuds into the soft green and stays there, 25ft away, back right. Then another figure, white sleeves under mauve tank top, swings. The ball soars high into the mottled grey sky and lands 10ft to the right of the pin, a perfect length.

The scrum approaches and a roar goes up from the stand. "Italia, Italia," comes a cry. Edoardo and Francesco Molinari, sporting black diamond pattern sweaters and dark trousers, wave their caps high in acknowledgement.

On the green the Italian brothers stride to the farthest ball, the one back right. European assistant captain Jose Maria Olazabal hustles past. Two policemen take up station back down the fairway.

The brothers stalk their putt, gesticulating, pacing, pointing. Edoardo, the taller one, who didn't hit the tee shot, addresses the ball. A pause, he strokes it and lifts his left leg in anticipation as the ball slides agonisingly past. American Zach Johnson, in dark shades, white cap and white wristband, takes a couple of practice wafts before the real thing. He misses. The crowd "oooh". Francesco waves his hand to say the putt is a "gimme". A man announces, "hole halved in three, the match remains all square". And their little squad of officials, media men, marshalls and a few other assorted types scuttle off.

A pause and then a throaty "yesssss" from the 2nd green. People look up to see Lee Westwood on TV. He and Martin Kaymer have just gone one up. Westwood appears in person on the distant tee and soon swings, the clunk piercing the quiet. The ball pitches on the green and leaps up, like it has been stung. It settles about eight feet past the pin.

American Ricky Fowler goes next. We crane our necks and track the sphere through the air. Murmurs of "looks long", and the ball rests on the back left edge.

Another roar goes up from the grandstand as their little army approaches. "Come on Westwood", "Come on Fisher" the crowd implore.

A man called "Remy" wearing one of the controversial American "tracksuits" (it had his name on the back) comes to stand next to me. I inspect the offending article close up. "Yours ok, then?" I enquire. "It got blown out of all proportion," he tells me.

Westwood, hands deep in trouser pockets, mooches about the green as partner Kaymer inspects his putt. Fowler, looking boyish, leans on his putter as Jim Furyk takes his yellow-handled club back and through. The ball misses right as Kaymer steps up. Westwood, his bagman Billy Foster and Kaymer's caddie Craig Connelly stand on the edge of the green, giggling about something. Kaymer hits and misses. Fowler picks it up and tosses it to him, the half secured. "Yep, good. See ya," says Remy as they all troop off. Assistant captain Tom Lehman brings up the rear, speaking into his walkie-talkie.

Another big roar from the 2nd but we don't know why. The TV screen has gone blank. Then a stark cry of "fore" from the 4th tee behind us. People listening to radios provide a stuttering, incomplete commentary. "Molinari misses, five feet", "Poulter, eight feet, first." Four men in Viking helmets and blonde pigtails appear on the opposite bank.

Draped in front of the grandstand to our left are a European flag with the words "Seve for ever", a Scottish saltire and a Spanish flag. There's a lull. People read programmes, fiddle with radios, sip coffee.

Back on the tee, a tall, thin man in grey slacks and mauve top leaps over the fence and disappears. Looks like Dustin Johnson, possibly off to the "bathroom". Probably not for a bath. Shouts erupt from the 2nd green. "Way to go Phil" and "Come on Harrington". Another platoon marches onto the tee and Phil Mickelson takes up a wide stance, waiting for Johnson to re-emerge. The sun comes out, DJ is back and takes a furious swipe. But his shoulders slump immediately as the ball hits the left side of the green and disappears down the bank towards the water. Ross Fisher hits for Europe but leaks it right into a swale. Radio 5 live's Iain Carter and Andrew Coltart race past to inspect the US ball.

John Inverdale and Chris Evans arrive, also for radio. Inverdale speaks loudly into his mic. Evans nudges him, giggling. "That was a bit loud, mate," he says. Mickelson, hands on hips, discusses his shot with caddie "Bones". Caroline Harrington, sporting enormous sunglasses, watches as hubby Padraig chips up. "Go, go," she urges but the ball is short. Mickelson flops his up high but well past the hole. The Americans stalk their putt together and Mickelson addresses the ball. There's a worry he might hit out of turn but he stands aside. Johnson, long of sideburn, putts and misses and stands there, scratching his face. "Come on Ross," implore the gallery. Another roar from nearby. Sounds European.

Fisher putts and makes it for the win to get back to all-square. The Englishman punches the air and shares a high five with Harrington. The next group is already on the tee and a Californian snapper I recognise turns up. It can only mean one thing. This guy's job is to always follow Tiger Woods.

The world number one is visible now and hits first. You can hear him shout "bite, bite" even from this distance, and the ball flies into the Harrington swale to "oooohs". Peter Hanson goes for Europe. It's the best tee shot so far, to about five feet and the crowd erupts. Woods hugs the lake as he nears the green and walks past it to a toilet cubicle half-hidden behind. Then everyone cracks up. As Woods arrives at the toilet, a blonde woman emerges. What are the chances?

Back on the green Steve Stricker chips up to a few feet. "Played partner," says Woods. Miguel Angel Jimenez holes his birdie to level the match and salutes the cheering crowd. Woods putts his anyway.

Almost immediately, Luke Donald tees off. The ball is silhouetted against a cloud shaped like a jellyfish. Bubba Watson is up next, his distinctive left-handed swing producing a viscious banana that hits the left edge and trickles into Mickelson country. "Go, go," urge the crowd, not entirely sportingly.

Donald and Ian Poulter approach the green and the crowd roar once more. The pair wave their hats in the air. "Come on, Ian, you're the man," yells someone.

Colin Montgomerie takes up station behind the green. Sergio Garcia remains down the fairway. US assistant Paul Goydos is there too.

Jeff Overton asks, "It is us, isn't it?" and then chips up to about 12ft. Poulter crouches to survey his putt, shading his eyes like blinkers on a horse. He misses and Watson concedes. The rangey American then goes for his par but slides it by and walks off biting his lip. Donald's wife Dianne strolls past, and a gaggle of US wags. A man is spotted lurking in the reeds with binoculars. Would look weird anywhere else.

Another man squeezes through the gallery and ducks under the rope. "You can do that when your son is the US Open champion," says his friend, wearing a badge that says "Norn Iron". The first man is Graeme McDowell's dad Kenny.

Stewart Cink hits long into the left fringe. McDowell's ball is all over the pin. Kenny drums his cushion in appreciation. Monty can be seen marching back down the fairway. Where's he going? This is the last group. "He just likes people clapping him," cracks a wag.

McDowell and McIlroy get thunderous applause as they reach the green. Cink chips on. "Little bit left in that," whispers Kenny. McIlroy putts from 10ft past the hole but it's always going left. Matt Kuchar, with a lime-green putter handle, also misses. Kenny nudges the scorer, who is clutching the all-square card. "Don't change that yet, you'll put the scud on it," he says. But McDowell makes the one coming back and he and McIlroy exchange an elaborate low five as they bounce off all-square again.

Heavy drizzle falls, the cows keep munching, and this corner of Wales returns to peace for a few hours.