(FORTUNE Magazine) – It's late afternoon on a blustery, rainy day in the foothills of the Scottish Highlands. My hands, slippery and numb from two hours in a downpour, grip a nine-iron as I take a stance in the foot-deep heather wrapped around my wayward golf ball. Swinging with all my might, I hit the ball 75 yards into a 20-mile-per-hour wind, and it plops into a deep bunker. The perfect time to blurt out an obscenity, right? Before I can, one of my playing partners offers a suggestion: "Up for a spot of tea?"

Minutes later we're in the cozy halfway house sipping Earl Grey and nibbling warm bacon sandwiches. Ah, to be a gentleman. A Scottish gentleman, at that.

With a package called Gentleman's Pursuits, the 76-year-old Gleneagles resort has promised to introduce this overworked American to the opulent, rather Victorian world of the gentleman, a lifestyle I've seen only on Masterpiece Theater when my wife won't let me flip on the baseball game. It's straight out of Gentleman 101--golfing with a caddie, hunting with a hawk, off-road driving through rivers, clay target shooting, fishing, and an assortment of gourmet endeavors highlighted by whisky and cigars. All, mind you, accompanied by an appropriate expert.

Gleneagles, about an hour's drive from Glasgow or Edinburgh in a region known as Perthshire, is on a hill overlooking 850 acres of golf courses and hunting forests. It's easy to imagine lords and ladies in the 1920s and 1930s striding along the paths that weave around trees and stone walls. The hotel employs more than one staff member per guest--a fact that does not necessarily mean service is impeccable but does guarantee you won't spend a lot of time in line. (One warning: Be prepared to tip often and not have it make the slightest impression.)

My life as a gentleman begins shortly after I arrive with a visit to the hotel bar, called The Bar. I request a whisky, to which the sprightly bartender replies, "We have more than 200 whiskies, from under [pound]20 a glass to more than [pound]300." Okay. Which one should I try? "Have you had dinner yet, sir?" I make a note in my notebook....

Gentleman's Lesson No. 1: Never drink whisky on an empty stomach.

The next afternoon, following a quick round of golf in the sun on the Monarch's Course--a Jack Nicklaus design from 1993 that lacks the patina of the other two--my shooting instructor drives us across the road to the Jackie Stewart Shooting School. (Yes, that Jackie Stewart.) In khakis, a polo shirt, and a blue V-neck sweater, I feel distinctly out of place next to the barrel-chested man in knickers and high leather boots as he hands me a double-barreled Beretta and tells me to aim at the clay pigeon that will shortly fly into the air.

"Almost got that one, sir!" my instructor heartily informs me after each miss. It's nice being called "sir," especially when you keep missing the target. Suddenly the pigeon soars, I pull the trigger, and the pigeon explodes. "Got it, sir!" Over the next hour we venture to other target posts; with a half-dozen exceptions, I am kind to the pigeons.

One of the most amazing things about Scotland is how quickly the weather can shift. I begin my round on the King's Course in the sun with only a slight breeze. The King's Course is Gleneagles' gem. Designed in 1919 by five-time British Open champion James Braid, the course is a maze of blind tee shots (as well as rough that seems to attract tee shots like magnets on a refrigerator). By the fourth hole, rain is sprinkling--not enough for me to pull out an umbrella or put on a jacket. At the seventh hole, the floodgates open. After 30 seconds, my sweater has taken on five pounds of water.

We quickly finish the hole, then on the eighth tee ask the foursome ahead if we can play through. The most vocal of the group refuses to let us pass. When he knocks his ball 50 yards left of the fairway, we ask again to play through and get his begrudging approval.

"English, they were," says my caddie, a young woman named Linzi Morton.

"Are the English usually rude?" I ask quietly.

"You've seen Braveheart? They're kind of like that."

We join up with three Scots having a tough time in the rain; soon after, we've paused in the halfway house, courtesy of a local rule that lets groups tee off on No. 11 and stop in for a brief cup of tea before completing the hole. This is something the Englishmen behind us cannot tolerate, and as we return to play, we notice the Braveheart foursome have hit their shots, run in for tea, and then jumped in front of us. Englishman and Scotsman stand side to side, each with a short-iron in hand, each wondering who will relinquish and fall back. The two almost come to blows. The Scotsman lifts a fist and yells, "You're no gentleman, sir!" The Englishman stands stunned, and we play on.

I don't think it was part of the package.

Three hours later I'm in the Gleneagles wine cellar, surrounded by bottles of Dom Perignon and Chateau Margaux, with a glass of whisky in my hand. My host for this leg of training is David McAree, the hotel's astute sommelier. McAree arranges a selection of six classic malts. We move from the 14-year-old Oban, aged in kegs kept close to the sea, to double-mature deep-amber Lagavulin, to Glenmorangie, aged in old port kegs and slightly sweet. Later he brings in a whisky aged in claret kegs that could easily be used to start a barbecue. What I learned: Never inhale too close, or you may burn your nostrils; swirl the whisky like a glass of wine; and pay attention to where the whisky comes from. Oh, and one more thing: Take smaller sips.

Dinner would have been a blur for anyone. To picture the Strathearn restaurant, imagine that you're a passenger on the Titanic--first class, of course. You walk through giant doors into a blindingly white hall with tables spread far apart, some near a piano that pumps out a steady flow of Cole Porter tunes, others back near windows overlooking the lawns. Waiters are dressed in tuxedos, hair slicked back.

McAree, back on duty, recommends an exceptionally dry 1994 Chablis grand cru. Later, with venison tenderloin in plum sauce, I drink a 1985 Volnay. By the time the entree arrives under a silver cover, which is lifted with not the least hint of a smile from the waitress--very serious business--the wine has gone to my head. I lightly hum the Bobby Darin tune being played on the piano. I make another note in my notebook...

Gentleman's Lesson No. 2: Never drink whisky again. The crack of noon comes quickly. Despite feeling as though Quasimodo is ringing bells in my head, I roll out of bed. A gentleman has obligations. In my case, hunting with a hawk. The resort, home to the British School of Falconry, arranges for a guide, a Swede named Jenny Nordenberg, to take me into the woods in search of rabbits. By the time we get to the school, sunshine has turned to icy rain. After some preliminary training in how to make the bird sit on my arm, fly off, and return, we march into the woods with two of the more ferocious-looking hawks. The one on my arm is named French (a "killing machine," says Jenny, that hadn't been fed in a while).

Hawking works like this: You send the bird up into the trees, where she can more easily search for prey. Then you stomp around the forest trying to scare up rabbits. We haven't been hunting for ten minutes when a rabbit jumps in front of me, and French rockets down and clutches it with her talons. Jenny jumps into the scrap, pulls the rabbit from French, and hands me a chicken head to feed to French. We repeat this routine three times until the rain becomes unbearable. Afterward I notice that French--like certain English golfers--looks much less intimidating when wet.

Did I leave Gleneagles a gentleman? My wife would say no, having recently reprimanded me for teaching our 2-year-old son how to belch. I do, however, have a new respect for whisky, I did just buy rain gear for the golf course, and cigars don't bother me quite as much as they used to. So in some respects, yes, I am definitely more of a gentleman--though it might be ungentlemanly to make the claim.

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