Yet on Tuesday the club made a noisy entrance into the Scottish consciousness when news broke that the female members were in open revolt. At an AGM, the ladies' section decided they were no longer willing to prepare Saturday evening meals for the male bowlers. "The men think a woman's place is in the kitchen," said Betty Baxter, 73. "We are slaves to them." The committee responded by recommending that women who refuse to do the tea should have their fees increased from £46 to £87. No hardship, you would think, to the moneyed citizens of the Ferry, which is to Dundee what Monaco is to France, but there has been a right stooshie.

The shoppers on Brook Street know all about it and roll their eyes, but won't give their names. A fiftyish lady in a red fleece says: "I don't agree with bowling clubs. My husband is always on at me to join. But I don't want to make tea for men who don't appreciate it. I do that at home."

An elderly couple walking down the street holding hands stop to chat. "We've reached a compromise at my club, Hillcrest," says the husband. "The women prepare the food and the men serve it at the tables. Everyone seems happy with that."

What kind of food? "Nothing fancy. A bowl of soup, maybe. A pie. Half a mince round with chips."

The best thing, apparently, is when the club has an away fixture against one of the hoity-toity teams out in the country. They do a better class of food. "Oh, you wouldn't believe what you get," says the wife. "Mince and tatties sometimes."

Broughty Ferry has loads of luxury cars. Jags, Mercs and Beamers. Parked outside the Royal Arch Bar there's even a big Hummer with a wee Westie poking its head out the back. Next to it, I get talking to a woman in her sixties wearing an elegant suit. Has she ever experienced sexism on the green? "No, I'm not a bowler. I can't bend down."

The problem with the Broughty Castle story is that it is bad for the image of bowls, adding the charge of misogyny to an existing reputation for decrepitude. But what is the bowls scene really like?

To find out, I visit Dundee Indoor Bowling Club. Founded in 1960, it has two separate greens and about 800 members. That's about half of what it had a decade ago, reflecting a nationwide decline in the numbers of regular bowlers. But still, 800 is an impressive number. About a quarter of those are women, and that is reflected in the structure of the club committee, which has four female members out of a total 16. It's increasingly rare for bowling clubs to deny their female members equal rights. For one thing, it makes it difficult to apply for lottery funding and other state grants; discrimination is not looked upon kindly by those doling out the cash.

Dundee Indoor is a big space with lots of wooden plaques listing the names of club champions. The most recent female singles champ is Ailsa Robertson, who is 19 and plays in a pair with her 92-year-old great-grandad. I also notice a cabinet displaying merchandise such as stickers of bowls double entendres – "Exposed wood" – and a book called How To Become A Champion At Bowls which includes a section on "The romance of bowls manufacture".

In the board room, I am introduced to a number of the female members of the club, some of whom have been bowling since the mid-Seventies. They are passionate about bowls, and make it clear that, for them, it's more than just a sport; it's about community and is genuinely meaningful.

Katrina Muir, 54, plays with her late husband's set of bowls. "I found when he passed away last year it was bowling that kept me going," she says. "If I hadn't had this I would have just sat in the house."

That's a familiar story among bowlers. I hear the club described as a "haven", particularly for widowers who would otherwise be isolated and wouldn't eat properly.

One shouldn't over-sentimentalise, though. The women are keen to emphasise that bowls requires a lot of mental and physical skill, and they relish its challenges. The outdoor game, in particular, often involves standing for hours in snell winds and hellish rain. Unlike tennis, the weather rarely stops play. "We're made of sterner stuff," laughs Helen Nairn, 66.

I haven't played bowls since sixth year at school when, as if to demonstrate the Taoist concept of yin and yang, our PE class had alternate weeks of lawn bowls and roller hockey. So I am more or less a total novice and very glad when Katrina and Eileen Birse, 64, offer to teach me how its done. They are tremendously good players, and I need all the help they can give me as it turns out I am tremendously bad.

I feel emasculated right away as I can't make my fingers touch when I circle a bowl with both hands, a measure of whether it is too big. Then Katrina warns me to be careful not to break a nail when I release.

Worse is to come. For the first few ends, my bowls don't go anywhere near the jack. Some land feebly short, others yards wide, a few plunge suicidally into the gutter at the back of the rink, and I'm having difficulty understanding the advice I'm being given. "Your weight is good," says Katrina, "but you need to give it more carpet."

Eventually Eileen takes pity and actually starts aiming her bowl on to mine to hit it closer to target. But it's all for nothing, as, with the final shot of the match, Jeanette McCord, captain of the ladies' team, leaves her bowl touching the jack. This incredible move, to use the parlance, is "a chalker" and means I lose. The women of Broughty Castle may be refusing to make the tea, but in Dundee I've certainly had my chips.