...as it did last Sunday, one retreats discreetly to the clubhouse (should there be one) to get on with other things. Planning a new line of little needle felt toadstools -
- while in a very grim but British way, the light but persistent rain does not stop the afternoon's match. Some even choose to watch it outside.
Tea, I am sad to report was disappointing in the extreme. I was smuggled a few little things, but there were no proper sandwiches and no cake! The tea pot was not refilled and the brew was insipid. Bizarrely, there were big plates of fruit, on such a cold, wet day. In abundance. And were largely left.
Andy is Sunday Captain at the moment and had a bit of a bowl. The arm is repairing though still painful - not that you would know from this;
Just a reminder, should anyone be interested, I will be on BBC Radio Oxford with 'Jo in the Afternoon' on Friday June 10th, from 2pm (UK time) talking about my books and myself. 2pm in the UK is five hours ahead of New York/East Coast time, so about 9 in the morning for my American friends. Do check this out for yourselves though on an online site, as I get a bit foggy about teccy things like this.
A sweet bouquet given to me yesterday by visitors to my studio
Our cricket season draws to a close, heralded by the annual President's Match and beer festival. For the last seven years, since leaving our old home, we have commuted back to play cricket. Andy thought about joining another club, but our hearts and friends are here; they are not things you drop lightly. It's about 15 miles away via the lanes, and as it was a special occasion we stayed the night over with a lovely friend.
The President's game is a friendly between old and existing members of our cricket club; the President picks what he hopes will be a crack team of retired or moved-away players, and the Club - mostly the youngsters - play them. This year the Club wore silly hats. It is a light hearted affair, bolstered by beer and good humour.
Naturally, this being a summer game, held in August, it was cold and windy. We were joined by Eynsham Morris, who usually dance in the tea interval. Eynsham Morris has been in recorded existence since 1856, and is thought to go back beyond, to the 17th and 18th centuries. Cecil Sharpe, the renowned collector of folk dances, witnessed them dance in the now closed Railway Inn, in 1908.
“The dancers met me, I remember, one dull, wet afternoon in mid winter, in an ill-lighted upper room of a wayside inn. They came straight from the fields in their working clothes, sodden with mud, and danced in boots heavily weighted with mud to the music of a mouth organ, indifferently played. The depression which not unnaturally lay heavily upon us all at the start was, however, as by a miracle dispelled immediately the dance began, and they gave me as fine an exhibition of Morris dancing as it has ever been my good fortune to see.” (CJ. Sharp, The Morris Book, part III, 2nd edn. 1924)
The Eynsham Morris website is full of the team's fascinating, rich history and well worth a browse.
They are one of the things I still miss about our old village. They trickled in one by one, standing to watch the game and get an early beer or two in.
When the first innings was over and everyone trooped in for tea (or beer) and to partake of the good spread provided by the President's wife, they began dancing.
The highlight was the village 'in-joke', whereupon a pretty young lady volunteer becomes the centre of the dance; 'Maid of the Mill', otherwise known as the Eynsham Morris fertility dance. Various sweet and, one suspects, suggestive things are whispered to her, as the dancers 'court' her, to the barely concealed amusement of the onlookers, most of whom know how the dance ends.
I spent most of the second inning sat in the pavilion with friends and had one of the most disgusting pints of real ale I have ever had the misfortune to imbibe. It was called 'Grunter' and tasted as if someone had put several cigarette butts in the barrel. Should you come across this revolting and thankfully rare beer - avoid.
We - that is to say, the Club, for whom Andy was playing - lost, pretty rapidly, and not before time. All this cold, grim day was lacking was rain, and sure enough, it arrived. As is customary at the end of every match, everyone shook hands like gentlemen, even though they were all familiar and close friends.
With the near end of the season and the beginning of autumn proper, I have been frantically tackling tasks and chores in preparation for a new batch of commercial work which arrived, as I thought it would, this week. I am almost at the end of my commissions list. Including this chap; a portrait and a little different to what I normally do.
With my new exercise regime still going strong, I have begun recording my almost-daily wanderings in a new blog, 'Cotswolds Peeps' - more for my own pleasure than anything. It's a kind of record of the countryside, and the tiny things that happen in the natural world, which I find interesting. And, of course, the ever-changing weather.
We're well into the season now, and games are played under a vast expanse of blue sky and hot sun. Our new field, tucked away down a country lane, is of generous proportions. It is a broad sun trap, with little shade, and it will be a good 150 years before the oak saplings are mature enough to offer decent cover.
It's a complicated story as to why Andy plays for another village several miles away, but he does, and has done for nearly ten years. So unless I go on the motorbike with him, and watch the whole game from start to finish, I follow later in the day. It takes two bus journeys and a mile walk to get to the field, laden with rucksack, bike leather and helmet. But bearable, with Oxfordshire blooming so prettily.
Our team were fielding when I arrived...
I retreated under the verandah of the pavilion, with a large flask of water. Tea was held just before five. Everyone queues nicely and helps themselves. This one was particularly splendid.
A note on tea, for non-cricketing friends at home and overseas. It is Very. Important. Team honour hangs on it. One of the first questions a new arrival at the game will ask - after 'what's the score?' will be 'what was tea like?' If 'shop cakes' is the answer, then there is a sad shaking of the head. Homemade is the watchword. Sandwiches should be fresh, and at least four varieties, nothing fancy - egg, ham, cheese, tuna. Mini pork pies and/or sausage rolls. Scones, of course, quiche if you're being posh, about three types of cakes (home baked, as we've ascertained, one should be fruitcake and lemon drizzle always goes down well), crisps, maybe some fancy biscuits, squash (always orange) and, because this is the most British of sports, played in summer, a huge urn of hot tea. Andy had just got to the bottom of a well laden plate of food, when his team captain wandered over and asked if he'd open the batting. He had ten minutes to digest it all before his energetic stint on the frontline...
Meanwhile, I was catching up with old friends, strolling round the boundary and keeping half an eye on the game. We ended up sitting in the late afternoon sun, me with a bottle of Fiddler's Elbow, breathing in the heady musk of elderblossom, watching cottonseed drift by. I thought of my friend Tara, with her fondness for 'air decorations'. How she would have enjoyed the scene, the idle chatter and the surrounding green fields and woodland. A buzzard languidly swept circles overhead, probably wondering what the strange little white figures on his hunting ground were doing. Back to the game...Andy was eventually out for 26, hard fought for, as the other team were very tight in their fielding and bowling. Despite some exuberant and entertaining batting from some of the younger team members, we lost. The teams came in as the sun sank below the horizon, everybody clapped everybody and shook hands with each other, like a slightly confused folk dance.
Later, we all decamped to the pub, for much game deconstruction, where we caught sight of a hummingbird hawkmoth plundering the valerian. Swifts and swallows screamed high in the dusky sky, the balmy air scented heavily with honeysuckle and rose.
Today 'we' played cricket at Minster Lovell, a friendly team - but this time it was a league game, so the gloves were off - or on, if you were batting or keeping wicket. Minster is not far from Swinbrooke and nearly as pretty. Andy had the all the fun of playing under the hot sun...
Andy, third man in white from the left, batting.
While I did the difficult bit - sitting with 'the wives', putting the world to rights and enjoying the usual rituals of (partially) watching the match.
I think we won. The chaps seemed very pleased, anyway.
A sweet bouquet given to me yesterday by visitors to my studio
