Then wonder no more…
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Then wonder no more…
Wednesday morning saw what was likely to be the last Barford hurrah of the faithful Timms-wagon before it was decommissioned and sent to the Valhalla of the 4×4. We nearly didn’t get out of Warwickshire as some shady looking character at a filling station offered Tony cash on the spot for his beloved chariot, but we did eventually find ourselves in rural Gloucestershire on the way to Kingswood, our Saturday hosts.
The Kingswood ground is a municipal pitch which had been hijacked by football (it is December I guess) but it is a nice setting and is right opposite the Dinneywicks pub, where the team are based. Unfortunately, despite being 1.00pm, all lights were off and the door was bolted- ‘You’ll have to go to Wotton’ grunted a passerby who obviously thought I was a skinhead casing the joint.
Disappointed not to have achieved our first aim of the recce we advanced to Slimbridge and found their ground tucked away behind the British Legion Club. After prodding some turf the bitter wind and the lack of ale and food led us to The Tudor Arms, next to the Gloucester-Sharpness canal. This pub is definitely food-orientated but it’s a free house and they had five trad ales on offer. The landlord turns out for the eleven who we are due to play on the Friday night, so this could be a good place for post-match solids (listen to the non-driver!).
Tour Secretary looks nervous
Stratford Kings, like ourselves, have lost their home ground and have had to relocate to Kings Stanley. The ground resembles a village green, which was being used as a shortcut by school kids, surrounded by hilly countryside and next to the large King’s Head pub. After walking into a tea room we eventually found the entrance to the pub. Utilitarian would be the best way to the describe The King’s Head, but the landlord was very friendly and served a good pint of Young’s.
The Ale House
Having achieved our goal of seeing all three grounds in daylight we headed to Stroud to check out The Imperial Hotel. The reception and bar area were extremely clean and well decorated, as were the rooms. For the price we’re paying this is exceptional value, which I know will come back and haunt me in July!
After a quick pint of well kept local brew we headed out to see what Stroud had to offer. Our first port of call was a Weatherspoons house called The Lord John. Despite my hatred of these McPubs they had a good range of beers and it was passable. Next on the tour was a unique place called The Ale House, a massive building with a strong smell of emulsion, having only been open for a week. They keep an incredible ten ales which obviously gets the vote from my side but the trendy decor and central location suggest it may also interest Mr Drage and his happy band of sniffers. I must also mention Finn, the gargantuan Irish Wolfhound who you could strap a saddle on and ride to the next town’s nightclub to save on taxis.
After a quick pint in Retreat, a wine bar decorated in knocking-shop red, hunger led us back to the hotel, which is also a Thai restaurant. Despite screwing up the order we had an excellent meal in very pleasant surroundings before turning in for the night.
Despite being right opposite Stroud station the rooms seem to avoid any noise from the outside world although there was the odd reoccurrence of Hurricane Sandy. Tony is convinced that his room had a poltergeist after finding his bed at right angles from its original position the following morning (I believe paranormal guru Yvette Fielding refers to this as the thirdbottleofmerlot effect).
Sandy and I enjoyed a very good cooked breakfast (no processed ham in sight) and went for a morning stroll around the town. There is a cafe next to the hotel if anybody wishes to compare and contrast breakfast menus. We also managed to encounter the village idiot who was stood outside Gregg’s shouting obscenities at his dog, in between spitting out bits of half chewed steak bake.
We returned to The Imperial to find that the retired gentlefolk of our party had missed breakfast by not waking up until after 9.00am, so they had to settle for a coffee in between listening to tall tales from a character claiming to be a premier league football agent.
The Imperial is comparative luxury for a Barford tour (and doesn’t get slated inTripAdvisor like some previous hotels – ed!), to the point that Mike Suffield may struggle to find faults with it (but let’s not get too carried away) and the three fixture secretaries Pat, Valerie and Jamie, have all been so helpful that I’m quietly confident about the 2013 tour.
Only the weather can spoil things and that would never happen would it?
Annual Dinner
In a welcome break with tradition, this year’s Annual Dinner was held in the same calendar year as the season itself. We were back once more in the convivial surroundings of Merchants in Warwick, although this time we had been bumped upstairs undoubtedly to the relief of the other paying customers. There was the usual good turnout of old-hands but the newer members were less forthcoming – maybe they’ve heard the rumours…
After an excellent meal we got down to the nitty and gritty of the speeches and awards (and the overly enthusiastic wearing of sparkly jackets). Despite playing less cricket than ever this year we seem to have a larger number of awards (or maybe that was effect of the alcohol!) – a trend that is to be applauded and hopefully continued in future years. There was even voting for the “champagne” moment of the year, with each of the nominations having to describe and even act out their typically Barfordian “moments” of (in)competence. The skipper also received an honourable mention on the occasion of his maiden 50 for Barford.
Chris gave a rendition of Richard Stillgoe’s “Lilian Thomson” for the benefit of all Barfordians who’ve been out to a “ladee” followed by a pithy summary of the year’s (in)activity on the field. He then passed on the blue sparkly jacket to Sandy, who delivered what can best be described as a fitting eulogy to the evening’s main benefactor. The only possible way to do it justice, and ensure it is properly preserved for posterity is to reprint it in full here.
In case you were wondering, the spoils of the evening were doled out as follows:
Fantasy League Manager of the Year: Simon Drage
Champagne Moment: Mark Griffin
Catch of the Year: Simon Drage (talking us through it!)
Batsman of the Year: Jake Farquar (collected and hopefully delivered by Simon Drage)
Bowler of the Year: Richard Jones
Clubman of the Year: Simon Drage
Many thanks to everyone who came, and especially to Sandy and Chris for their speeches and Paul H for organising the whole event…
After the first one
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it rained (a lot)
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Huge thanks to both Mike’s for another hugely enjoyable, if ultimately unsuccessful, tour – although we did have the consolation of shooting ourselves in the foot with both barrels in the Saturday game. The sun shone, beer was quaffed (although not by all), and much fun was had by all (at least judging from the email storm that’s been raging this week). Here’s hoping we’ll be allowed back next year 🙂
Highs
Some weird tour initiation ceremony?!
Lows
As is the usual custom, the motley crew of Peirson, Jones, Ireland and Timms made their excuses to their nearest and dearest and set off for a reconnaissance of the tour hotel and match venues. You could try and argue that this is just a natural extension of the advanced planning and preparation that helped England secure the Ashes over this winter, but I wouldn’t bother 🙂 The following report was supplied by the Tour Secretary and it is given in its unexpurgated glory (pictures from Mushie are also available here)
Thursday morning and the Timms-wagon sped towards Cirencester, encountering less wind resistance since he misjudged the Royal Priors car park and lost his roof rack. We arrived at The Wild Duck in Ewen, the latest entry in the Richard Jones Good Pub Guide, and we weren’t disappointed. This delightful Cotswold inn is home to Purdy Ale, an amazing tipple from an unnamed brewery that subsequent internet searches have failed to identify.
After an excellent lunch and a stop-off at The Potting Shed in Crudwell (where the chairman switched to Campari!) we made our way to Bath to check out the much-maligned Redcar Hotel. Tony skilfully negotiated the car park, which was just about big enough to house the Land Rover and two Sinclair C5s, leaving us ready to enter and explore our tour base. Despite the crucifixions on Trip Advisor the Redcar is perfectly acceptable and comparable with previous venues, however the location of narrow streets of stylish Georgian town houses, only two minutes from the town centre, make this an exceptional setting for our break.
After dumping our bags we took the ten minute drive out of town to inspect the grounds. The Sulis Club pitch looked in good nick and I suspect there may be some leather chasing on the Saturday. The clubhouse, however, resembled a derelict repossession so I sense we may be getting changed in the car park. A drive-by viewing of Combe Down, venue for Friday and Sunday, revealed that this will involve the least amount of match day travelling in BCC tour history.
Arriving back at base it seemed fitting to examine the local hostelries. After chatting to the affable hotel staff, who we suspected hadn’t got a national insurance number between them, we took a walk through Henrietta Park to check out the local taverns. “Are you the park ranger?” shouted a dishevelled character who looked like he’d been an extra in Deliverance. “It smells of s*** down there” he ranted, ignoring my assurances that I wasn’t custodian of the greenery. Despite this advertisement for why cousins shouldn’t marry, the park is very picturesque and leads to The Pulteney Arms, an excellent real ale pub popular with the Bath rugby fraternity. The absence of Campari made Sandy improvise and persuade the young barmaid to keep supplying him with Pimms at which point we were joined by ex-Barford star Geordie Watts. The furry toper led us to his other main haunt, and my personal favourite, The Star Inn. The best way to describe this throwback to pubs of yesteryear is that the chairman chose to drink scotch!
With hunger gradually taking over we dined at a ridiculously overpriced Italian bistro before our final port of call, The Old Green Tree. By now we were starting to flag and drinking Pitchfork somewhere other than The Old Fourpenny Shop proved a little too surreal so we headed back to The Redcar (the bar consists of two lager pumps that were out of order so we turned in for the night).
Despite snoring and flatulence in fairly equal proportions we all managed to get a reasonable night’s kip and were on parade for breakfast which consisted of cereal, toast and what looked like some processed cheese and ham left over from a royal wedding party (we found several places around the corner serving the full English for those in need – Phil). Parking looks to be the only issue but Mushie was getting some information about the council car parks that we found fairly close by.
Richard was out in the alleyway topping up his nicotine levels when he was informed by one of the locals that hotel used to be owned by The Welsh Wizard, Tom Jones. I doubt Sir Tom would approve of the way The Redcar has deteriorated since his tenure but it’s more than adequate for a Barford tour.
It’s not unusual!
Highs
Lows