Best Foot Forward

I wonder how Imelda Marcos ever decided which shoes to take when she travelled.  Even for those of us with a relatively modest range of footwear, the decisions can be agonising.  Well, for some of us, anyway.  I don’t think my husband gave it a second thought.  Nor, as I look back upon it, did either of the boys.  In fact, as my memory focuses in, they very nearly set off for the station on day one in the wrong shoes.  So, I guess it was just me that did all the shoe stressing.  (Somebody has to.)  Shoes are heavy and bulky, so you want to take the minimum, but then if your itinerary includes everything from the treks of Nepal to the dusty roads of India and the beaches of Australia – not to mention all the cricket pitches along the way – how do you make sure you’ve got the eventualities covered?  The Spin Doc doesn’t mind if he hasn’t and he should know, as he once ran a mountain marathon in his winter boots.  Or was it winter climbing in his tennis shoes?  Something like that.  He’d rather save time on the planning and just roll with the punches, whereas I want to make sure I’ve got the right stuff, and I’m not going to pass up an opportunity for a list, a chart and some exhaustive research.

So, if you’re planning to do some travelling soon, allow my agonising to alleviate yours.  This is what we took:

Trusty, Dusty Companions

1. We each had a pair of general purpose walking shoes.  These we used every day in cooler climates and for trekking to Annapurna base-camp.  They were also light and comfortable enough for me to run in.  (I try to run off-road, if possible, and usually run bare foot on the beach.)  The boys’ shoes were a cheaper make, but that’s because they generally grow or wear them out within six months.  Ours are still going strong.  All the shoes claimed to be waterproof, but we never really put that to the test, as our walking tended to be over dry ground.  (Clearly, we weren’t in Scotland.)  On our Nepal trek we packed plastic bags for lining the shoes in case we hit snow, but we didn’t.
2. We also had a pair of ‘sports sandals’.  We used these as every day shoes in hotter places and they are generally comfortable enough for walking over most terrains.  The one down side was that they got rapidly malodorous with even normal levels of sweat, let alone a monsoon downpour.  However, an excellent resource for the home-schooling science curriculum.

Never mind the thing at the back – check the shoes

1. The boys and I took flip-flops which are handy as inside shoes for countries (like most of Asia) where you remove your outside shoes at the door.  (An exceptionally sensible custom and one we observe here.)  They’re also great for the beach, of course, but only for the car park.  After that they have a pesky habit of spraying sand up the back of your legs which, if you have dutifully slapped on enough sunscreen, (virtually moral law in Australia), will soon look and feel like strips of sandpaper.  Australians call this footwear ‘thongs’, which has no doubt caused great amusement and confusion when they come to the UK, as the word here refers to that most torturous of undergarments designed to slice people lengthways.  It reminds me of the Aussie podiatrist giving training here who advised that patients should come to appointments in normal footwear and not wearing thongs.  The Scots’ couldn’t imagine anyone even thinking about it.  The Nepali and Hindi word for these is ‘chappals’, which of course is the nick-name for junior son who developed a profound attachment to his, especially as cricket dress.

Chappals, flip-flops, thing-thongs?

1. Instead of flip flops, the Spin Doc took a pair of lime green Crocs because he needs an orthotic which can be neatly glued inside.  An excellent system until his wife leaves them on the train.  Fortunately, we found cheap replicas at a market in Kathmandu and all bought a pair.  They are the perfect second set of shoes for trekking because they are light, you can wear thick socks with them and they keep your feet clean and dry in the ‘bathrooms’.  They also don’t smell.
2. Three pairs of shoes should have been enough, but I was clinging to hopes of a very occasional night out on the tiles, or a stroll down Melbourne’s stylish streets, or a café table at Cape Town’s waterfront, and the image of me indulging this in either walking boots, reeking ‘sports sandals’ or – heaven forbid – thongs, was too much, even for my fecund imagination.  So, I squeezed in a little pair of navy blue pumps, and once in sunny Australia, bought a pair of strappy sandals, too.  And, ahem, some nail polish.  All bases covered.  (Or, should that be wickets?)

Best of all

Learning to Like Cricket

“So do you love cricket now?” someone asked me shortly after we got back.  That was the whole point, after all, wasn’t it?  (Was it?)  Well, it wasn’t the whole point of the journey, which was more about giving the long-suffering Spin Doc a break after 25 years of medicine, but it was the point of the blog.  Having come to terms with the fact that the three males were going to take a cricket bat with us, come what may, I had decided to turn my dismay into a challenge:  Could I figure this game out?  Could I learn to play?  More difficult still, could I learn to like it?

And so?  What’s the verdict?  Well, let’s see now.  (Cue embarrassed shuffling of feet, diverting of eyes, throat clearing…  Husband laughing.)  I think I’d have to say it’s a slow burn thing.  I can’t say I avidly follow the progress of international cricket.  (Can’t say I follow it at all, actually.)  I still don’t know the names of all the fielding positions or fully understand the rules of the game, and the umpire’s gestures remain a mystery, as does the desire of anyone to follow the fortunes of their team over five long days, but – and here’s a big but – something has definitely shifted.

Breathless Excitement – High Altitude Cricket

There was an undeniable magic about all those impromptu games along the way, when strangers, friends and family joined us to swing a bat at a ball and race madly down the pitch, be it grass, dirt, mud or sand.  I will always remember the lanky young men of Jaipur, the porters at Annapurna base camp, the cart wheeling kids in Cape Town – those moments when differences of language, culture, colour and money dissolved and cricket made us common.  That, certainly, has brought me under its spell.

What’s more, though I’m no better at batting, bowling or fielding, my critique of everyone’s else’s game is vastly improved.  I can now shake my head over the England score and say “Woeful!” like the best of them.

Glorious Ground

But I think the real turning point for me was the India Australia match at Adelaide Oval.  I’ve since learned it is considered one of the most beautiful cricket grounds in the world, and I can see why.  With its old scoreboard, jewel-green pitch and white canopies it captures the elegance and charm of the historic game, but with none of the stuffiness.  Filled with relaxed, friendly Aussies and wildly excited Indians there was little chance of that, to the point that I found the characters and performances in the stands even more entertaining than the game.  Till the end, that was.  Till that moment of surrender at 10pm when I accepted that watching the finish was more important than catching our train.  That moment, when there were just minutes remaining and India were just a handful of runs behind and the Aussies were getting tense and the Indians beside themselves and their captain hit a soaring six high into the crowd and the place erupted.

That moment, I believe, was my conversion.

World Wide Wood

We are standing in the midst of trees that are older than our grandparents.  Some are older than the first white settlers that arrived in Western Australia in the 1820s; some even older than the first European explorers, the Dutch, that came here in 1616.  As Captain Dirk Hartog gazed at this rugged coast through his telescope, some of these trees were gazing back.  Their scientific name is eucalyptus marginata, but everyone calls them ‘jarrah’, the name given by the aboriginal people who have lived amongst them for more than 50,000 years.

A Giant Jarrah

The aboriginals used the jarrah for  spears, and very soon after arrival, the white settlers also recognised the potential of this strong, durable wood that is resistant to fire, rot, termites and disease.  Red in colour and very hard, it was dubbed “Swan River Mahogany” and was rapidly at the heart of a burgeoning industry supplying timber not only toAustralia’s fledgling colonies, but across the world.  Its rot resistance made it especially popular for wharves, jetties, bridges and ship building, but it was also used for railway sleepers in India and South Africa, for the roads of London’s West End, for paving slabs in Japan and park benches in New York.  It was so exploited that there are now limits on logging and the wood is expensive.  For our wedding, an artist friend made a candelabra out of jarrah reclaimed from an old fence post on his father’s farm.

Busselton Jetty

In Busselton and Hamelin, we visit two jetties built from jarrah which were key points of departure for the south west’s timber.  Today they couldn’t be more different.  Busselton is the longest in the southern hemisphere and though it ceased operation in 1972 it has undergone a multi-million dollar renovation, making it a tourist hub with a visitor centre, a train running its length and an underwater observatory at the end.  Hamelin, on the other hand, was destroyed in a storm in 1900 and never re-built.  It is now reduced to a row of stumps, desolate but possessing an almost mythical quality, especially when the sting rays gather at sunset.

Hamelin Bay Jetty

As well as the jarrah, this area in Western Australia’s south west is host to other distinctive eucalpyts, some of them found nowhere else in the world.  There are the marri, with a flower the aboriginals used for making a sweet drink, and the giant red tingle trees, that can grow to 75 metres high and 26 metres in girth.  They have a bulging, fibrous exterior lending almost human features and reminding me of the ancient Ents in Lord of the Rings.  Frequently burnt out by fire, if the outer bark is intact they survive, but with gaping holes at their core.  One was large enough for cars to drive through, but had become such a tourist attraction that the shallow roots were crushed and the tree died.  They are now more protected.

Inside a Living Tingle

My favourite tree here, though, is the stately karri that can tower to 90 metres and is covered in a smooth, peeling bark that reveals layers of silver, grey and orange.  Beautiful and elegant, they stand together in vast forests like a legion of angels.

Karri Forest

Around the old timber town of Pemberton, we drive the Karri Explorer Trail through miles of old-growth forest, alive with birdsong, the rustle of countless creatures and the snapping of gumnuts in the warm sun.  We swim in the glassy waters of Big Brook Dam, walk small stretches of the Bibbulman Track and fry up bacon sandwiches beside the Warren River.  Testing our heads for heights, we climb the 60 metre Gloucester Tree, a karri with iron stakes spiralling up its side and used as a fire-spotting tower, and on the south coast we visit Bartholomews, where they produce honey, ice-cream and several kinds of mead, a medieaval honey wine.  They move the hives around the countryside to follow the flowers, and right now the bees are feasting on karri.

Let's see now... a hint of... honey?

But what of our cricket?  We must admit to having lost some of our edge on the surf beaches and down the forest trails in the last few weeks, but there have been games on campsite clearings and the bat is still with us (though the ball has split its seams.)  And despite all the wealth in Australia’s timber, interestingly, none of it is the right stuff for making bats.  How they first brought willow here for home grown cricket bats is a fascinating tale, but one I’ll save for another day.  Because right now I’m busy shaking the sand out of our stuff and re-packing it for the next leg in the tour: South Africa.  Another great cricket nation awaits.  Next post from safari…

Aussie Cricket Strategy Reaches New Low

Waves of Wonder

Smiths Beach

Did you know that real surfers measure the height of a wave from the back? We learnt that because we stayed with a couple of them in Dunsborough, three hours south of Perth, a place that might be considered the gateway to some of Western Australia’s best surf. So when they talk about ten foot waves, it looks more like twenty foot to the punters on the beach. This means that all our surfing boasts of late can effectively be halved. (That massive dumper I told you about? Ok, so it was 18 inches and tickled my knees, but it felt big at the time, I promise you.) Despite the boys’ boundless enthusiasm and self-belief, we have not come here to master the surf. If my life-saving course taught me anything at all, it was not to trifle with the ocean, and according to our local friends, it takes months to master the art. Certainly, our experience so far testifies that it’s hard enough to stand up, let alone stay on.

Canal Rocks

But fortunately for us, the coast here offers much more than just high-octane surfing. At Geographe Bay, the water is still as glass and the boys stand waist deep and stir up the sand at their feet, making small fish crowd around to investigate. At Busselton, we jump from the old jetty and discover the marine life swirling around the stumps. At Yellingup and Canal Rocks, we simply watch, admiring the power of the waves pounding against the shore, while at Smiths Beach, the boys boogy-board for hours, whooping and crowing as they ride the surf right up to the tide mark, then hurl themselves back in, giddy and grinning like dash-board toys. At Conto’s beach we find dozens of crabs, some luminous orange and dusky purple, pincering their way across the rocks like girls in high heels, till sight of us sends them scuttling into the crevices.

Conto Crab

Moving just a little inland, this area around the Margaret River is also abundant with vineyards, over eighty within an hours’ drive, studding the landscape with grids of lush vines and countless tempting signs. Our budget doesn’t extend to winery lunches, but we do sprawl out on the grass of the Cape Mentelle Estate one evening with a picnic to watch The Muppets on their outdoor screen. The film was fun, but it was the stars above that really stole the show. Going underground, the stretch of coast along here boasts countless caves, one of which – Ngilgi Cave – became a tourist attraction way back in the nineteenth century, popular with honeymoon couples. Back then you had to travel several days by bumpy cart from Perth, crawl for ten hours through the cave with a burning torch, then find a quiet hollow under the trees to sleep the night. Romance clearly isn’t what it used to be. Thankfully, Ngilgi Cave is now kitted out with lights, stairs and boardwalks, and we are awed by the ancient formations, strange and hauntingly beautiful. We also visit the Naturaliste and Leeuwin lighthouses at the northern and southern tips of this butt of land, both named for early discovery ships, and take time in the deep, sweet green of the Boranup Forest.

Ngilgi Cave

But the highlight of this time for me must be Hamelin Bay, a sweep of white beach beside sea that deepens from turquoise to duck feather green to inky blue on the horizon. We camp under the peppermint trees behind the sand dunes and every day walk, run or swim at the beach, watching sunsets, making sand-castles and, best of all discovering the bay’s famous sting rays. There are many the size of Frisbees that drift in the shallows here, but half a dozen much larger ones come round the boat ramp morning and evening and ride the low waves. Gentle and inquisitive (and some as big as cartwheels) they coast right up to your ankles, sometimes letting you stroke their backs, as their wings ripple like dancers’ skirts. It is a shot of pure joy. As much as I would love to master surfing and tell tall tales about thirty foot waves (from the back!) I know I can leave Australia happy in the knowledge that I have touched the hem of the real kings of the surf.

Hamelin Bay

Sting Ray

Close Encounters

Surf’s Up

Cott, Scabs and Rotto may sound like infectious diseases or a trio of particularly nasty fighting dogs, but are, in fact, three of Perth’s most famous beaches.  The Australian insistence on reducing words to slang means Cottesloe, Scarborough and Rottnest Island have lost their full names, but none of their magnetism.  Much of the city’s life seems to flow to the beaches and it’s easy to see why.  With summer temperatures easily reaching 40°, the waters of the Indian Ocean are refreshing but not too cold, turquoise blue and wonderfully clear.

Trigg Beach

Right across the country, beaches have played a large part in shaping the Australian way of life, even for those who rarely visit them.  The majority of the population lives around the coasts and there are no private beaches, reflecting the nation’s strongly held egalitarian values.  Relaxed beach dress and behaviour influences the rest of the culture, too, which is determinedly casual, with people wandering around in skimpy clothes and flip-flops and refusing to speak properly.  But they’re also fabulously friendly, open and good-humoured.  (There’s nothing like being tossed about in the surf like flotsam to prevent anyone from taking themselves too seriously.)  People here smile readily, lend a hand and are onto first names immediately.  Real affection is signified when they mess up that name or pick something entirely new.  ‘Merryn’ rapidly became ‘Mezza’ when I was at Uni, and you could just as easily get Stubbo, Pog or Fizz, and for no apparent reason.  You might get Shorty if you’re tall, or Quick if you’re slow or, conversely, Caveman, in the case of my brother, for his body hair, Neanderthal brow and propensity to sit in a darkened room with only a computer screen for illumination.  I’m sure the grunting had nothing to do with it.

The Swing King swaps Ball for Board

But back to the beach.  Whilst in Perth, we spend some time with my mother’s side of the family who live just minutes from the water and take us down several times, to run the dog, swim and boogy board, and, of course, for the ubiquitous BBQ.  (I must say, by the way, that I have never ‘thrown a shrimp on the barbie’ nor ever witnessed anyone else doing it, though I believe it does happen outside Australian tourism commercials.)  On one of our trips, I swim out a fair way, enjoying the clear, shallow water and the gentle swell, but surface to shouts and furious arm-waving from my husband.  “Come back!” he yells and I duly comply.  Perhaps the sausages are done.  It transpires, however, that I have alarmed the Perth relatives by venturing out so far.  Shark attacks are on the rise and folks are advised to stay close to the shore, though this didn’t stop a man being taken in waist-deep water recently.  There are various theories: decreased fish stocks, change in currents, more people in the sea, but the reality is that infinitely more Australians die each year from drowning than from sharks.

With this in mind, and our tour of the south-west coast ahead, I undertake a two-day Bronze Medallion Life Saving Course in Fremantle – ‘Freo’ to the locals.  My instructor – ‘Trace’ – is a surfer with a drawl that not only drops syllables but lengthens and bends the remaining ones like melted cheese.  I’m told we do 30 ‘comps’ for 2 breaths, that I’ll ‘nuh-eed’ to renew my ‘quals’ every year, and, reassuringly, that I’ll have ‘na-oh probs.’  Course done, we throw camping gear, ‘cossies’ and the cricket bat into the back of the car and head south.  Life’s a ‘buh-eech’.

Busselton

Kangaroo Curry

We find ourselves in a sea of Indians, roaring, beating drums, chanting and waving flags.  No, we have not suddenly taken a detour from our Australia trip and popped back to Bharat for the afternoon, though it feels like it.  Rather, we are in good seats at the Adelaide Oval, and Australia are playing India in a One Day International.  Most of Adelaide’s Indian community have turned out in force, and most are sitting with us.  We’re in for a raucous afternoon.

Swami Army

At last, I am at a proper cricket match.  (About time, too, since we are more than half way through our Eighty Wickets tour and I realised I couldn’t really hold my head up if I left Australia without seeing one.)  Our Adelaide friends kindly offered to organise these tickets for us, so I had no excuse.  My last (and only?) other proper game was when my aunt took me to the Boxing Day game at the Melbourne Cricket Ground when I was about nine.  I have absolutely no memory of the occasion and she tells me I read a book.

There is little chance of that today if my Indian brethren keep up their good cheer, which looks likely.  I find my spirit is with them, as the foreigners and something of the underdog (due to their recent performance) but more because I have spent more of my life in south Asia than here so there is a bond.  It’s a bright-hot day here at the Oval, which is much smaller than the MCG and more appealing to me, with its peaked tent roofs, grass bank and traditional scoreboard.  I quiz our ten-year old host about the latter and draw myself a diagram, gradually fathoming who’s doing what and why.  (Well, still working on the ‘why’…)

A Touch of Old-Time Elegance

I learn that a One Day game is a much less formal affair than a Test Match, certainly in Australia.  The players wear coloured uniforms and only the ball and wickets are white.  There are bursts of music from the PA system throughout the game, and during breaks we must endure tacky performances from a cover band who have invested more in their costumes than their music.  They are called Chunky Custard, which says all you need to know.  There are also Mexican waves and silly games on the pitch at half-time, fancy dress competitions and give-aways from the sponsors.  Should the excitement get too much (or someone try to streak) there is a swarm of security guards and police, who are pressed into service surprisingly early, evicting a few drunk and disorderly yobs in drag.  Wouldn’t happen at Lords, dahling.

Still Behaving

Apart from that, the atmosphere is overwhelmingly good-natured and fun, with everyone from grannies to babes-in-arms milling about in the sunshine, the ‘Swami Army’ and the Aussies sitting cheek by jowl and several folk joining each other’s chants.  And, I will admit, even the cricket is good.  My one disappointment is that Sachin Tendulkhar is not playing today, but I am pleasantly surprised by the rest.  Inevitably, one’s concentration wanders (where are the ice-creams?) and I do wish there was some sort of early warning system for a six, because I keep missing it.

Adelaide Oval

However, my attention improves as the stakes get higher.  When India take the batting in the second half, it looks unlikely they will catch the Aussie score, but as the dark deepens and we slurp our take-away curries and naan, the tide begins to turn.  The Indian fans get more excited, singing and dancing and waving banners, while the Aussies start swearing and gripping their beers with a fierce glitter in the eye.  The pitch rises yet more till there are just a few overs left and India only needs a dozen runs to win.  But if we miss our 10pm train we have to wait another hour for the next, and I’m torn.  The Spin Doc is astonished I could even contemplate leaving at a time such as this.  Shamed, I agree to stay, and am rewarded by Indian captain Dhoni hitting a superb, arching six right into the heart of his brothers in the stand.  The stadium erupts.  Within minutes, India get their final runs and the fans are catapulted into heaven.  We are catapulted out the side gate, across the Torrens River and through the sprinklers of the Arts Centre lawn in our headlong gallop for the station.  Breathless and damp, we stumble onto the train, just in time.  Win win.

The Ocean Road

We are tossed from side to side as our ship rises and plunges in the storm and is smashed against the reef.  It’s pitch black, lashing wind and rain and the hull is shattered, quickly flooding with water.  All the passengers are asleep down below, and there’s no time to get to life boats before the ship goes down.  Only three of us survive: a young Irish sailor, a young Irish girl and a ceramic peacock.  The boys are thrilled.

The Loch Ard

All this excitement is a sound and laser re-enactment of the wreck of the Loch Ard, a Glasgow-built ship that came to grief on the southern coast of Victoria in 1878.  We are at the Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village in Warrnambool, one of our stops along the legendary Great Ocean Road, a spectacular route winding west from Melbourne along a coastline that is as treacherous as it is beautiful.  The striking rock formations that created London Bridge and The Twelve Apostles have also brought ruin to over 200 ships, thus earning the title ‘The Shipwreck Coast’.

Two of the Twelve Apostles

As we journey, the boys are doing a Shipwreck Project, investigating such questions as:  Who was on the ships and why did they come?  How were the ships powered?  What navigation and communication instruments did they use?  And why did so many get wrecked?

Many of the answers we find at Flagstaff Hill, an outstanding museum and 1850s port town reconstruction that is packed with information, activities and relics of the era, including the original Loch Ard peacock, 5 feet high and shiny as new.  The day before, we had visited the gorge where the wreck happened and marvelled that anyone survived.

Where the Loch Ard was Wrecked

Answers to why people came we found in the Immigration Museum back in Melbourne, but also in the annals of my own family history.  My forebears include a Swedish sea-captain plying trading vessels in the south; English, Irish and Scottish settlers seeking better lives; a Lithuanian Jew escaping persecution and – of highest status in a white Australian genealogy – a convict.

Early Aussie Scuba Kit

The effects of foreign arrivals here have been as varied and complex as the reasons for coming, but one thing is clear: the impact on the Aboriginal people has been devastating and still casts a long shadow.  There are steps of apology and reconciliation, and I am glad to see statements in many places that honour the original Aboriginal custodians, but the damage is deep and far-reaching and Australia still has a long way to go towards restoration.

The Southern Ocean

One place where this is taking place, on many levels, is the Coorong Wilderness Lodge, a spit of land in the lagoons of the South Australian coast that has been returned to the Ngarrindjeri people.  They are re-planting the vegetation (stripped bare by sheep farming) and witnessing the return of wildlife and a natural balance.  Visitors to the lodge can take guided tours to learn about the land and its people.  Our overnight stay there is all too short, but brim full of beauty, from the flocks of pelicans and ducks skimming over the lagoons, to the thunderous surf on the ocean beach, to the carpet of shell fragments on the sand.  As we pull our kayaks out of the water at the end of the day, we are thankful for safe passage and welcoming shores.

Paddling the Coorong

Raiders of the Lost Pitch

Finding a good spot for cricket in Australia shouldn’t be this difficult.  It’s not as if they’re short of space and I do believe one or two Aussies have heard of the game.  But here we are in the village of Loch Sport on Victoria’s east coast driving around in vain.  The dusty leaflets in our holiday house mentioned a cricket club, but we’re beginning to think it’s either the stuff of  legend or wishful thinking.  The first park we come to is a large swamp rich with rushes and bird life but not great for that crucial bounce.  The next one, optimistically labelled ‘Sports Reserve’ contains a Royal Servicemen’s League meeting hall, an anglers club,  some pitted tennis courts and a stretch of scrub.  We try the Primary School playing field, but the gates are locked.  Beside it is a large village map and lo! there’s a cricket pitch!  We trace our fingers over the route and realise it’s back at the ‘Sports Reserve’.  How could we have missed it?  We drive back and squint across the expanse of scrub in search of a jewel-green field beyond, but there are only trees.  A man in the middle of the scrub tosses a ball to his dog and suspiciously, it bounces.  The awful truth dawns… This IS the cricket pitch.

Nice Mowing

We swish through the long grass, over the knobbly ground and the scattering of kangaroo poo to arrive at a cracked strip of astroturf  in the middle.  Yep.  This is it.  Clearly, the Loch Sport Cricket Club have either taken up angling or retired to the verandah of the RSL with a pack of tinnies.  Not us.  My brother’s family of six and the four of us are determined to play, whatever the state of the grass or our bowling.  And it’s a glorious game.  First up to the crease is my six year-old niece, a first-timer and no bigger than the bat, though this doesn’t stop her hurling it to the side when she runs.  Next up niece is a ferocious player who swings so hard she does a 360, while biggest niece makes the innocent mistake of admitting she doesn’t know how to bowl.  She is, of course, immediately assisted in her efforts by everyone else, with demonstrations, break-downs, instructions and advice, especially from the likes of me, who can’t bowl either.  My nephew, on the other hand, is training for a triathlon and should have been disqualified at the outset for being too fit, but at least he gives the fielders something to do.

Right, who forgot to bring the ball?

Doing the Time Warp again...

As we play, the evening light stretches long and gold, glowing on our sunburnt faces and the seed heads of the grass.   Flocks of rosellas swoop overhead and two kangaroos hop languidly through the trees.  It is immeasurably good to be here with my brother’s family.  The last time I saw them was over two years ago when he (my only sibling) had just been diagnosed with bladder cancer.  Since then he has endured two years of invasive and painful treatment with his characteristic stoicism, and now continues to endure the side-effects of the treatment.  You  would not know it, though, as the great burly giant of him whacks a six and charges down the turf, bellowing his triumph.  While I scamper off to find the ball in the undergrowth, it occurs to me that there are better cricket pitches out there, and better games, but none on earth where I’d rather be.

Loch Sport Cricket Club Takes Off