Journey to the brink of victory

Summer. It's for lazy afternoons in the park, sun drenched days at the seaside and ... honing your long forgotten sporting skills?

This summer, I spent a fair amount of time falling back in love with the game of cricket. I had played in the back garden as a very small child and then had several failed attempts at joining or organising teams at school (I quickly learnt that my friends weren't keen to stand around a lot on the Veracity at the weekend, even if I coerced my dad into chauffeuring them to practice).

So, my love of cricket took a more passive incarnation as I matured. I made do with scoring matches as well as taking more than a passing interest in the aesthetically pleasing athleticism of cricketers. But this summer, a new initiative was made known to me. Word of mouth brought W10 into my life. This was a project run by the Hampshire Cricket Board to encourage women who had not had the opportunity to play cricket, to try out the game in a shorter, more accessible format. Eight cricket clubs across Hampshire were offered the opportunity. I joined my local club, Old Netley and Highfield - big up the Old Netters (is that a thing?).

As a team, we were offered ten weeks coaching that would lead us to a semi-final round robin competition and then, all going to plan, onto the W10 Finals day. But, I'm getting slightly ahead of myself here. First we had to learn how to play.

Some of us came to the crease, metaphorically speaking, with a background in cricket knowledge and a smattering of playing experience. Some of us started only just about knowing which end of the bat to pick up. But it didn't matter. The ladies I met in training this summer are some of the nicest, funniest people I know. Nobody judged anybody. And every one of us gave it a bloody good go.

Cue Rocky style training montage. Visualise if you will, throwing drills on the outfield, fumbled catches, saving balls from the jaws of an over-keen springer, bowling in the nets, practise games and, a highpoint for me, being coached by a nine year old. We trained weekly, weather permitting - I love cricket for its sensible attitude to playing in the rain, and we readied ourselves for the semifinals.

The fateful day came, and to cut a long story short, we smashed it. We played three; won three. Then we ate copious amounts of cake. Exactly like the pros right? It was a very good day.

And so our training continued in preparation for the finals day (repeat training montage, albeit with a rotated selection of players absent as the summer holidays took precedence). And finally the day came, of course on the second attempt; the English summer made itself known on the originally scheduled day and it was rained off. Undeterred, we approached the rescheduled finals day with gusto. We had our matching team tshirts, we had some supporters (thanks to all!), I had an emergency stash of jelly babies, and perhaps most importantly, our captain, Jo, had the game plan.

The first two games yielded two more scalps to our winning run. Despite the onslaught of summer drizzle in one innings (I was severely disadvantaged as a spectacle wearer - I remember thinking that if a catch came my way, I'd be lucky to see it, let alone catch it), we powered though to chase the required runs. It was going well. Almost too well.

The third game began. We were playing Lymington, who had to win to join us at the top of the leader board. They were batting. We were able to restrict their runs to a certain point. We were ticking along nicely. However, in the last two overs, a young lady came to the crease and we started haemorrhaging runs. She hit sixes for fun. But alas, we were having none of the fun. All our thrifty fielding counted for nothing as the score raced on.

But we remained positive. We had excellent batters and we had the determination. The chase was on.

Our innings started brightly, reflecting the positive attitude. We were steadily adding runs. For those amongst us not batting, our fingernails were taking a battering. Now, I'm quite a competitive person generally - quizzes and tennis tend to bring out a less than pretty side of me - but so far in this competition, I had limited myself to enjoying the experience and having fun in the games. Yet as this last game built towards the pinnacle of the summer, my competitiveness emerged. I wanted to win. In fact, at that point, we all wanted to win. My teammates who had been laughing at our silliness in training and making jokes about being champions had pushed that English politeness aside and we were all prowling the boundary line, cheering on every single. Whenever the ball joined us over the boundary line, we erupted in cheers, pushing our team on.

Alas, it was not to be.

Our friend, the six-hitter, was fielding on the boundary. Our batter pushed a delivery out to where she was. This young girl, probably about fifteen with jazzy leggings, a long, swishy ponytail of black locks and the enthusiasm of youth on her side, picked up the ball and hoofed it towards the stumps.

Direct hit. It was incredible. I was astounded. But relieved. Our batter was already in. But blimey, what some fielding.

The next over, a similar ball was played. The girl with the magic arm collected the ball again on the boundary and lobbed it with intent towards the stumps again. Direct hit again. My jaw hit the floor. The rest of our team were in the same state of shock. This time however, our batter was out by a mile.  Well played Lymington.

We continued through the remaining balls, edging towards the total but never speedily enough. The penultimate ball forced another wicket through sheer frustration and desperation. It would've taken a record-breaking amount of no-balls on the last delivery to even push a draw. Our winning streak was over.

Some maths calculations later and the overall victors were announced. The mighty Old Netley and Highfield had the taste of victory snatched away by the virtue of Lymington having taken more wickets than us.

Defeat is hard to take at the best of times, but this was the cruellest form of defeat.  There were even medals for the winners (medals for the love of God! I've never won a medal in my life!).

Despite coming so close to victory, only to have it denied by a tally of wickets, I had a wonderful day and an even better summer with my new teammates, or should I say now, my new friends. And if we get the chance to play again next year, Lymington better know that Old Netley and Highfield are out to claim those shiny, shiny medals of victory.

This girl can, and will. (As long as the rain's not too hard and I have cake waiting at the end.)

Island Escape

What is it about an island?

Islands have a magical pull over me. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. It's come as quite a surprise to me that it's taken this long for me to visit a relatively famous island that lies not too far from my door. Essentially, I've lived on the South coast of England my whole life (an educational respite at a Welsh university notwithstanding) and yet, I'd never been to Brownsea Island. This summer, I decided to remedy that.

Brownsea lies in the mouth of Poole Harbour. It's a National Trust run island now, but has a rich and varied history, much of which I learnt about on my guided tour. As I stepped off the boat (which was only a short trip from Sandbanks, but enough to give you a small, seafaring sense of adventure), I was informed that a guided tour would be starting shortly. I love a guided tour and when the lady at the desk said that this one was to be conducted by one of their most highly rated guides, I was ready to go. The elderly gentleman in question, with white hair and matching beard, guided us through a potted history of the island as we walked around the core sights. His Scottish accent (I'm not sure either) made the details of the battles and perils even more dramatic. He guided us around with his peaked train-drivers' cap at a jaunty angle and his hands either in his front pockets or arched in front of him like a wise professor. We lucky tour guidees were certainly educated as well as entertained.

The most interesting pearl of knowledge shed light on one of the former owners of Brownsea: Mary Bonham-Christie. The year was 1927 when she bought the island and from the outset, Mary was not out to make friends; she was, essentially, the modern fore bearer of the crazy cat lady. Mary didn't agree with the exploitation of animals and so proceeded to set free all the livestock on Brownsea. All the animals were free to roam and graze as they wished. She then evicted the few people living in the one village on the island, chased any visitors away and generally wanted the island all to herself. It was just her, the wild, former livestock and the native red squirrels.

I know it's not a very nice thing to do, but I do admire her for her stubborn indomitability. And if you see the island, I think you'd understand.

Brownsea is a breathtakingly beautiful sanctuary of the English countryside. At one point as I walked the paths, I glanced to my right and there was an explosion of purple, green and white heather next to lush, green grass. On my left, I peered through a tall canopy of trees to the clay cliffs and the shingle beach below which opened up onto the sparkling blue sea. A pure picture of the garden of heaven.

I took a path down to the beach and walked along the shingle as far as the tide would allow me. Once I had left behind the picnicking families, I found a warm spot and settled down to soak up the sun-drenched scenery. Like I said, I completely understand Mary's thinking, although maybe not her methods, in trying to preserve Brownsea's natural wonder. So I thank her for her efforts, and I thank the National Trust for their safe guardianship of such an unspoilt haven. Long may it continue to afford all of us the opportunity for an escape to secret island life for just a little while. Everyone needs that now and then.