Bury Alive - And Kicking

 

There won't be many amongst the footballing community who aren't chuffed to see Bury Football Club back, alive and kicking, at their spritual home of Gigg Lane. Crap owners certainly aren't a rarity in football but Bury fans had to endure successive crap owners which ultimately led to their expulsion from the football league in August 2019. Now, four years later, the club that is Bury FC is back, plying its trade six divisions below where it left off and able to do so courtesy of phoenix club Bury AFC, the two entities having agreed to merge in readiness for this new season. So, everyone is chuffed. Well, nearly everyone.

The recent history of and between Bury FC and Bury AFC is complicated and way more so than this blog will even attempt to do justice. From the outside looking in, it does appear that all parties wanted the best as far as football in the town of Bury was concerned yet a small percentage of members on both sides voted against the merger in a second such vote, the first having seen the proposed merger rejected. Had the second vote gone the same way then Bury FC would have been left as a club with a stadium but no team and Bury AFC a club with a team but no stadium, not to mention the forfeiture of lines of agreed funding subject to merger. So why anyone would have voted against the merger is a hard one to comprehend for the casual observer but one suspects that egos and entrenched positions may have played their part. Thankfully though, democracy can accommodate the egos and entrenched positions of a minority and so the newly merged entity that is the new Bury FC has started life this season in the North West Counties Football League Premier Division being the ninth tier (or Step 5) of the English football pyramid.

And started well they have too, having won their first three matches including the emotional return to Gigg Lane for the first match of the season when they beat Glossop North End 5-1 in front of a mahoosive near five and a half thousand crowd. They were well on course to make it four wins out of four last Saturday until an 87th minute equaliser by Chadderton preceded two more from the visitors to inflict a first defeat at Gigg Lane. You can't win 'em all but a second large home attendance suggests that the fans are loving having their football team - and stadium - back. They have been travelling in their numbers to the away matches as well. Ninth tier football may not be where the club wants to be for too long but it holds the prospect of an enjoyable season for the fans and who would begrudge them that after the last four years?

It is only in the last couple of weeks, following the reaction of the football world to the club's first match back at Gigg Lane, that I had been prompted to learn more of the recent Bury FC story. Looking at the fixture list and their fifth match of the season was at Padiham FC, just down the road from me. Like it was meant to be. And so it was that I strolled the near four miles, in the afternoon sunshine, into Padiham to watch Padiham FC versus Bury FC.

I set off early with a view to finding some nice pre-match ales which, as it transpires, is easier said than done in Padiham on a Tuesday afternoon. My intended destination was real ale bar Boyce's Barrel but I was forty eight hours too early as it turned out, the bar not due open again until Thursday. Hmm. The signed promise of cask ales saw me next enter the Starkie Arms pub but this was a fib which saw me turn around and walk straight back out again. The Kings Arms next door didn't even appear to be open so my hoped-for mini crawl was rapidly running out of possibilities. Last chance saloon was the Hare and Hounds, the pub closest to Padiham FC's ground (officially the Ruby Civil Arena but known to all as the Arbories). Last chance saloon it may have been but the Hare and Hounds came up top trumps with five ales on hand pump at £3.50 a pint or two for £6.00. Naturally I ordered two. Notwithstanding the availability of Reedley Hallows New Zealand Pale which is a staple go-to of mine, I plumped for the Moorhouses Moonbeam session IPA  which was a new one on me and it was lovely. Good decision. I sat in the beer garden at the back of the pub, in the sunshine, chatting to a couple of Bury fans whilst watching players and fans strolling up adjacent Well Street to the ground entrance. 

The Starkie Arms pub may have proved disappointing on the night but it was the Starkie family who agreed to sell land to the council back in the late 1940’s on which Padiham FC now play their football and the Starkie family’s coat of arms, featuring a stork, which led to the football club adopting the nickname of The Storks. With Bury FC nicknamed The Shakers, if these two clubs were ever to merge then they could be known as The Stalkers. Or maybe not.

The Arbories Memorial Sports Ground comprises both cricket (the home of Padiham Cricket Club) and football and makes for a very picturesque setting. The football ground is small, a bit tired but nonetheless a tidy little ground with a small and very smart club house and bar. Tonight's billy bonus for me was the availability of the aforementioned New Zealand Pale at the very acceptable price of £3.30 a pint. The understandable but always unwelcome plastic receptacle in which it was served was more than compensated by the excellent condition of the ale itself and the ability to enjoy it whilst watching the match. The ground has an official capacity (I believe) of just under seventeen hundred and whilst this figure wasn't threatened, Bury's one thousand or so supporters swelled the crowd to just over twelve hundred. Padiham took advantage by increasing the adult admission charge from its usual seven pounds up to ten pounds which might appear to be profiteering but nonetheless makes good business sense. No one seemed to be complaining. I certainly wasn't but there again I was four pints in by then.

As for the football, it was an enjoyable match with Bury always the better side. Two players particularly shone for me in the first half, Padiham's nineteen year old goalkeeper Harry Moss (on loan from Burnley) and Bury's number nine, twenty-one year old Abimbola Obasoto. Bury dominated this first period but with half-time imminent the score remained at nil-nil and pint number five was incoming. Having invested my £3.30 I turned away from the bar to a loud cheer which, as it transpired, was nothing to do with the wisdom of my investment but rather to acknowledge that Bury's Jack Lenehan had just put the away side ahead with (apparently) a twenty yard screamer. Hey ho. I settled down in the bar with my mate Mick to dissect the finer details of the match thus far, the simplicity of following non-league football in terms of pricing, ease of admission and the mixing of home and away fans and of course the ability to depart the bar with pint in hand to watch the match. Sixteen minutes later, intending to put the latter into practice, we were up and..................too late. Bury's Darius Palma had just put the away side two goals up.

Never mind. All was good with the world and we found a new vantage point for the second half, at the side of the pitch around twenty yards from the byline at the end towards which Bury were attacking. Bury continued to control the game although Padiham presented more of an attacking threat during this second period. Sadly for us, positioned in the anticipation of further goals for Bury, the one goal of the second half was a very late consolation scored by the home team's Charlie Disney-Ridge in the goal behind which we had been positioned in the first half. 

So then, Bury FC back to winning ways and deservedly so whilst Padiham's season has started in rather more downbeat fashion with just the one league win in five but it's early days for all right now. Bury's big fish status undoubtedly gives them a huge advantage in this league but, as they say, the proof of the pudding and all that. As Matt Badcock (staff writer at The Non-League Paper) writes in the Padiham matchday programme; "This is the time of the year for hope".

Four years ago, Bury's expulsion from the football league was akin to the club being buried alive. Not dead, just not living. But Bury FC and their fans are back, alive and kicking, and the football world is well chuffed for them. And I have to thank Bury FC for leading me to Padiham FC, another splendid little football club which happens to be pretty much on my doorstep. As this is the time of the year for hope, I sincerely hope that both clubs can enjoy successful seasons, however that success be defined. Realistically, Bury FC may well finish the season higher in the league than Padiham FC but one of the beauties of football is that you never know. Sustainability is the real prize. Football clubs really are community assets and Bury fans will recognise that more than most.

Darwen FC and the Theory of Evolution.

 

Darwen FC was formed in 2009 but, in reality, the town has a football history dating back to 1870 and a proud one at that, reaching the semi-finals of the FA Cup in 1881 (lost 4-1 to eventual winners Old Carthusians) and as a Football League member between 1891 to 1899. The club features in the Netflix series The English Game, released in 2020, about the origins of the modern game.

Naturalist and biologist Charles Darwin published Origin of the Species in 1859. This seminal contribution to evolutionary biology is often wrongly characterised as "survival of the fittest" but more accurately expounds the argument that the species that survives is the one best able to adapt to its changing environment. Historians claim that Darwin had a bit of a stutter and was mildy dyslexic and so it was that when he formed his own football club, he not only spelt the name wrong but ended up with Darwen FFFFFFFFFC. Probably. 

Doncaster City FC was formed in July 2022, just twelve month ago, following the (then) town's successful bid for city status as part of the Queen's Platinum Jubilee.

Dad, fancy coming to the football with me today? are words I never thought would pass the lips of my youngest daughter. However she is now adapting to the changing environment of having a boyfriend who plays football for Darwen FC and so it was that, after a late fitness test (six pints last night, the last two being a particularly delicious Brew York draught pale ale), I found myself at Darwen's tidy little Anchor Ground ahead of a pre-season friendly match between two teams with one hundred and fifty two years of history separating them.

Darwen FC play in the First Division North (Step 6) of the North West Counties Football League where they finished mid-table last season.

Last season Doncaster City FC won Division Two (Step 13) of the Sheffield & Hallamshire County Senior League. It doesn't take much googling to determine that there is ambition and momentum behind this club, epitomised by the fact that having successfully applied to join the Central Midlands Football League Premier North Division, this next season will see them at Step 7 level. That's like six promotions in one go. 

Please, someone at Doncaster City FC, get in touch with Dejphon Chansiri, the out-of-his-depth chairman at my club Sheffield Wednesday, to tell him how it's done.

I don't know what the normal match-day admission prices will be at the Anchor Ground for this coming season but this proved to be a very economic and enjoyable pre-season friendly with adult admissions priced at £5. The bar facility was splendid and I reluctantly accept that draught ale is not a practical option although the fizzy stuff that was on offer was expensive - a minor gripe only as I wasn't forced to drink those three pints. The brand new Legends Bar is a fantastic new facility for the club. 

On a lush pitch, the opening fifteen minutes saw both teams moving the ball around nicely. Youngest daughter, more versed in musical theatre than football theatre, was nonetheless enjoying the experience. The earthy dialogue emanating from the pitch, the goalkeeper's black tights and the nice, colourful costumes of the players were just a few of her favourite things.

Doncaster struck first. On eighteen minutes, 19-year old new boy Rio Allan latched onto a through pass, beat the defender and lashed in a great shot from a narrow angle. Eleven minutes later and he'd done it again, this time picking up the ball in the middle of the final third and placing a curling shot past the goalkeeper from the edge of the penalty area. At this stage of the match, there hadn't looked to be too much between the teams and Darwen's Gary Basterfield reduced the arrears on thirty eight minutes, cutting in from the left with a smart right footed effort into the bottom right hand corner of the net. But one minute before half time, the two goal advantage was restored when Doncaster's no. 6, Stokes rose to head home a well-flighted free kick from the left hand side. 

From a spectator viewpoint, all games benefit from a bit of handbags and this third goal for the visitors prompted a bit of rolling around on the ground together between Doncaster's no.9 and Darwen's no.4, both of whom got booked for their troubles. 

Half-time with the score at 1-3 to the visitors, I had a chat with a couple of Doncaster fans, one of whom turned out to be the mum of Doncaster's no. 11, another 19-year old, Jake Drury. I was intrigued about the club's story. Momentum can be a powerful force in football (unless your club is run by Dejphon Chansiri) and I wondered if the club might have a rich benefactor or some other advantage. Willie McKay is the man behind Doncaster City FC and he was a football agent, based in Monaco (according to google), so whilst chances are that he does enjoy a healthier bank balance than me, it seems the Doncaster City story is one of football savvy and contacts. A footballing hero of mine, ex-Wednesday and all-round football maverick Terry Curran, was team manager at the outset although has since has to step aside for personal reasons. The team ran away with their Sheffield & Hallamshire division last season so whoever was in charge knew what they were doing when it came to player recruitment. And judging by Rio Allan's first half performance, they're still not doing too bad a job.

Other than the absence of a website (currently being worked on), the club's social media PR is professional and engaging with real personality. The city of Doncaster may already have a football league club in Doncaster Rovers but there is something about this new upstart football club, reflected in it's PR, that has attracted the interest and enthusiasm of a small hardcore of followers who have bought into this ambitious project. Team shirts sponsored by Sports Direct and they even reckon to count Harry Redknapp and Neil Warnock amongst their admirers - it's not what you know it's who you know.

Last year, playing in Step 13 meant that the club didn’t qualify to take part in the FA Cup. So they applied to the Scottish FA to take part in the Scottish Cup instead. Citing the 1136 Treaty of Durham between the monarchs of England and Scotland at the time, which listed the city as part of Scotland, the application was made in all seriousness. Seriously. Probably. But alas to no avail. Happily, the club's newly acquired Step 7 status should ensure that they are able to feature in the upcoming 2023/24 FA Cup competition. 

Into the second half and there was no doubting that Doncaster had the upper hand.  Football-related proof of Charles Darwin's successful species survival theory can be found in the example of the Triallist family because there are hundred's of the buggers in pre-season friendly football. Doncaster had brought on A Triallist as a late first half substitute and his cross came off the bar in the fifty sixth minute and then he hit the post with a shot two minutes later. In the seventy fifth minute he headed the ball over the bar from a corner. Fed up with not hitting the back of the net on Doncaster's behalf, he obviously adapted to his environment and instead scored Darwen's late consolation goal to leave the final score at 5-2 to the visitors. In between times, no. 6, Stokes had scored his second and Doncaster’s fourth with a thunderous (slight deflection off the wall) free kick and Jake Drury had scored their fifth with a delicious clip over the oncoming goalkeeper, no doubt to the delight of his mum.

Whilst Doncaster City FC has no history to speak of, Darwen FC (in its various guises) has bags of it, even if its glory days (?) were over by the end of the nineteenth century and long since overtaken by big boy neighbour Blackburn Rovers whose Ewood Park stadium stands less than a mile and a half from the Anchor Ground. What have they got to show for all this history you, or indeed Charles Darwin, might well ask. Well, I would suggest that they, like pretty much every other functioning lower league club in the football pyramid, play a vital role in the Darwen community.

When I used to work for a living, my business (modestly) sponsored Great Yarmouth Town FC over three or four seasons and I got to see, at first hand, the impact and importance of such clubs in their local communities. Clubs are generally deemed successful or otherwise based on the performances and history of their first team but many also run reserve teams, seniors, juniors and girls teams. That’s one helluva lot of players and families engaging with their community club, giving meaningful distraction from a modern world full of meaningless and sometime harmful activities. In many ways, clubs such as this be they football clubs, other sports, musical theatre and the rest are the backbone of community cohesion in the UK and probably elsewhere. 

Some clubs evolve more successfully than others. Not all clubs survive. Our evolutionary biologist friend recognised this. Will Doncaster City’s ambition see them match and eventually overtake Darwen’s current Step 6 status? Who knows. Could Darwen’s ambition eventually see them overtake Blackburn Rovers as top dog in the borough of Blackburn and Darwen? Unlikely but not impossible. And that’s the beauty of football. To paraphrase the findings of Origin of the Species, the club that best thrives is the one best able to adapt to its environment. From my limited observations today, both clubs would appear to have the drive and ambition to be successful, however they may choose to define that success. As a neutral, I would define their future success as continuing to thrive, especially in their community.

What is not to like about lower league football? I will leave the final word to youngest daughter.

Encore!

Wednesday - You've Got Me Wondering

When your football team loses four nil in the first leg of a play-off semi-final, the last thing you expect to be doing sixteen days later is heading off to Wembley for the final. But that was me, plus around forty six thousand other Sheffield Wednesday supporters, on 28 and 29 May. 

Luton bound, courtesy of Ryanair

Following (officially) the greatest comeback in the history of the English football league play-offs - not that I had been able to witness any of it from the middle of nowhere in Spain - I only had a few days to sort out the logistics of actually getting to Wembley. But I had to be there. No question. It ain’t every day that your team plays at Wembley, not even if you’re a fan of the glory hunter variety. So it was that I flew out from Murcia International airport in Spain on a late flight to Luton airport on the Sunday night, landing at around quarter past eleven.

Dad, you’re too old to be kipping in airports was the considered opinion of daughters Emily and Ellie, backed up by Mrs C. To be fair, one of my many life rules and beliefs is that girls grow up into women whereas boys grow up into big boys and when it comes to certain things in life, particularly football and beer related, my generally logical thinking processes, honed over sixty four years, tend to lose out to big boy bravado. Of course I can kip in the airport. Two nights running. I’ve just spent two weeks slumming it in hostel dormitories, hotel rooms and a very nice Casa Rural thank you very much. What’s the point in paying for a hotel when I won’t get there until midnight and I’ll want to be up bright and early in the morning anyway?

The floor did me for the first three hours.

I wandered around the airport for half an hour or so checking the place out for potential get-me-head-down opportunities. Hmm, it’s a busy airport this Luton airport as it happens. However, with no more flights out until around five thirty the next morning, the check-in desks were now unmanned and I found a spare bit of floor on a near empty corridor just around the corner from the check-in hall. The temperature in the airport building was comfortable enough although the flooring had been specially shipped in from Lapland. Hey ho. What’s a couple of cold butt cheeks in the overall scheme of a Wembley weekend.

I felt sorry for the nice lady sat behind a desk at the far end of my corridor with the signage Oversized Baggage hanging above her head. Bit harsh I felt.

The floor did me for three hours, then an hour perched on a bench seat to revive said butt cheeks and, finally, a four a.m. coffee at Pret followed by a comfortable ninety minutes laid out on their nice, padded bench seats. Six o’clock in the morning and I’m ready for action!

Travel options investigated, I caught the shuttle to Luton Airport Parkway mainline railway station where I had fifteen minutes to wait for my seven o’clock Thameslink train to Kings Cross St Pancras. During this wait, it dawned on me that it was actually bloody cold and my shorts plus Wednesday top combo might have been okay for Spain, and even for Luton airport, but at ten to seven in the morning on the platform at Luton Airport Parkway mainline railway station it was now proving less than adequate. A quick assessment of my surroundings garnered that I was the only person on any of the platforms so I performed a superman-like transformation, substituting a perspex shelter for a phone box, and emerged clad in jeans and puffa jacket albeit, sadly, no cape. But at least I was now truly ready for the action.

The Thameslink train deposited me at Kings Cross St Pancras station. There was blue and white everywhere. I got talking to father and son Wednesdayites who had travelled down from Sheffield on a five a.m. train (the seven a.m. train already being fully booked) and we headed for the Barrel Vault, a Wetherspoons pub, for breakfast washed down with the first pint of the day which, for me, was an American Pale Ale. The place was full of Wednesday fans. I hadn’t yet seen a single red Barnsley shirt anywhere.

Conscious that eight in the morning was pretty early, even for me, to start drinking I left it at just the one pint and strolled up to Euston where I would later be meeting my eldest daughter Emily off the Preston train. I had also planned to meet up with my good mate Darren from Southend who was travelling into London with Gillian, another long-standing friend and Southend-based Wednesday fan with whom I used to travel to games with the London Owls supporters group over forty years ago. 

The Royal George pub seemed to fit the bill perfectly. It was literally just outside Euston and due to open at ten o’clock. I sat outside, chatting to four more Wednesday fans, as opening time approached. Emily was due in to Euston at ten past ten so I made do with a quick Jamesons, once the pub had opened, before heading back into the station. Like clockwork, Ems and I were in the pub five minutes later and Darren and Gillian had also arrived. Thirteen quid though for a pint of Greene King IPA and a craft equivalent seemed a bit steep so we didn’t linger beyond these first drinks and instead decided to take the tube to Preston Road, one station beyond Wembley Park, where we knew some of the latter day London Owls were planning to meet at The Preston pub. We had also, by now, had our first sighting of a few lesser spotted Barnsley fans, all of whom appeared to be decent guys and gals with the requisite number of fingers despite rumours to the contrary. 

Gillian, bless her, is a bit of a London Owls legend. She is also very, very tiny. And forty years plus of supporting The Owls takes its toll as recognised by the kindly person who gave up their seat on the tube so that Gillian could sit down. Cue much amusement on my part.

Gillian looks like she has been photo-shopped on to this

image.There is no truth in the rumour that we had to do

this because she was too tiny to get her in the picture

otherwise. No truth in this rumour whatsoever. Honestly.   

The Preston pub is a nice, roomy pub with a big beer garden and now that the London temperatures were somewhat more agreeable than those experienced at Luton Airport Parkway earlier in the day, it was in the garden where most of the Wednesday fans had parked up. I was beginning to regret my Superman transformation from earlier in the day now that my shorts were packed away in temporary storage, along with the other contents of my rucksack, back at the Exmouth Arms in Euston. I consoled myself with a pint of Adnams Secret Springs tropical pale ale which was a new one on me and it was bloody lovely, the best pint of the day in fact. 

It was good to catch up with one or two familiar faces from long years past including Paul Beckett, Colin Grant and Ian Colley. Gillian knew way more faces than I did which was just as well because when she wasn't chatting to her London Owls mates, she was busy regaling Ems with some of my less finer moments as a younger, single chap in Southend. I consoled myself with another pint of the Adnams Secret Springs tropical pale ale which continued to be bloody lovely.

We left The Preston at one o'clock and headed back to the tube station via the chippy. The train to Wembley Park duly arrived and, once again, a kindly person (a different kindly person this time) offered up their seat to my miniature friend. Courtesy of my two pale ales, I found this ridiculously amusing. I may be sixty four but, thankfully, nobody seems inclined to take pity on me in similar vein just yet. Anyway, we arrived at Wembley Park and joined the throng of blue and white heading up Olympic Way towards the stadium. Generally speaking, the build-up to a Wembley final is a joyous occasion in its own right, never mind that there's a football match to be played at the end of it, but at some stage along Olympic Way it suddenly dawns on you that the football match is actually why you're there and the prospect of emerging as the eventual loser is simply too painful to contemplate. Surely, having won through to Wembley with the greatest comeback of all time, the fates must be on our side this time round?

Ems and I weren't among the forty four thousand who had bought their match ticket through the club. We had been too far down the priority list to make that particular cut so we had managed to obtain tickets through the wider EFL (English Football League) family. Upon entering the stadium, the real ale bar did not go unnoticed and so we treated ourselves to a pint and a half of Courage Best between us and even managed some change out of a tenner. We supped up and then went to find our sixty-two quid seats. Wow! Block G, row 13 offering a great view of the pitch, pretty much level with the penalty spot, surrounded by fellow Wednesdayites and fully in the sunshine. I mean fully in the sunshine. Oh for my shorts back at Euston. 

Possibly not a Wednesdayite was the employee of Brent Council, sat two rows behind us, dressed from head to foot in heavy black clothing, with head scarf, mask and shades, a get-up that could have possibly served me well on the floor at Luton airport the night before but most definitely not suitable for the sunny side of Wembley stadium in which we were sat. Heavy black clothing, shorts or whatever, the temperatures were such that dehydration and heat exhaustion were real possibilities in our corner of the stadium so fingers crossed that the match wasn't going to go into extra time. Which of course it did.

The fates did appear to want to be on Wednesday's side. Barnsley had a player sent off early in the second half but not before Wednesday had survived a penalty appeal which could easily have gone the other way. I felt we were marginally the better side in the first half but Barnsley, once down to ten men, were better than us in the second half albeit we created more chances. The match went into extra time and Wednesday played with more control than hitherto, creating the bulk of the opportunities although the best chance in the first fifteen minutes fell to Barnsley but their player made a complete hash of his shot and will forever be known as Mr Sitter. Second half of extra time and Wednesday were upping the ante without ever looking really convincing until a smart move saw our midfielder Will Vaulks lash the ball into the net from just outside the penalty area. Bedlam ensued. I am jumping up and down like a demented idiot, completely missing the fact that the linesman has his flag up and the effort is ruled out for offside. Noooooooo! Surely we're not going to cock this up. A one-man advantage for seventy minutes and the match is heading to penalties. I feel sick to the stomach at this prospect. Three minutes of injury time are added to the final period. Wednesday are huffing and puffing to find that one last chance. With thirty seconds to go, the ball is played to our goalkeeper Cam Dawson and he humps the ball up-field. The ball is headed down to Fisayo Dele-Bashiru who plays the ball forward to Lee Gregory. Instead of playing the ball back to Dele-Bashiru, Gregory turns towards goal and looks to go past the defender. He stops, turns again and creates a yard of space for himself as he picks out a cross into space between the six yard box and the penalty spot. Our striker Josh Windass is nowhere near the the destination of Gregory's cross but he has seen it coming and charges into the area, launching himself into a diving header, the pace on which is too much for Barnsley's man-of-the-match keeper Harry Istead who can only get sufficient glove on it to help it into the net. There are three seconds of injury time left as the ball hits the back of the net. Bedlam does not cover it.

This is the stuff of football fantasy. A winning goal with the last kick of the match. At Wembley stadium. Forty six thousand Wednesday fans are jumping up and down like demented idiots and this time there is no offside flag to spoil the party. The absolute best way to win a football match. The absolute worst way to lose one. Everyone in the stadium knows that that’s it. Match won and lost. Barnsley are allowed the right to kick-off but immediately the ball is played the referee blows the whistle for full time. In over fifty years of following this club, I can tell you that this sort of thing does not happen to Sheffield Wednesday, yet here I am in disbelief, laughing, crying, jumping and hugging Emily all at the same time. The old chap (about my age probably) next to Emily joins in and the three of us form a laughing, crying, jumping, hugging threesome. All around us, the Wednesday fans are in a similar state of delirium. Probably not so our friend from Brent Council though. She had melted by now and all that remained was a pile of heavy black clothing, head scarf, mask, a pair of shades and a pair of shoes in a small puddle on the floor. 

The Barnsley fans were also melting away. There is little consolation in knowing that your team has played well but lost. The joyous occasion of the day is well and truly - and in this case abruptly - ended and the immediate priority is to get away from the scene of defeat as quickly as possible. If I was to sum up the day from a Barnsley viewpoint, I would have to conclude that the fates were against them. And let’s face it, what would be the point of the greatest comeback in the history of the English football league play-offs if you didn’t go on to win the final with the last kick of the match? This was always going to be Wednesday’s final.

The celebrations on and off the pitch ensured that the Barnsley fans had a half an hour head start to make good their getaway. Ems and I lingered in the stadium until the last of the Wednesday team had disappeared off the pitch before we joined the sea of blue and white heading back up Olympic Way to Wembley Park station. We met up again with Darren and Gillian at a pre-arranged meeting point and continued on to the tube station where we squeezed into the train with our fellow Wednesdayites to head back into central London. No chance of a seat on this one I joked but, yet again, I had reckoned without the ability of my very tiny friend to garner sympathetic gestures and, yet again, a (third of the day) kindly person offered up their seat to her. Hilarious.

By now, we were also in the company of Darren’s old Southend schoolmate Paul and his son Kai, both of whom were bitten by the Wednesday bug having previously gone to matches with Darren. The Sheffield Wednesday Southend Supporters Club appears to be going from strength to strength.

We decided to head to The Sir John Oldcastle in Farringdon, another Wetherspoons pub, although Ems had a seven thirty train to catch back to Preston so I temporarily left the Southend Owls contingent and made sure that Ems caught her train. I then walked to the Exmouth Arms to retrieve my rucksack and I really wish I had taken a bit more notice of the place when depositing said rucksack earlier in the day. Titanic Plum Porter on hand pump. Ooh, now that would have been tempting but I had promised I wouldn’t be far behind on the way to Farringdon so, slightly reluctantly, I swerved this potential treat and headed back to Euston Square underground station. London was still swarming with Wednesday fans. Every pub I passed had blue and white clad punters celebrating our Wembley victory which served only to hasten my appetite to do same. Ten minutes later and I was in Farringdon with a pint of American Pale Ale to quench this desire. Strangely we must have been all footballed-out because our football chat gave way to all sorts of this-is-what’s-wrong-with-the-world type of nonsense but, sensibly, Darren concentrated on his Stowford Press cider. 

It was thirty years ago when Gillian first introduced Mrs C and I to Darren and despite the age gap (Darren is fourteen years younger than me) we hit it off right away. My travelling days with the London Owls had been replaced by the car, driving direct from Southend, and Darren accompanied us and then (post children) just me to numerous matches around the country. Now that I live in Burnley and spend a lot of my time in Spain, we don’t really get much chance to see each other but when we do meet up, it’s as if it’s about a week since the last time. He’s a good lad.

Aside from the football, it was great meeting up again with Darren and Gillian after so long but of course it is the football, specifically Sheffield Wednesday football club, which unites us. We took a leaf out of Darren’s book and stopped talking world-related nonsense and got another pint in and back on to the footie chat. Before we knew it, Paul and Kai had to set off for home and Darren, Gillian and myself had one more for t’road before heading off in our respective directions, mine of course being Luton airport.

Kings Cross St Pancras station is a very confusing place at nearly ten in the evening when you’ve just finished the day’s celebrations with a large Jamesons. Fortunately, the staff member I spoke to knew exactly where I needed to be. He was an Everton fan as it turned out, and very happy/ relieved that his side had avoided relegation from the Premier League the previous day. Living in Burnley as I do, I told him that we all love Sean Dyche up there and our three minute chat, congratulating each other on our teams’ achievements over that weekend, was like a brief romantic entanglement; unexpected, enjoyable and over before you know it. I was clearly fading rather quickly.

The ten fifteen train to Corby set off to the echoes of Wednesday songs elsewhere in the station. Twenty two minutes later I was back at Luton Airport Parkway station, then on to the shuttle back to the airport itself. It wasn’t late but I was cream-crackered and there was little doubt that I would sleep tonight, whatever my resting place circumstances. In the event, I managed a comfortable ninety minutes on the nice, padded bench seats at Pret before another ninety minutes on the floor by Arrivals, staring up at the arse of a life-sized model baby elephant. At around half past three I went through security into the Departures lounge and wandered all the way to Gate number 1 where a slatted wood sofa proved to be rather more comfortable than it looked. This provided a good final sixty minutes of kip before my flight departure at Gate number 43 was confirmed. 

I was back home, at our apartment in Spain, by around half past ten in the morning, local time. I spent most of Tuesday re-living the experiences of the previous day via Twitter before crashing out at half past eight and remaining crashed out for the next eleven and a half hours. Sad to admit as a sixty-four year old but Sheffield Wednesday has been a life-long obsession for me and with way, way more lows than highs over the years. But yesterday was as good as it gets. And you need to have experienced the lows in order to truly appreciate the highs. To do so with my lovely daughter Emily and my friends of many years Darren and Gillian was truly special. 

Football eh? 

Day 15 - 21 May - Aldea Picaraña to Santiago de Compostela

As Elton John famously sang:

Hey chaps, hold it tight together
We’re on the verge of something
And it’s gonna last forever
We'll kill the fatted calf tonight of the caliphate
Replace it with the way of St James and it’ll be reyt

Drink a bene, bene, bene ‘n hot
Bene, bene, bene, bene, bene, bene, bene ‘n hot

A chilly start with a beautiful, slightly misty blue sky was beckoning as I was unpegging and folding up the team laundry that had been drying overnight. I am always first up in the mornings. Andrea says that my shuffling about is like a gradual wake-up call whereas Mick reckons that I’m a coughing, spluttering, noisy old git.

A rare treat; the ability to make oneself a cup of tea when staying in accommodation in Spain.

Our last day on Camino was starting well and we weren’t even out of the door yet. That particular moment arrived at just after eight o’clock and we were off. A mere ten miles of walking ahead of us.

We were soon on woodland paths, pleasant options to keep us hidden from the converging transport arteries one would expect when nearing any large city. The initial chill of the day enabled us to make good progress, despite all being mainly uphill, and we didn’t stop for coffee until reaching dormitory town Milladoiro around two hours later. That was it, journey pretty much broken by ten o’clock. We set off once more. Across the road. Short downhill path. Short uphill path and…………there it was, the city of Santiago de Compostela with the spires of its cathedral prominent amongst the city sprawl before us. Only around two miles away for a crow but four miles for us passing under and over, through and around. With two of these last four miles under our belt, we then caught up with Tim and Laurence and with whom we then walked into the city itself. 

Santiago, like many Spanish cities, can be a bit of a maze at the centre. Throw in a big cycling event which leads to entrance roads being closed and that adds to the fun. Despite having entered the city from the south, we arrived at Praza do Obradoiro, to gaze up at the cathedral, via the same entrance, same beggar woman and same bagpiper as last year. It is a delight to witness the excitement of the new arrivals as they reach the square and soak it all in.

This time round, it hadn’t been our intention to queue for our Compostela (official certificate of completion) so, after taking the usual pictures we made arrangements to meet up later with Tim and Laurence and the four of us set forth to find a nice location for drinks which we did, via several hundred steps (sorry about that team), in the garden of the Hotel Costa Vella. Mick and I treated ourselves to bottles of 1906 and the girls vino tinto and blanco. It was nice and comfortable there so we didn’t bother moving and, hey presto, another two rounds of drinks later it was time to go find our accommodation. When booking said accommodation, I knew that it was going to be close to the cathedral but I hadn’t realised quite how close. As it transpired, we were staying almost opposite the Michelin restaurant Casa Marcelo where Mrs C and I had dined with Michael from Switzerland, upon completing our Camino, last year. It also happens to be our Mick’s favourite street in Santiago (something to do with the Hortas Lavanderia laundry - he’s strange) so everyone was happy. 

St James, as he would look today

Later on, at around six o’clock, we ventured out. Mick and I had a beer sat outside Agarimo bar whilst the girls did a bit of window shopping and then we all set up at Sala Riquela, where Tim and Laurence joined us, sitting outside in the sunshine. My first beer of choice was the 1906 Red but at 8% it’s definitely not one for a session so, in another throwback to last year, I then partook of a bottle of Estrella Galicia’s sin gluten beer which I last enjoyed when at Casa Marcelo. From there we moved on to find food which we did in a delightfully tatty little place (definitely not Casa Marcelo) which was very busy and very much in the spirit of the Camino with groups of friends breaking bread together, some perhaps for the last time. It was vino tinto time and we spent a last hour in the company of Tim and Laurence before bidding our fond farewells.

The four of us - the four musketeers - had to finish the night properly. Restaurant and cafe bar Casa Paredes is a bar that most pilgrims will recognise, it being situated down the steps from the cathedral and Parador hotel and where you turn right to head to the Pilgrims’ Office. It also happens to be at the top of our street, about seventy yards up from our apartment. We entered. It wasn’t overly busy but we didn’t want food so we weren’t priority punters. I had a word. Immediately, some poor schmuck on his own was relocated mid-drink to make room for us. The ceremony began. Four cafe con leches. Two tarta santiagos. And two Benedictines.

Many of you reading this will not be aware of the history between Burnley (our home town) and Benedictine, a herbal liquor made in France. Just google Benedictine with Burnley Miners to find out more. In Burnley it is typically taken with hot water, a combination known locally as Bene 'n' hot. However, few if any are aware of the history of this drink as it relates to our St James. If you have read my book (who hasn’t?), you will know that following the verification of his remains some eight hundred years after his death, our hero appeared on a milk white charger to lead the outnumbered christian forces to victory against the muslim caliphate in the Battle of Clavijo. Initially confused and terrified by the appearance of the apparition, St James ordered that every man be served with a “Bene 'n' hot” to steady their nerves, with the promise of more of the same once they had driven their foe “down the road”. This gave rise to the original version of the immortal Musketeer cry, and still heard in Burnley to this day, of “all for one and one for t’road”.

A wonderful way to finish our Camino. Tomorrow we say goodbye to Mick and Andrea. We have loved their company and grateful, on this occasion, not to have walked just the two of us. That’s it folks. Buen Camino!

Day 14 - 20 May - Vilanova de Arousa to Aldea Picaraña

As Promiscua, the provocative pepper from Panama, probably sang:

Don't cha wish your pepper was hot like me?
Don't cha wish your pepper was a freak like me?
Don't cha?

No alarm necessary. No early start. Check-out by twelve noon if required. And why? Because we were taking the boat to Padrón on a one o’clock, in the afternoon, departure time.

The open sea that is the Atlantic has become the Bay of Arousa by the time it reaches Vilanova de Arousa and this later becomes the Rio Ulla which passes through Padrón. This is the route by which the remains (not sure if his head was included) of our hero St James found their way to Galicia after his execution and martyrdom. I think I am right in saying that Padrón was the last place on the Iberian peninsula where he preached before that fateful decision to return home. Anyway, whether this last bit is true (or indeed any of it), St James has a lot of history with Padrón and we were looking forward to getting there. 

The boat trip was like most boat trips that I have ever been on in that it sounds like a good idea but it can go on a bit, get very cold and you’re glad to get off. This boat trip was a good idea because it saved us a long, twenty two mile trudge but one hour and forty minutes was quite long enough thank you and I was glad I had put my longs on and a warm jacket. 

Once disembarked, we walked the one mile into Padrón for a little explore. I find Spanish towns and cities generally fascinating with grand central squares, historic buildings and atmosphere but Padrón was rather lacking. Maybe that’s why St James packed in his Iberian tour way back when if this was the last place where he tried to convert a few souls? If only they had shown a bit more interest.

So, whilst a little disappointed with this particular aspect of Padrón, we had another reason to be here……..Padrón peppers.

Some are hot, and some are not

Padrón peppers can be eaten raw but are generally fried in olive oil, until wilted, and served with a generous sprinkling of sea salt. They are generally mild in taste but can produce the occasional extremely hot out-rider. This apparent quality has led to the popular Galician aphorism Os pementos de Padrón, uns pican e outros non which rather jauntily translates to Padrón peppers, some are hot and some are not.

We had a plateful between us. Between this and prior experience with Padrón peppers which, I must say, I do enjoy, I think a more accurate strap line would read Padrón peppers, not hot.

We enjoyed our peppers nonetheless, washed down with a couple of bottles of Estrella Galicia at bodega/ taperia O Secrets do Vino where they looked after us very well and were particularly pleased that we gave the peppers the thumbs up. But now we actually had some walking to do and it was already four o’clock. Still, we didn’t have too far to go, just over six miles which would likely take between two and three hours depending on road conditions. 

Road conditions were boring to start with and very warm but boring turned to actually quite pleasant by the time we were nearing our destination. However, I shaved my head this morning and rather like Samson of bible fame, I found my strength had deserted me. Now, coincidence or what but it was on this day last year that Mrs C and I walked into Villafranca del Bierzo on the Camino Frances and that was my lowest, weakest, most pathetic day of the whole Camino.

Maybe 20 May next year will be a good day to stay in bed?

We have come up trumps with our accommodation tonight, it being a two bed, small house in the middle of nowhere which is fast becoming a theme. Our lovely hostess brought us fresh eggs with which omelette was later conjured up by the girls. Not one of us fancied moving away from the place in favour of a nearby bar. In fact, I reckon had we had a bar at the bottom of the garden we may still have struggled to summon up the effort to move from where we were.

So, our final night on Camino. We reach Santiago tomorrow although how I’m going to cope with ten miles is anybody’s guess. On the plus side I’m sure that Andrea would give me a piggy back if I asked her. She is too nice.

Day 13 - 19 May - Silvan to Vilanova de Arousa

As nice people everywhere are prone to sing:

Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Why’s your mate still sat outside?

Be gone, foul beast! Whatever it was that had been ailing me, it was on the move. Gravity is a powerful force. Whilst I was never more than vaguely off colour, I had my demon on the run and today proved a rarity in that I finished the fifteen miles in better fettle than I started it.

We were promised hills, streams and waterfalls on the Variante Espiritual route and our first few miles today ain’t called the Ruta de la Piedra y del Agua (route of the stone and the water) for nothing. Through woodland paths alongside rushing streams, the route is littered with long since abandoned stone buildings and infrastructure of the old mills used to grind cereals. It certainly made for a beautiful first two hours to the day, made all the better as it was all downhill.

We stopped for coffee at a nice, ramshackle little set-up before Barrantes, Chiringo de Concha, with large garden space where the nice lady threw in a bit of toast, cake and tortilla for good measure. We were making good progress and continued along a pleasant riverside path, past cultivated fields and vineyards. 

Another hour or so further on, we stopped at the immaculate Hostal O Legado de Ramira in Pontearnelas where they made us a proper, hot coffee, not one of those luke warm efforts which have been rather too prevalent on this Camino. It was here too where my upward trend began to kick-in in earnest. I was feeling a bit light-headed, a sure sign of dehydration. Considering that I get most of my water intake from beer, this all began to make absolute sense because I hadn’t had any beer yesterday. So, with a short term diet of sugary cakes (purloined from breakfast this morning) and emergency water (i.e. real water), I reckoned this could be the key to recovery. 

Pontearnelas was the half-way point in our day, distance wise, and we continued from there along mainly quiet roads and paths with just the one main incline to contend with and from there it was literally downhill all the way for us and figuratively uphill all the way for me. 

Further spiritual uplift was on offer at the small chapel we came to in Mouzo where a very nice English guy invited us in to get a stamp in our credencials. I have previously fessed up to my discomfort when in church buildings generally so, despite my sense that this chap was genuinely a good’un, I declined the opportunity although Mrs C, Mick and Andrea all accepted. The next thing on offer was then a “song to guide you all on your way”. Hmm. Good decision Cookie boy. 

We decided that our next refreshment stop should wait until we reached the beach route into Vilanova de Arousa, our destination for the night, which meant a good two hours’ work to make the necessary progress. At last, we reached the sea, turning right to head up the coastal path, passing under the road bridge that takes traffic to the Isla de Arousa, and then onward looking for somewhere suitable. Our reward was Bar As Carballas at Praia Terron where the guy serving us was wearing a Celta Vigo shirt. That immediately facilitated mention of Carlos Carvalhal and Sheffield Wednesday whereupon he brought up, on his phone, a Spanish sports report on last night’s football miracle. Sheffield Wednesday. Massive eh?

We then progressed the final mile up the beautiful coastline before crossing the pedestrian bridge into Vilanova de Arousa which means village of the aroused. To be honest, I was expecting to see all the blokes doing impressions of tripods but that didn’t seem to be the case. Maybe it doesn’t means village of the aroused after all?

We checked into our hotel at four o’clock and didn’t emerge for play-time until seven. Had sugary cakes and emergency water done the trick? Yes!

Three Estrella Galicias and a bottle of Alhambra later, the foul beast had been banished. Just as well. Tomorrow we have a one hour forty minute, fast boat, trip to look forward to. In the meantime, sleep. A good sleep.

Day 12 - 18 May - Pontevedra to Silvan

As thirty thousand Sheffield Wednesday fans are singing, right now:

Qué será, será
Whatever will be, will be
We’re going to Wem-ber-ley

All for one and one for all. Is how I ended yesterday’s blog. Obviously, I failed to bargain for our spirited, impressionable and swashbuckling musketeer D’Artagnan.

Today we were planning to pick up the optional Variante Espiritual route which promises hills, streams and waterfalls. We departed Pontevedra on the Ponte do Burgo bridge, over the Rio Lérez, heading in a generally north easterly direction towards the town of Combarro which, if you look at it on a map, is in a generally north westerly direction. So, the long way round which took us over the VG-4.8 road, through villages, along a woodland path, back alongside the VG-4.8 road heading into Combarro, then along the coastline for another mile or so until we reached the town itself. The old fishing town is stunning in appearance, albeit obviously geared up for tourists with its bars, restaurants and gift shops. Every property on the seafront has its own Hórreo, sometimes more than one, being the traditional Galician wheat stores. One suspects that many, if not most, of the stone Hórreo’s on display nowadays were built more for ornamental than practical purposes. Nonetheless they make for very attractive tourist bait.

So, five miles in to a total fourteen mile day, this was where our contingency plan demanded a decision. Were we to relax in this beautiful town of Combarro for a couple of hours before taking a taxi to the Monasterio de Santa María de Armentera, only one mile shy of our accommodation in the middle-of-nowhere Silvan? Or do we walk the six miles to the Monasterio, all uphill including major steep bits? I really wasn’t feeling it. I told Andrea that I was going to vote the taxi option, partly because I knew she would have gone along with the rest of us had we all wanted to walk, but also because I needed an ally too. 

All for one and one for all! Mick opted to stay with his missus even though I think he would otherwise have chosen to walk. D’Artagnan? Oh the youth and feistiness of our young companion.

I’m bloody walking!

We swapped phones (mine has GPS). D’Artagnan was on her way. And so nearly was her phone as I left it in a bar. Half an hour later when that realisation dawned on me, my cognitive capabilities were put to the test and they came up trumps with phone safely retrieved.

Lightened of the load of her rucksack, D’Artagnan completed this feat in an impressive two hours. In the meantime, the rest of us took opportunity to relax in the sunshine. Whilst Mick did indeed do the decent thing and enjoyed three bottles of 1906 cerveza during this period, I pathetically stuck to Aquarius Lemon all day. I have read that Aquarius Lemon is infused with zinc which contributes to normal cognitive function, so I probably have Aquarius to thank for the speedy recovery of the abandoned phone, if not for my losing it in the first place.

At the time we began to contemplate calling for a taxi, D’Artagnan messaged to say that she had already arrived at the Monasterio so we made arrangements post haste to join her there. Outside the Monasterio is a bar where we took some lunch, Mick had another 1906 and I didn’t. Thereafter it was only a twenty minute walk to our luxurious accommodation in Silvan which I think must be Spanish for nowhere. We have young bamboo growing on our terrace so D'Artagnan is at least temporarily usurped by Dick Van Dyke.

Apparently we didn’t miss out on streams and waterfalls so maybe we still have that to come tomorrow. We have fifteen miles ahead of us and none of us want to miss out on that. Especially D’Artagnan.

We have been incredibly lucky with the weather so far on our Camino. I suspect that at least part of my current malaise is having had too much sun. Despite a generous dollop of Factor 50 on my shiny bonce every morning and a propensity for spending much of my time in Spain at other times of the year, I seem to have taken on a lot of sun and acquired an all-over body tan, even through my tee-shirts. When one has a troubled night’s sleep, all sorts of weird stuff can go through your head. Last night, the words that kept repeating in my sub-conscious were spontaneous combustion, spontaneous combustion. I guess I must have been pretty hot.

And finally, unlike last year whilst on Camino, my football team apparently showed a bit of all for one and one for all themselves tonight in turning around a four goal, first leg deficit from the League 1 play-off semi-final to qualify for the Wembley final. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to Sheffield Wednesday and I probably need to get more Aquarius Lemon inside me as I am seriously doubting my cognitive function here. Was it all simply more confused nocturnal ramblings or are we really in Ted Lasso territory? If this does indeed turn out to be true then the phrase greatest comeback since Lazarus will be replaced by doing a Sheffield Wednesday and I will need to pick up my Camino pace if I want to sort out a trip to Wembley.