North Leigh Forest School And Hanging Tyres…
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| The green huts @ North Leigh... |
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| A woodland adventure... |
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| The dust-bowl... |
I thought I had pulled into the scrub car-park of a Forest School facility, or maybe the headquarters of the local Scout Association, rather than a non-league football ground. There was a football pitch of recreation ground standard, rutted, dry and open, plus a group of floodlights and a clutch of green outbuildings, which turned out to be a refreshments provision and changing rooms, presumably for a team forming part of the very base of the Pyramid. Blistered feet, grazed thighs, little passing football, that kind of thing… Like at St Andrews, Birmingham. There appeared to be a club house too, resembling the mess room of a P.O.W. camp and I recalled changing in one of those buildings when I played schools representative football, before I was forced to play rugby at a Grammar School, in the days before Sunday football for kids. My first thought was that Truro would be playing on this horror surface but common sense soon clarified the situation.
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| Where you bought your wares for a ramble on the estate... |
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| Nearly there... |
I was then asked by an attendant if I was an official or “…just a spectator…” Well thanks for that, so, as just a spectator, I humbly parked my car beneath trees on a sunny Oxfordshire afternoon. I trailed across the parched pitch on Eynsham Park’s estate and chatted to a North Leigh official, who asked if I was a ‘Groundhopper’ (this tedious question has plagued my life) then informed me that he had seen more than eighty matches so far during the season, asked me how many I had seen and more importantly, what my goal average was… He seemed disappointed at my quizzical and sympathetic expression and lack of ready figures, to three decimal points.
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| The way in... |
I was drawn then to a collapsing goal-frame, a feature of unforgettable and nostalgic beauty. I recalled posts and a crossbar painted upon schoolyard walls, often with target-circles for shooting practice. This monstrosity was crowded by hanging tyres at differing heights, to serve the same purpose. Loved it. Wanted to play. Left my ball at home though…
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| Loved it... |
The single turnstile was operated by a lady and I soon met then chatted with a Truro fan and programme vendor, before player Liam Eddy, now a Vase hero at St Austell, of course, asked my companion what time the coach would arrive back in Cornwall after the Thatcham away game on the following Tuesday, whilst I spoke with Stewart Yetton, who was very amenable. I reckoned his hairstyle was not suited to the warm weather and we agreed that if he AND Andy Watkins had played until midnight at Paulton recently, they would still have failed to score. I must have lifted the curse, for Yetton scored in each subsequent game until the final home game of the season. I am claiming assists…
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| Where the hairy Stewart Yetton spoke with me... |
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| A side... |
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| More trees... |
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| A subsiding shed... |
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| OMG, The Bodging watched the men in gold warm-up... |
The pitch was horribly rutted and unsuitable for Truro’s passing game but the defence came through a testing time well and three points were gained. Mr Webb and Mr Heaney (respect, huh?) sat in front of me and they were also cheery and amenable. The local children’s church choir broke the general countryside atmosphere, chanting things like: “You’ve only got one fan!” Actually, lads, there were many and they were watching the match, not accompanying it.
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| More green... |
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| The teams emerge... |
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| Extreme hairstyles, second and third left... |
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Yetton points at something very interesting.
Maybe a pair of scissors... |
Yetton’s close-range rebound strike, before 127 sun-drenched spectators in a messy game afforded Truro the points and the men in gold marched on…
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| There's a non-streaker on the pitch... |
Gill Alderman, sadly departed now, was not present at this game, due, according to Bob, to the fact that she was in bed with the cat, a typical Bob comment… Her missing shrieks from the back of the grandstand reminded me of watching ‘Lark Rise To Candleford’ without Dawn French’s presence…
You are missed, Gill…
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