Opening game - Chester-le-Street

 There is that little spark of anticipation when the fixtures come out. The long summer days are consigned to the past, and the exhaustion, sweat and dust of the previous season are shrugged off. The new fixtures give purpose. They are a reason to get through the dark days of winter that drag and offer nothing but thoughts of the bleakness of everyday life. Days when the sun feels like it rarely rises and the workday seems to consume the vitamin D hours.

New eras and competitions always bring teething problems. It’s almost as if that’s what the ECB does best. They feel the pull of trying to improve things. Too often, those tweaks lead to new problems, and the tweaking for the sake of it becomes the norm. That’s where the women’s domestic game is right now.

The regions raised the level to some extent, but those not closely following got confused. Who are Western Storm, and what do they stand for? That question was being answered. Patience was in short supply, and the return to counties felt safer. In some ways, it might be a step back. However, now that it’s here, the tweaking has to stop.

With the new structure comes more competitions, including a knockout T20 Cup that gives an FA Cup vibe. With more games crammed into the same space as seasons gone by, attending matches isn’t easy with a full-time job in education.

Long trips to plan, and some fall on school nights. Many more fall mid-week in term time, where results can be confirmed before you set off, with no chance of putting in a day off or pulling a sickie. That isn’t me, and with the way I consume cricket, I would be found out.

I’d be sacked. And while there’s more time to watch, you still wouldn’t be there if you can’t afford it. Definitely no stays in castles, that’s for sure.

So, the excitement dulled to some extent. I’m going to miss more than I see. That spark returns with the thought that you’re going back to a spiritual home, one that others just don’t understand.

There’s always an internal conflict. I don’t write for a living, so I have more control over where I go and what I write. Do I really want to travel to Southampton to watch The Blaze, a team that matters to me?

There’s something about this set of players, their coaches and the support staff that draws me in. It’s something deeper than just their performance on the field. Their stories may not be unique, but they resonate.

I’ve seen many of them grow since 2018, when I first started writing about women’s cricket, and in that Nottinghamshire team were Kirstie Gordon, Lucy Higham and Georgie Boyce. They were right on my doorstep.

That desire to stay somewhere local feels less like a want and more like a need. A need to be close to the people who understand this journey. And while the outcome of the game is just as important, there’s an emptiness that comes with watching from a distance.

I’m not with my people, those who share this passion and commitment, and it feels like a part of the experience is missing.

Once the games are in the diary, plans take shape, and meeting old friends brings a quiet smile. A small victory on a day where the mundane threatens to consume you.

The thought of staying in dodgy hotels isn’t so bad, with the promise of flimsy walls, shared bathrooms, and cooked breakfasts that swim too much in watery baked beans, but still manage to make you reluctant to tackle the fried tomato with caution.

In the end, all I need is somewhere to close my eyes, closer to the action.

If there was another way to just be a fan, if someone was satisfying my need to write about what matters to me, the tensions, the players, the passion, I could enjoy watching the action unfold from a moulded green plastic seat at Leicester without the need to rush towards the action.

The fixture list throws up games on the day of rest, and the lazy way trains and buses move on a Sunday mirrors this. For me, it’s an action day, when I need to be alert to the cricket, not anxious about missing connections.

Both physical, in running from one platform to another, and emotional. The people I meet, people who want to hear my opinion because they are interested, invested in the game, and a little in me.

Those are the moments I do this for.

It wasn’t so much a rushed trip to my first game. I missed the first match of the season at Trent Bridge. Opening day was two days into the start of a new term. It was as if the people responsible for organising things were working off their kids’ school holidays, which aren’t standardised, and which Nottinghamshire always seems to be at odds with.

So, I would have to make do with the next game and, with it inked in the diary, tickets and hotels booked, I took my first steps.

Chester-le-Street was my destination for the second set of games in the Metro Bank One Day Cup clash between Durham and The Blaze. It’s a venue where I’ve seen early-season cricket before. Like so many places, I haven’t had the time to explore the area, to feel what makes a place tick.

Going the day before left me with time to be a tourist. Playing around with timetables and splitting on the trains meant hopping off the bus in Chesterfield and heading towards the railway station in such a rush that I missed the crooked spire, a church that’s usually hard to ignore.

Changes at Sheffield, York and Durham awaited. I should have got the bus to Sheffield. That service pulled away as mine arrived.

There was little time to catch the connecting train at York. I was early at Sheffield. Part of me just wanted to get moving. The train before mine arrived on time but was overcrowded. People rushed for the doors. They were closing in less than a minute. The sardines kept arriving, and the guard, unperturbed, let them on. Eventually, they were on their way to Leeds or somewhere more romantic between the South and West of Yorkshire.

The anxiety of not knowing if my train would be on time filled me with dread. It was as if the nervousness would prevent my legs from moving towards the train that would eject me into the North-East. The beeping of the doors unlocking sounded like a starter’s gun. The doors opened, and I sprinted, feeling like Usain Bolt. In reality, I probably looked more like Anneka Rice in one of her old challenges, without the helicopter.

It might not have been the same train sound effects. Once, coming back from Northampton, I had seconds to sprint across the bus station from my coach to catch the last bus home. It wasn’t the end of the world. Getting stuck in Derby wasn’t something I was prepared for. Even worse, the next time I went to Northampton, I got stuck there. The bus either left early or didn’t show up at all. Buying a bag of Skips and a Robinson’s Fruit Shoot might have been what caused me to miss it. I was still the right amount of early according to the ticket. The Travelodge down the road profited from my misfortune. I saw little of its standard room. The exhaustion of the experience helped rock me off to sleep quickly and quietly.

It was in this spirit that I was hoping to enjoy my first trip of the women’s season. I need to take more time to unwind and look at what is going on around me, and not just breathe in the cricket.

As the train approached Durham, the castle and cathedral rose proudly atop a hill, visible from across the city. There’s a bus stop by the station, and the view from its bench is obscured. Behind it, the medieval past of the city is still alive in the form of the castle and cathedral, both of which are working, breathing buildings, still lived in.

To get there, you pass through a valley with an Iceland, Pound shops, and several Greggs before making your way up the rising path to the cathedral, as if the path itself was designed to highlight the magnificence of God.

Along the way, you pass people who have taken the pace too quickly, their faces flushed as the slope rises, the uneven ground making each step a little more difficult. It’s not as steep as Steep Hill leading to Lincoln Cathedral, but you are just as relieved when you finally reach level ground.

The lawn outside the medieval church is divided into contrasting groups. Some sit in contemplation, perfectly in tune with the setting, while others snap photos they will likely never revisit.

I always find cathedrals interesting, places that have stood for nearly a thousand years. Durham laid its first stones in 1093. You can feel the history through its bones. The grooves and patterns in the columns, the flourish of the stonemason still clearly visible, as if they knew their act of carving would remain forever.

There are hints of colour from times when the church was awash with murals and paintings, before the Reformation and its aftereffects turned a vibrant building into a mausoleum.

The grandeur of the place, as with other cathedrals, is stunning. I always find myself drawn to these places. Ely Cathedral in the lowlands of the Cambridgeshire countryside, with its octagonal tower.

Durham hits just as hard. My true cathedrals are the cricket grounds that dot the country, their grandeur and energy just as powerful. When a ground gets it right, it becomes a sort of spiritual space. A place where you decompress in the presence of both its past and future. Cricket is my religion, and as with the cathedral, it makes sense to me.

I did want to visit the castle. Tours were the only way in, and the next one wasn’t for another 45 minutes. I wasn’t in the mood to wait around. The only thing I took away was the fact that Durham University students still reside there. They didn’t offer halls in a castle at the University of Derby.

Anyway, I had a castle of my own to stay in. The dark days of winter can skew the thinking, making you long for the better times ahead. There’s a perfectly fine Travelodge down the road from the ground. It’s on a busy dual carriageway, and the walk is simple enough.

I once stayed in one of the big pubs that Chester-le-Street still has plenty of. By the time I got there, though, they had stopped serving food, and I had to go next door to another pub. It was showing some long-forgotten Scottish football match, one even the diehard fans of both teams have long since forgotten.

I was in the mood to give myself a treat. Sometime in November, I decided to stay in Lumley Castle, which overlooks the Banks Homes Riverside, the home of Durham County Cricket Club. The castle dominates photos of the ground, framed in the background, much like the cathedral at Worcester. The past gazes at the present, not with disapproval but with a knowing acknowledgement that the action still matters.

To get there, I had to make my way to Chester-le-Street. The walk back would have been pleasant, mingling with tourists, locals and the students experiencing the area’s pubs and bars.

I caught a small bus that promised, and delivered, a ride back to the railway station in Durham. The driver’s radio crackled, and for a moment the distortion made Footloose sound heavier, as if it were some form of death metal, which would have been at odds with the driver, a friendly woman in her fifties. Soon after, Phil Collins joined in, and all was right with the world again.

Tourists wandered in front of the bus at several points. We still reached the station with plenty of time. I had half an hour to wait, and it was pleasant watching the LNER Azumas make their way to Edinburgh and London. The sun was out, and I was in no hurry. I was happy to be going to a small town in Durham, one that had seen better days but still felt like it had a quiet charm of its own.

Walking through Chester-le-Street feels like many northern towns, caught in a period of limbo. It has a proud past, but it’s struggling to keep pace with a world that feels increasingly out of step.

I noticed an open Boots pregnancy test, ripped open in a hurry, outside a boarded-up shop. The town is worn at the edges. The Queen’s Head, shuttered up, is a Grade II listed building, with roots stretching back to the eighteenth century. Other once-grand buildings, now derelict, show signs of neglect. Paint is weathered. Wooden window frames are in a state of disrepair. It’s not that the people don’t care.

There’s still a sense of pride. The streets are surprisingly free of rubbish, and you can see the determined hope in small details. One example is the quirky Chester Le Geek, a collectables shop where the nerd pound is strong. It’s your one-stop shop for Lego, Pokémon and Warhammer items. A reminder that there’s still life and character in the town, even amid the decay.

Chester-le-Street is a place with space. It is a market town, and also a place where industry and mining are evident. The old roads have run through the town for centuries, and the railways and coal mining brought some prosperity. That is what you still see in spots.

The terraced houses are reminiscent of the North-East and are neat. Real care has been taken so that doesn’t happen everywhere. They show industry, and on the other side of town are 1930s semi-detached houses. The cricket ground might have given the place a new energy. It's past, and the history since the eighties has left it at a crossroads, but it isn’t a place you feel sorry for.

Like Durham, the River Wear flows through its smaller cousin. It winds and meanders in, looking for a way into the North Sea. From the train, you can see the Penshaw Monument in the distance, as if looking out towards ancient Greece or Italy.

You can see the greenness all around, and Riverside Park hosts a Parkrun on Saturday morning. The day I was there, a small funfair was taking place. It seemed incomplete, as if the whole fair wasn’t there. One of the rides was in motion, if not full, and an ice cream van looked on. Not so busy in the late April sunshine, but enough to stay where it had parked. It was an interesting thing to pass on the way to my accommodation for the night.

Lumley Castle has been around since the fourteenth century. The room had that hint of decadence about it, although the television in the room was out of keeping. It was a place that would more than do for the night. I put the TV on more for the company than for a show to watch. Surfing the channels, there was the classic music from the BBC. It was like it was subliminally saying that if Top of the Pops 2 had been around when the castle was first built, Cher would have been performing.

That history and legend are well known, although it is known as much for cowering Australian cricketers sleeping on their teammates' floors because of spooky goings-on as it is for being a place James VI of Scotland and I of England visited. Chester-le-Street had welcomed kings and the miners who marched from Jarrow.

If anything, that is what makes it special. It is a place that is still inhabited, like Durham Castle down the road. Lumley Castle was never invaded by Vikings, and a Scottish King of all people visited and was welcomed, which would have felt strange for this part of the country and the time it happened.

What I forgot, as someone who likes the medieval, is that the stairs up to my room were the narrow spiral kind you get in buildings of the period. Stairs that wind into the turrets. I had a heavy but small case to lug up two flights of steps, and with a real fear of falling from heights, it wasn’t an easy trip to my room.

My luggage is a small carry-on bag. It has wheels and a handle, and straps as well so it can be carried on the back. Halfway up, with the sweat dripping from my forehead, I had to admit defeat and carry the bag on my back. It made the thought of tumbling down the narrow steps easier to put to the back of my head, almost as if they were behind me. It was lucky that no one was watching. Maybe the ghosts were, and were having a good chuckle at my expense.

After that ordeal, I was determined not to leave my room until the morning when I was due to check out.

The room was everything you would expect: a high, comfortable bed; an en-suite shower and toilet; and portraits of big, tall birds, an emu or an ostrich, who knows, who cares. It was grand. It was comforting, and for the price, you bloomin’ well hoped so.

I pottered around the room reading, writing, and just taking in the atmosphere. I didn’t feel lonely, and the thought of the stairs again meant I was content to rest. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

It wasn’t until eleven that I realised how late it was. I heard voices in the hallway. They didn’t belong to ghosts. They had a North American lilt that was hard to place, and if they were Canadian, I wouldn’t want to disrespect them. It was time to sleep.

The previous week, I had been sleeping on a mattress in my sister’s living room so I could cover a men’s County Championship game at Hove. Despite some good cricket between two strong teams, the game, after the first day, seemed destined for a draw.

This week, I was on the softest mattress, still firm. The duvet had a weight to it, a hug without being too close or too warm. It was a bed that Goldilocks would have respected.

Nature’s alarm clock woke me in the morning. Despite staying in the most stately place I’ve been, I was still woken by the urge to pee. After that, I felt refreshed and ready for the day.

I was looking forward to another game at the Banks Homes Riverside. I’ve never been past the Ides of May at Chester-le-Street. It isn’t a ground that is renowned for its warm weather, even if you will receive a warm welcome.

My first trip over a decade ago was in glorious sunshine. That first time was a County Championship game with Sussex as visitors, and I left red with the heat of the sun.

It was a false dawn. On the next occasion, the wind blew across the open stands, and no matter how many layers I wore, the bitterness, outside and in, would not stop. You could feel the pain of the penguin buffeted by freezing breezes. Most of the journey home was spent trying to thaw out, and even now, thinking about that day still sends a shiver.

The last visit, The Blaze blasted away Northern Diamonds. Nadine de Klerk and Grace Ballinger delivered an opening spell of bowling that killed the game before the opening credits had finished. That meant a bonus trip to Sunderland, with the train booked for mid-evening and little appetite to hang around a place I barely knew, especially with Durham either closing down early or busy watching the King’s Coronation. To compound the Diamonds’ misery, it started to pour once the players had packed up and were getting ready to leave.

Today was a new day, though, and entering the ground, stewards were welcoming without being over officious, like happens in some parts of the country. Once in the ground, you get a sense of the steady rhythms of a day at the cricket. Spectators meeting up, some not having seen each other for months, and the realisation that the community you have been away from for part of the year is still there. Old conversations spark as if it were only yesterday you last spoke.

The clack of spikes on concrete has its own rhythm. Each player walks with a different stride, yet it all sounds the same. Like a band where the vocalists sound alike, if you’re in tune, you can catch the subtle differences. The player is in form. The one unsure how things will pan out. They are all there. You just have to listen differently.

You can see it in the quiet poise of Suzie Bates. She will be one of those mythical figures in a time long after I’m gone. One of the players who helped elevate women’s cricket all around the world. She did it without needing to shout. You can see her qualities through her cricket. She can do it all. A softly spoken New Zealander who is a competitor on the field, in her career, she has managed to pull off the seemingly impossible.

When she signed for Durham, you could sense a certain anticipation. While she is at the back end of her career, she still has real star quality.

It’s a shame New Zealand cricket hasn’t been able to match her ability. A player of her class should be able to say they played Test cricket, even if only once.

It was with these thoughts, and Sabrina Carpenter’s Espresso drifting across the ground, that I realised the time. I noticed Kirstie Gordon, not playing today, give a thumbs-up in my direction. I knew then it was time to make my way to the media centre.

 

Rachel Chinouriri: The Successor to Jarvis Cocker You Didn’t Expect

When you think of Jarvis Cocker, you likely think of someone who’s mastered the art of blending raw emotion, ironic humour, and sharp social observations into the kind of music that stays with you, long after the song’s over. As the frontman of Pulp, Jarvis became the voice of a generation, capturing the messy complexities of life and relationships, and doing so with a wink and a sardonic smile. His songs felt like confessions, but also like invitations to laugh at the absurdity of it all. There was always vulnerability in his voice, but there was also a kind of detachment, a knowing distance that made his songs feel both personal and universal.

So, when I first heard Rachel Chinouriri, I didn’t expect to find an artist who felt like the natural successor to Jarvis Cocker—but after spending some time with her music, I can’t help but think that she is. Rachel isn’t just another fresh-faced artist on the scene; her work speaks to the same complexities of human relationships, emotional rawness, and self-deprecating humour that Jarvis became known for. She’s carving her own space, and it’s one where heartache and hope coexist in the same breath, not so different from the stories told in Pulp’s heyday.

The comparison isn’t immediately obvious, of course. Rachel doesn’t sound like Pulp, and her music isn’t quite as overtly ironic. But there’s something about the emotional depth and the rawness of her lyrics that brings me back to that same feeling I had the first time I heard Pulp—this sense that she gets it, that she’s been where we’ve all been, and she has a way of expressing it that feels both personal and universally relatable.

Rachel’s music captures that same vulnerability—the way Jarvis Cocker explored the painful bits of life with wit and humour, allowing the listener to feel like they’re not alone in their experience. It’s a skill Rachel wields effortlessly in songs like “Garden of Eden” and “My Blood”. In both, she tackles self-doubt, letting go, and heartbreak, but always with this feeling that she’s not trying to play the victim. She’s not wallowing in the pain—she’s confronting it with this quiet, almost cheeky resolve that makes her music feel real.

That’s what really ties Rachel to Jarvis, in my opinion. It’s not about musical style or even the tone of their voices; it’s about their ability to turn personal struggles into universal truths and somehow make those struggles feel lighter without losing any of their weight. “Garden of Eden”, for example, is a perfect embodiment of this. It’s a song about letting go, but with that mix of emotional depth and unexpected humour. The song might leave you with a bittersweet sense of peace, but it’s the final line that gives you permission to smile, reminding you not to take everything so seriously.

And let’s be real: that’s exactly what Pulp did, right? There’s always that dark humour behind Jarvis Cocker’s lyrics, the way he could make you feel like you were wallowing in your own emotions, but still find a way to laugh at yourself for doing it. Rachel has that same ability to hold space for heavy emotional moments while also acknowledging the absurdity of it all. It’s this balance that makes her music feel so grounded and approachable.

It’s easy to see why people might think of Paolo Nutini or Amy Winehouse when comparing Rachel’s style. Both artists manage to channel intense emotion without it ever feeling overwrought. But where Rachel really stands out is in her ability to infuse self-deprecating humour into these moments of rawness. And in doing so, she’s establishing herself as an artist who knows that, while life is often difficult, it’s important not to get too lost in it.

One of the things that makes Rachel’s work so appealing is her honesty—her lyrics aren’t afraid to tackle themes like self-doubt, fear of change, and heartbreak. But rather than wallow in those feelings, she invites us to sit with them for a moment, and then lets us off the hook with her subtle humour. This approach is something that Pulp did with such mastery, and Rachel is doing it in her own way.

Take her song “My Blood” as another example. It’s a track about emotional turmoil, but the way Rachel writes it isn’t the typical “woe is me” approach. Instead, it’s a more matter-of-fact exploration of pain. The song’s honesty is part of what makes it so relatable—it’s not over-dramatised. She’s simply saying, “This is how it is for me right now.” But the way she delivers it allows you to feel the weight of her words without letting it crush you.

And that’s the thing about Rachel’s music—it never feels like it’s asking for pity. Even in moments of intense emotional reflection, there’s a sense of self-awareness that keeps everything in perspective. She’s reminding you that life is hard, sure, but it’s also full of moments where you can laugh at the chaos, or find joy in the mess. It’s a balance that comes across clearly in tracks like “So My Darling,” where the vulnerability of the song’s lyrics is tempered with a sense of humour. It’s a song about connection, not just with a partner, but with the kind of relationships that hold you up, even when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

This ability to combine emotional depth with irony and humour is a rare gift, and it’s what makes Rachel feel like the kind of artist who could follow in Jarvis Cocker’s footsteps, even if we didn’t expect it. It’s a gift that keeps the listener rooted in the present while still allowing them to reflect on their past. Much like Pulp, Rachel’s music isn’t just about the songs—it’s about the stories she’s telling, the way she’s speaking to you like a close friend who’s been through it all and knows exactly what to say.

So where does that leave Rachel in the landscape of modern music? She’s not trying to be the next Pulp, and she’s certainly not chasing trends. What she’s doing is carving out her own niche, one that feels less like an attempt to mimic Jarvis and more like an evolution of the emotional honesty he perfected. In this age of social media overexposure, Rachel’s ability to stay grounded in her truth feels refreshing. She’s not chasing TikTok fame or trying to be the latest pop sensation; she’s simply telling her story in a way that feels authentic, real, and ultimately, timeless.

Much like Pulp, Rachel Chinouriri is speaking to something deeper than the surface-level moments we often find ourselves caught in. She’s creating a space for us to reflect, to laugh, and to let go—without the pressure of having it all figured out. And in doing so, she’s becoming an artist who’s speaking to a generation, in much the same way that Jarvis Cocker did all those years ago.

 The Pevensey wait.

 

"I got in!" Lucy said, "I'm going to Edinburgh." Edmund was truly happy for her but didn't want her to leave. It was almost inevitable that she would find some boffin who she adored and leave him here doing menial jobs for little old ladies he couldn't stand.

"I'm really pleased for you," Edmund said, and he meant it. "I wish you didn't have to go so far away." She hugged him before seeing some more of her friends and had to share the good news with them. "See you later!" Edmund shouted after her. She hadn't heard him.

******

 The breeze that blew along platform two of Pevensey and Westham train station made Edmund shudder. He hadn't sat there long, but knowing he was facing quite a wait, he brought his jacket closer to his face, hoping for warmth and comfort. Spring had not arrived, and the previous week's fine weather had disappeared into drizzle and fog.

 The sound of the bin liner repeatedly hitting the station wall annoyed Edmund, who wished he had brought his MP3 player. He contemplated racing home and coming back with some food, but what if he missed something. He looked up at the departure board. There was no train due for at least another twenty minutes. He got up and looked at the self-service ticket machine; he typed in several hypothetical journeys before sitting back down colder than before.

Edmund picked at the grey plastic coating the metal bench he was sitting on. He looked up at the departure board, searching for the time, and immediately forgot it. He took out his phone. There were no messages. He now knew the time, but it didn't stop him from looking at the departure board again.

 The traffic crossing the road at the end of the platform was slow moving, and Edmund looked out for his neighbours' cars, trying to work out their secrets. He spotted Mrs Waddon's lime green Peugeot drive over the crossing and tried to hide a little. She was a family friend, and he still couldn't bring himself to call her Susan after all these years. She used to go to the local primary school and hear children read; he was so used to seeing her at school that the habit of referring to her as Mrs Waddon stuck.

Mrs Waddon told Edmund that Lucy was back for the holidays and that she had been to see some friends but would be back later that day. Edmund was keen to see her and couldn't wait until tomorrow. So here he was, waiting for a girl who was hopefully on a train. He didn't know which she would be on or if she had gone by train. But here he was, looking more clueless than usual.

******

 The rain swirled in the lights on the opposite platform like a murmuration of Starlings. The rails glistened with anticipation of the next arrival, which, if Edmunds's information were correct, would arrive any minute now. He still wasn't sure that it would turn up or who would be on it. Although he lived in a small village between Eastbourne and Hastings, he didn't know most of his neighbours. Being a Sunday, he wasn't even sure if anyone would get off. He was the only person at the station and didn't expect anyone else to appear.

 ******

Edmund had been friends with Lucy for as long as anyone could remember. The fact that they shared the names of characters from a book brought them closer, although they had never been in a Wardrobe together. They were inseparable. At Halloween, they would take their friends to tell ghost stories in the castle before going trick or treating dressed as the characters they shared their names with, although this usually led to Edmund being given Turkish delight, which he didn't like and the inevitable question "where's Aslan?"

 ******

The castle down the road wasn't quite visible from the station, but the view from the train was a sight to behold, even in its dilapidated state. He knew what it would have been like for William the Conquerer, waiting for the one event that would change his life. His problems weren't as significant as that bastard, but they sure did feel like it; this made him more nervous, and he now couldn't wait for this day to be over, whatever the outcome.

 ******

The 19:23 southern service to Brighton calling at Hampden Park, Eastbourne, Polegate, Berwick, Gylnde, Lewes and Brighton is running approximately six minutes late."

 ******

Edmund had the strange feeling that he was on the wrong platform, so he walked over the bridge in case he misjudged Lucy's whereabouts. Indeed, there wasn't much to do in Hastings on a wet Sunday afternoon, but that couldn't stop Lucy from going to see friends there. When he reached the bottom of the steps to the other platform, the Brighton train pulled to a stop, and the doors opened slowly. The green and yellow livery did little for any act of romanticism, and neither did the passengers who disembarked. He certainly wasn't here to greet his old primary school teacher, even though he gave her a slight nod in recognition.

 ******

Edmund trudged back to the other platform and noticed his acquired warmth had vanished. It took a good few minutes to get any comfort back in his buttocks, and he was again left to his thoughts.

 ******

Edmund wasn't an exceptional student like Lucy, and as they entered secondary school, they spent less time together. Lucy carried on her studies in sixth form while Edmund got an apprenticeship with a local key cutter shop. They still stayed friends and would sometimes take their dogs for walks across the castle grounds together.

Lucy was a popular girl with many boyfriends that Edmund was jealous of. He never said anything, though, and sometimes he wishes he had. He wouldn't be sat here for a start.

****** 

 'The 21:30 southern service to Hastings calling at Cooden Beach, Collington, Bexhill, St Leonards Warrior Square and Hastings is about to arrive at Platform two."

 This was it. It had to be. There weren't many trains left that day. The rails buzzed in anticipation in unison with Edmund. The girl he had longed after for so many years would be arriving soon. He was only sorry that this wasn't the days of steam, and she would appear as if by magic from a cloud of smoke. The train seemed to take forever to stop. Edmund knew he wasn't in the best place to cut a quick exit. He thought he saw her green felt hat in the first carriage, but he couldn't be sure. The thought of an impostor was too hard to bear. He felt like he was wasting his time.

 The now familiar style of the train opened its doors. Only one person got off the train. It was Lucy, and she had seen him, she was walking towards him. Edmund hadn't thought this far ahead in his plans. What would he do when he saw her? More importantly, what was he going to say? He was about to find out, but just at that moment, he couldn't move. He wanted to tell her that she was the reason he was here, but that made him feel uncomfortable as he had spent most of the day here, and that would make him seem crazy. 

******

"Edmund" she said, hugging him. "What are you doing here? Mum said she sees you walking the dog sometimes down by the castle, but she never told me you had started train spotting." Lucy takes a pace back so that she can see Edmund better.

"Well, I haven't earned my anorak yet,' he said, looking down at his shoes. 'I'm waiting for someone', he said almost under his breath, trying not to look in her direction. He looked down again, nearly guilty that he had said that. There was a pause before anyone moved or spoke, and Edmund was sure it wouldn't be him. He wished this day had never happened. How could he have been so foolish?

"Oh, Ok. Your laces aren't undone. Lucy knew Edmund liked her, but he was a shy boy, and she didn't want to make him uncomfortable. She kissed Edmund on the cheek and turned for the exit. 'See you around, I guess.' She turned around, leaving Edmund alone on the station.

He was now firmly planted into the spot, waiting for the platform to give way and end his sorry existence. All he saw was the swish of her red coat and black skirt as she walked away. Things really couldn't get any worse. He finally plucked up the nerve to say, "It was you I was waiting for. Lucy stopped and took a while to turn and look back at Edmund. He was still looking at his laces.

'Well. I guess you'd better walk me home then.'

 

Not a turtle in sight!

For boys of my generation, when you say Micaleangello, Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello, you think of pizza-eating mutant turtles, not Renaissance artists. It is still possible that I will carry on thinking that after visiting the city, that allowed them to flourish. 

Florence is one of those places with such stunning architecture and works of art that will draw people worldwide. It means that some areas get very busy. Queues are long and overwhelming if you need to know what you are doing or what to look for.

Especially when you have spent the previous few days in a smaller place where life is much slower. Having spent the past two days exploring the Tuscan countryside, I needed to prepare for the big city.

The overwhelming need for the toilet hit me when I hit the streets; it wasn't pleasant. It costs a Euro to use the public toilets, so you need the cash or the ability to find one of the toilets to have a comfortable time.

The biggest hurdle to start with was finding an ATM, which, as soon as I did, they all came out of the woodwork. Then, there was finding a convenient convenience. I finally tracked down, and the day could start.

Having recently read about Geoffery Chaucer's trips to Italy, it was interesting to see the buildings that would have been built or recently built when he visited and how much of an influence his time in Tuscany had on not just him but his writing. He was potentially inspired by Luccan writer Giovanni Sercambi, to whom the Shipman's Tale is similar. T.S. Eliot said, "Good writers borrow, great writers steal."

I was happy to wander the streets in the fine drizzle while many tried and failed to sell me an umbrella. My hair was already wet. Florence is a place to visit again and is the sort of city where you need more than one of you to help take everything in and wait in the queues. The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore has an almost pen and ink quality, making it stand out from its surroundings.

Once back into the relative tranquillity of Lucca, I arrived back at my accommodation to find there was no power in the building and with my phone battery running low, I was worried I wasn't going to be able to recharge it before moving on to pastures new.

It gave me one last chance to try local food, and I wasn't disappointed. I tried Tortello Lucchese al Ragu the previous day, which instantly lifted the mood with a rich, meaty taste and a hint of herbs. 

When I ordered the second night, I opted for a dish like sheets of pasta topped with a white ragu, which didn't have tomatoes but tasted just as good.

The power went off again at night, and the host was apologetic about the situation, but I was asleep the second time around. Leaving this morning with a Parkrun to find and participate in was a bit hectic. 

Many English tourists went with the same intention as me, and it was lovely to have a conversation in English, and they were all happy to be there. 

It was a quick course on an excellent surface for running on, with fantastic views and, just as importantly, a smashed 5k personal best. I was leaving Lucca on good terms, albeit a little sweaty, but it was time to move on to Verona and mark the end of my trip to Italy. I move through Germany and Belgium on Monday before returning to the UK on Tuesday.

A little slice of Scotland and a tree topped tower

 There is a long line of evidence that Scottish and Italian is a good mix. There is the cross-over, of course, in my family tree. Still, when you add into the mix Armando Iannucci, Capaldis Peter and Lewis, Tom Conti, Sharleen Spitari, Ronni Ancona and last but not least, Paolo Nutini, a singer-songwriter who has matured into one of the finest songwriters of his generation it is no wonder that I found myself drawn to Barga where Paolo's family emigrated from.

Nestled in the Tuscan mountains and hills. Barga is just another tiny but stunning settlement that carries on regardless of the world's worries far away. There was a rumour that Irn Bru might be available, and there probably is if you don't go during the middle of the day when things shut down or appear empty.

There is little wonder why it is called the most Scottish town in Italy. There is a red telephone box, and the windows of several houses are filled with Scottish saltires. It is said that 40% of the town's residents have a Scottish relative.

Like Tempagnano yesterday, the administrative centre for Barga is Borgo a Mozzano, situated on the Serchio River. It is famous for its Medieval bridge, Ponte della Maddalena or del Diavolo, the Devil's Bridge and was commissioned some tie during the end of the 11th century. Its odd design sees it raised in the middle, presumably to let boats sail under.

The famous story of how it got its name, the Devil's Bridge, is that the townspeople made a pack with the devil to ensure the bridge was completed.

I didn't think I would get to see it as there was so much else to do. Luckily the train passes by it on the way to Barga and you get to see it in all it's glory.

Back in Lucca, I was intrigued by the tower with trees growing out of the top in the middle of the walled city. Better known as the Guinigi Tower, built in the 14th century, it is 148 feet high and has 233 steps to the top, overlooking Lucca and the surrounding area. 

If you read about my trip the previous day, you will know I'm not great with heights, but I knew it would be a shame to miss out on the views, so I made a promise to myself to go as far up as comfortable, and then I could always come back down. I made it a good way up and called it a day. The views I did get were stunning, but I would have loved to have said hello to the oak trees at the top.

After a busy day like that, food was called for, and I chose the local dish of Tordelli Lucchesi, large stuffed pasta filled with meat, pine nuts, spices and cheese covered in a meaty ragu-style sauce, and it was honestly one of the best things I have eaten. Every bite was packed with flavour.

My time in this part of Italy ends on Saturday with a Parkrun, my hundredth before I move on to Verona and then start the journey home. Today, a trip on the road to Florence awaits.

The Englishman who went up a hill

It can only be once you have achieved something that you see how far you have come. That is usually metaphorical, but today, I put it into practice. Anyone who has seen me navigate my way around the away end at Newcastle's St James' Park will know that I am not very good with heights, so when I was winding my way through the narrow country lanes, I worried that someone in a little Fiat 500 was going to fly around the tight bends and send me into orbit before coming down with a thud, I wasn't paying attention to how fast I was going or how high I was going. Only with the church in sight I finally realised my mistake and started crawling towards the end.

Luckily, no one was around to see the stupido Inglese make a big deal out of it. I'd reached my destination, where my great-great grandad was from. It has been challenging to find much about that's what a family fallout and moving halfway across a continent does. Of the two Pieretti gravestones, the consensus is that one is of one of my great-great grandad's sister and his brother, who died one Christmas at just five years old. The pieces are slowly falling into place, but more detective work is needed.

I sat on the steps leading up to the church contemplating my next move, my nerve for the journey back had gone, and I even tried to book a taxi which didn't turn up and five hours later I received an e-mail to confirm it wasn't happening.

By then, I realised I would need to head back, as I didn't want to walk around in the dark without knowing what I was doing. I walked down to where I should have left the bus earlier, but I found no buses back to Lucca. I would have to walk another 25 minutes to find the nearest service, which turned out to be on the edge of a bustling road with vehicles travelling at 70 km/h.

Finally, I made the move. I had worked myself up to think that the way down would be trickier than the way up approaching one sharp bend in the road. I feared a steep descent down one section of the road only to turn the corner and realise it was nowhere near as scary as I had imagined. it emboldened me, and I started to make good progress amongst the olive trees and the greenness of a landscape trying to hold off autumn for as long as possible.

I returned to Luuca to be met with a torrent of rain as soon as I disembarked from the bus. I returned to the accommodation, dried off and charged the batteries a little before heading off for my first experience of proper Italian pizza. 

Leaning into things

 

There was a moment when I was walking back from Lucca Railway Station when it finally hit me how extraordinary the trip I was undertaking really was. Bouncing up and down the UK by train and bus is one thing, but travelling across Europe alone is another task altogether. There are times when I doubt myself. Imposter syndrome, for wont of a better phrase, definitely applies.

There are days when it feels the cricket writing is far from the standard needed, and I will be asked to leave the press area. Although I nearly brought my ECB accreditation with me, it is that much a part of my travelling plans, so it can't be going too bad.

Sometimes, when you have done something way out of your comfort zone, it takes a while for the emotions to reset themselves and return to the safety of Lucca's renaissance city walls, I couldn't stop the tears from falling.

This morning, I settled into my new surroundings, walking around the abovementioned walls and then just wandering around after being happy to get lost and find my way again. After a few days of sitting on trains and coaches, it was good to stretch the legs.

Lucca is a well-lived old place. The narrow streets somehow accommodate pedestrians, cars and bicycles and while it takes a while to get used to traffic appearing from all angles, you get used to it quickly.

The decision to go to Pisa was a last minute one knowing it was only the tower I wanted to visit and with limited time to visit the other places it felt like the right time. The leaning tower is one of those curious things but arent the only towers that lean as the towers in Bolongia reminded the world earlier this year when there was fears that they could topple.

These days the reason it seems people visit Pisa is for the photo opportunity that it offers and which James Acaster humoursly mocks in his Netflix special. I took my snaps and made my leave. It did feel good to be in a place that while famous many people will never get the opportunity.

It might have been for that reason that I couldn't stop sobbing. It defiantly wasn't tears of sadness even though I was thinking of friends. It was definitely unexpected and I'm still a loss as to why it happened. 

Everyting in Italy seems so big, the building tower over you and you feel so small. That may be part of the reason behind the churches which seem more imposing than their English counterparts. 

While that is the case this is the right trip at the right time and there is still so much to look forward to. Tomorrows job is to find out how to catch a bus and not get lost in the hills around Lucca as I venture in search of Irn Bru and ansestors.