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.