I played there a couple of times during my sessions with Caister and we agreed those fixtures were memorable for excellent playing conditions and jovial post-match sessions.

Sir James Barrie waxed lyrical about village combat several innings ago: “A rural cricket match in Buttercup Time, seen and heard through the trees, is surely the loveliest scene in England."

I can’t imagine life without the game, simply because it's been with me from the start.

Crackling commentaries on the old wireless with Father demanding hush at the tea table as the 1948 Australians took away some of the taste.

How we loathed Don Bradman for putting Dad in a bad mood just as another innings beckoned from the orchard! “But it’s my turn to be Len Hutton…”

In fact, it was my turn to be washed and put to bed.

The release from chapel on a Sunday afternoon and subsequent charge towards the village pitch near the war memorial.

Beeston verses Longham - a local derby just as important as any test match and worthy of my budding John Arlott commentary impression as I peddled furiously to the scene of rural combat.

Those games often brought entire families out to play. Uncle and older brothers in the team, Father umpiring and Mother and sisters doing the teas.

I made my mark as the village scorer and that must have been prophetic - the pen was always mightier than the willow in my hand.

There was always the chance that someone’s bike would break down or a cow on the farm would start calving at an awkward time.

“Put the........

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