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| 1935 |
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Played 6: Won 3, Lost 3.
Friday June 21 and Saturday June 22 v The School at Sherborne - Lost by 46 runs
Wednesday July 31 v Shroton at Shroton - Won by 10 wickets "Why don't you play the game, you fool? Play for your side's sake." "Side?" queried the big boy; "I have no side to play for; I don't play football or cricket." "Oh yes you have," said Chapman, "and that side's called 'the Gentlemen of England'." Rousing cheers. Well, we were all gentlemen there, thank God - but that I'm afraid was the only qualification of some of us for inclusion in the 1935 tour. "The old order changeth". For ten years Max has toiled like the proverbial Trojan, but with infinitely greater success, at making all the arrangements for this week of clean-limbed frolic - a labour which has always been appreciated most warmly by all those who have been on tour. That he has now to hand over the rather thankless job to DAH (whom God may preserve and favour in this work!) imposes on the writer the responsible task of recording in this far-flung book now recently returned from "Cathay" by NRS (whom Allah may I hope some day return to us) the gratitude of the Pilgrims for everything that he has done in making this week one of such carefree rapture. Our thanks to you, Max. For the last ten tours - or is it nine? - BWBS has graced the week with his quiet gambols (more of that anon). Now work calls him to some distant post of Empire, which is indeed a drain upon the Alma Mater. No longer on the list, I know that he'll be missed. We started on Monday. By 11.00am twelve people had turned up to play - Shirburnians always have been keen - and even so there were three notable absentees. Two of them were there before the match was over: DAH arriving - changed? - by tea time on Tuesday, followed shortly, and more noticeably, by JAT, his usual haggard self from Stowe. The third, alas, was never filled. For the past five years Tyneside losses have been Pilgrims gains. "The iron grey skipper of the North" was scraping too many ships' keels - I'm being technical - and prayed to be excused. The absence of our playing President cast a shadow which even the thought of the increased prosperity of the North failed to relieve. The weather was superb: the Upper wonderful. Skipper Sam won the toss, and took first knock. [For cricket notes proper, the scorebook should be implicity relied upon - passim.] It was a grand game, but the defeat was heavy. There are various ways of consoling oneself for athletic disasters, and the Pilgrims have always had a happy knack of choosing the same one... It was a good party, and nets on the following morning a wise corrective. An early lunch at the Plume, and we were on our way to Shroton. For the simple joys of cricket, go to the village ground. Those of us who got there first delighted ourselves watching the excursions of the rest as they drove through the hay to the parking space, near the tea marquee. After a busy half-hour of farm work, in which some managed the cattle, and some their deposits, Sam won the toss and thought wisely that after the journey we had better find our feet - a not inconsiderable task - fielding rather than batting. On one side lay the hay field, and on the other the mountain, and the sun was hot. The Headmaster retired to third man at one end. He was very insistent about this, and soon we found the reason why: for twice he discovered the ball, and threw down the wickets. All we could see from the other end was an arm upraised in threatening manner. Yet he denied local knowledge. It was all "very crafty", thought the village idiot sitting in one corner of the tea tent, and he said so. The attack was devastating. Wickets fell and soon we were left 33 to win. "He swiped them, he hit them, he walloped them all over the field". "'Ow many did he get?" "Fower" - being a conversation between two spectators which sums up the play and the atmosphere better than further descriptions of mine. And though the triumph of that game was very great, our selection committee thought - indeed with some reason - that with as copper a sky as we were being blessed with, an accurate fast bowler was a necessity for the match at Downside on the morrow. JAT is always indispensable, and again he came to the rescue. He knew the man we wanted. He was, moreover, an OS of some seniority. He was in the neighbourhood - John wasn't quite sure where, but he would find him. "Oh yes, he was fast! Came like lightning off the pitch. Quite untiring, and his pace and swerve quite devastating." What could be better! Wilfred Archer must be found. He was at camp with the Stour Scouts near Blandford. He could easily get across to Downside, and there were lots of boots that would fit him. For the next hour or so, we rattled over the limestone ridges of North Dorset, stopping every now and again to put our ears to the ground, or our hands to the wheel. And not only did we find them, but persuaded AGA that the old School had need of him. He gallantly consented to come. We met next morning (Thursday). The boots didn't look too comfortable even in the pavilion. We were up against it, as they had only to get 179 on a very fast ground. But we were comforted by John's words the night before. "You can hardly see them", and indeed we were put to some difficulty, even fielding. RSL behind the stumps, however, was a master at taking the overhead full pitch, and it was an exciting finish... Thanks John! PED and HFWF joined us that day, RSL having departed. We spent a warm night in Salisbury - at least some of us thought so, but JACG assured us that "out there you would wrap yourself up in your mosquito net and still be shivering". It's never any use arguing with these tea planters! And so to Winchester next day, where we found that Max had booked us rooms in a dry but charming house, equipped with putting greens and playing cards, and moreover those of the fairer sex willing to indulge in a mild flutter of an evening. The house of course quickly became a gambling hell. With nabobs like Jim Grant and Brian Sharpe about, there isn't much chance for us innocent islanders. On Saturday evening, we were trying once again to forget the events of the day - on the whole with remarkable success. The skipper, suddenly mindful of his added financial responsibilities, then showed us a glimpse of the London Exchange. A merry gamble which we all enjoyed, except perhaps BWBS. We didn't talk much about that next day, and Sam cut off quickly in the morning to cover 60 miles in about half an hour for a ferry. We could ill afford to lose our skipper, and a busy morning was spent on the wives to persuade more Pilgrims to join us for the Bulford game. Much wearied by that, we sought the cool shade of the New Forest for a picnic, revisiting former haunts, and renewing acquaintances, chief of whom was, of course, the Dean, more prosperous than ever. He seemed to have spent his time since we were there last year throwing out spacious wings in every direction. Perhaps, if occasion ever again demanded, he could meet our requests for a private room and a piano! It had been a very hot day, and discarding the suggestion that to celebrate EJ's jubilee year he should be flood lit in the garden for the evening, a quiet game of cards was enjoyed by all. JACG gave a masterly display, without ever once remembering what trumps were. JAT was very hot too - a temperature which he had every reason to regret, for by Monday morning he had so stiff a neck that bowling was impossible and batting very painful. This further loss to our cricketing strength was made less severe by Bill Waller's 84 and DAH's 78, and RJB, the most consistent run getter on the tour, 52. The most genial hospitality of the Gunners Mess, including a visit to the Tattoo on Monday evening, and even hotter and more brilliant weather than ever - for all of which we were truly grateful - failed to stop us pushing home an advantage gained in the first innings. "The clock that hangs upon the wall beats out the hour to go", and with no little regret, the 1935 tour ended. Report by L M Carey. |