GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward

@Byehorse

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Clive discusses his trip to Wimborne

WIMBORNE (A)

I must have driven past Wimborne 50 times or more. Family or sporting trips to Bournemouth, Southampton, Pompey, The Isle of Wight and Havant -oh, the horror- have all meant taking that trip up the hill out of Honiton, down through the Chideock speed traps, past Bridport Fire Station, Dorchester Tescos and that ridiculously long wall at Blandford.

I’m sorry to say that familiarity has bred contempt. Wimborne should have been a breeze: we only needed to cross half of Devon and most of Dorset. It really isn’t that far from Torquay. Google Maps says 99 miles. But Dorset of course boasts as many motorways now as it did when Thomas Hardy was writing his Wessex piffle 150 years ago. Nearly three hours in the car was plenty of time for a few reminiscences with my oldest friend and a couple of other vintage Torquay fans though. The funniest by far was recalling when our mate Dave arrived at the pub one night in the 1990s with a mysterious bruise on his head. He sheepishly admitted that it had been caused the previous evening when he had turned up at his girlfriend’s house the worst for wear. She hadn’t seen the funny side and propelled her pet tortoise hard and flat in his direction! I swear that tortoise could have given us 20 miles’ start on Saturday.

But the journey was in a good cause. It was, of course, Torquay’s seasonal debut in the FA Cup. Playing in the Second Qualifying Round is a bit embarrassing to be honest, but getting beaten would have been a whole lot worse. Luckily, we were spared that humiliation by a reasonably professional performance against opponents who may have let the occasion get to them.

I am reliably informed that the town of Wimborne is attractive. Like most Torquay fans my main memory of it consists of a sizeable factory car park, a 10 minute walk along the banks of the River Stour skirting industrial units, allotments and a very well used skatepark and the ground itself: New Cutbury.

As Dave Thomas might say, “there is nothing wrong with” the recently-built home of the Magpies. No terracing as such, so unless you are leaning on the fence your view isn’t fantastic, but it comfortably accommodated the 1800 or so who came to watch Sillsy’s charges attempt to scalp the Gulls. Wimborne had pulled out all the stops, bringing in additional bar & toilet facilities for the day and enforcing adequate segregation. It appeared to go without a hitch, and the general vibe was “good occasion, big day for an upwardly mobile club”. (Them, that is. Not us. Obviously. We are about as upwardly mobile as a Russell Brand paperweight).

It had been somewhere around Chideock that I had experienced what thankfully turned out to be my only real sinking feeling of the day. Along with many others I had bought a “ticket” online, but the magic QR code had failed to materialise. I suspect “Christine” from Wimborne probably had a busy week dealing with enquiries, but she had helpfully assured me that if I showed an email from her at the gate I would be allowed in. With that in mind, it had probably not been my smartest move to leave my phone in the kitchen on Saturday morning! It was a great relief to be able to buy a new ticket on arrival. Bizarrely, when I got to the turnstile I discovered that it wouldn’t have mattered because they were literally asking people’s names and ticking them off a list!

I joined Jules Nixon in the (short, efficient) queue for the bar. I immediately felt underdressed because as well as having no phone I had also omitted to bring a Zorro mask. I did ask him whether he had managed to smuggle a sword in too, but he told me he hadn’t felt the need. I abandoned my rather lame attempt at repartee and joined my brother behind the goal.

It would be ridiculous to describe our 3 nil win as “routine”, because that would wrongly suggest that we make a habit of despatching more lowly clubs with ease. But that was the case on Saturday. The bloke who has kidnapped Brett McGavin, tied him up in a barn and nicked his shirt scored again, rapidly followed by a much better finish from Jack Stobbs than he had managed last week, and a comprehensive victory was given a justified varnish by Tom Lapslie’s effort in the second half.

The journey home was uneventful. Wimborne’s programme was nothing if not comprehensive, featuring every FA Cup result they have had since 1982. Bridport garage still serves excellent petrol and reasonable coffee. John Murray remains an excellent football commentator and Robbie Savage and Chris Sutton still have the ability to make me want to contemplate self-harm every time I listen to 6-0-6.

If you discount Okehampton v Buckland in a midge-ridden replay last month (the bites have only just stopped itching!), this was my first away trip of the season.

It’s time to get back on that horse. Might see you at Hemel!

COYY – CLIVE

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