TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Salisbury

SALISBURY FC (A)

It’s Tuesday night. Another international break. It was either watch Scunthorpe v Morecambe on the Ceefax App or settle down to write a Salisbury blog.

Quite a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since Saturday, with a dramatic late win for the Women in the FA Cup and the unexpected (to those of us outside the inner circle, anyway) departure of our Chief Executive.

Quite a lot of water flows under the bridge at any time in Salisbury, due to the historic mini city sitting on or near the banks of five rivers. In case you are ever asked, they are the Avon, the Nadder, the Ebble, the Wylye and the Bourne.

It was necessary to cross a bridge to access The Bishops Mill, a beautifully-situated pub with a beer garden which is an absolute treat on a warm day. I had arrived there at a frankly-overkeen 11.15am, having driven up from Torquay for my first Saturday league away day of the season.

I had booked a hotel just outside the city centre, and left the car there.

Staying overnight for a game 2 hours from home seems a bit of a luxury, but I had nothing on the Stoke lads, who were air B&B-ing it, and soon arrived with predictably gruesome tales of Friday Night/Saturday Morning Curry Fuelled Fume Trauma.

James and Ethan put in an appearance, along with Andy and his Granny Smith (an apple, not a relative). Having promised to meet my son at the station, I reneged on the agreement about halfway down my second Guinness. Sometimes I forget that he’s not 14 any more, and does in fact now have the capacity to fend for himself. He was joining me for the duration and on arrival at the pub it was apparent that he had travelled lighter than a feather grafted onto a Malteser, his only luggage being a bum bag packed with the bare essentials.

By the time I was halfway down my fourth Guinness, thoughts turned to onward travel. Out the pub, turn left, past the back of Tesco, across the stream (again) and to the bus stop we went. Kind of. We were walking between two stops when the red double decker was sighted arriving at the first one. A quick U Turn and a brief jog later, and we were on the top deck bound for Old Sarum.

The Ray Mac Stadium was only built in 1997. It sits on Partridge Way (surely Steve Coogan’s next project) and is becoming increasingly hemmed in by housing. We negotiated the fringes of a building site to be confronted by a low rise concrete ground which is just about functional, but which will win no beauty contests. The fan experience for anyone in need of toilet facilities and a bite to eat wasn’t great. Specifically, there was one Portaloo for several hundred fans and a long (10-15 minute) queue for some admittedly top notch chicken goujons and chips.

It was blowing the predicted hoolie, but the rain stayed away for the most part. Flags were unfurled, hung up and clung onto for dear life. Songs were sung. Jokes were had. Linesmen were tormented and Worthy’s early goal was celebrated. Young’s miss, Worthy’s miss and Hayfield’s free kick were laughed off. More pints were obtained. Hammy did fantastically to shake off a life-threatening injury which he only realised he had when Matt Wonnacott pointed it out to him for a third time. Ultimately it was a good effort against awful opposition and despite underperforming our xG (I bet you didn’t expect me to mention that!), the afternoon ended with three points, some managerial fist pumps and big smiles on our three sides of the ground.

Right, where’s that bus? Well, it was on the way, but the crowd at the nearest stop was huge. We thought we might be able to catch it from a quieter spot but predictably the Hayward radar was a bit off, and (not for the last time on the day) it sailed past us, full of celebrating Yellows. Being a pair of athletes, we then opted for the walk back to the hotel rather than waiting for the next one. The walk can definitely be filed under “Yard of Ale“ (long, but at least it was flat). Four miles later, we gratefully reached the hotel. A cold shower and a pint of water were the order of the day.

It was only 20 minutes’ walk back into town, but I clocked a bus stop outside the hotel and we were there in plenty of time for the 7.20. Sure enough, the single decker came around the corner and swept past, leaving us abandoned like the last turkeys in the shop. To be frank, I wasn’t having that, so I marched determinedly in its wake hoping the traffic lights would be kind. They were, so I tapped on the doors and politely enquired if there was any chance of getting on. To be fair to him, the driver was very apologetic and claimed (worryingly perhaps) not to have seen us waiting. Two biggish blokes wearing quite a lot of yellow. Yeah, right…

Anyway, he didn’t charge us for the ride, and said sorry again when we got to journey’s end, before whacking on the “Not in Service” sign and disappearing off for his tea!

We hadn’t planned on going to the Spoons. Honestly. But as we walked past Matty spotted Alan Wills inside and as Rory Stewart wouldn’t say: “The Rest is History”. It was the start of a great night. Alan, Matt Roberts and many other Gulls were enjoying a lengthy liquid debrief. The Stoke lads joined us with friends and partners scooped up on the way, and much fizzy apple juice was consumed.

We went on to another couple of other hostelries, where I had the chance of sampling some slightly higher-octane cider. I still maintain that leaving my coat at the hotel was the best decision (I can sweat in a blizzard) but sitting outside a bar in a polo shirt at about 10pm did induce more than a few goosebumps.

We finished the evening in an endearingly rough boozer where a Pensioner Rock band were doing their thing. There were two shy guitarists, a drummer and a pair of 60-something extroverts belting out the covers. They murdered the tunes like Putin with a gallon of Novichok. It was great. I may have done a rather poor Damon Albarn impression at one point.

Home time.

Back to the hotel, and on arrival I eagerly explained to the friendly, local receptionist that we had seen Torquay play Salisbury that afternoon. This isn’t always a killer chat-up line, but when she found out we had won, she was delighted: “Well done: we hate those bastards.” It turns out (and I promise I am not making this up) that she is a big fan of their local rivals Bemerton Heath Harlequins (whose ground is in fact much closer to the city centre than the Ray Mac).

We had forgotten to eat (as can happen) and got some crisps from the bar. We asked if there was any other grub available and came tantalisingly close to getting portions of cake before we fessed up to not actually being wedding guests and common sense prevailed! Undaunted, Matty ordered in a couple of Dominos and we fell into pizza-comas a little after midnight.

The hotel is slap-bang on the banks of the Avon, and it was a lovely backdrop to a good fry-up 9 hours later. I dropped Matty at the station and drove home three points to the good and about half a stone heavier!