TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Dorking

DORKING (A)

The dust has settled a bit after Saturday’s on-field debacle, and with a bit of time on my hands in midweek I thought I would reflect back on the day as a whole.

Travelling companions on the way up were Kirsty and Keith (in many ways the Posh and Becks of the Yellow Army) plus Jon and his son Noah.

I started from Torre (in many ways the grit in the oyster of the English Riviera), and caught a train that gave me plenty of time to grab a coffee at Newton Abbot. The buffet was busy (one poor fella trying to satisfy the caffeine habits of a score of London excursionists), but there was no rush, because the 8:54 was spluttering its way up from Plymouth 20 minutes late.

There were enough unreserved seats for the Famous Five to be seated comfortably, and we set off on what can only be described as a leisurely meander to the South East.

Orange juice and more coffee were consumed, and our relaxed approach to the trip was in contrast to some of the GWR staff. Nowadays, the big green trains have many more engines than you might think. A 10 car service will have several, and fortunately they don’t all need to be working at the same time. Keith, I’m almost certain, will have the stats on engine failure, but suffice it to say it happens more often than you might realise and it’s certainly affected trains I have been on this season. It meant a smooth if relatively slow journey, but there was clearly consternation behind the scenes. We had to inch over a track crossing at Newbury and there was an announcement that the train would terminate at Reading. This was quickly followed by a change of mind: the train would be going to London after all.

This would have been welcome news for most of the passengers, but Reading was the end of the line for us anyway. This was where we needed to alight, and where things got more interesting.

At the best of times, a train trip from Reading down to Surrey is a slow trundle, but this weekend Rail Replacement Buses were thrown into the mix.

There was a brief pit stop. Italian lagers and tinned cocktails were purchased to fortify us for the challenge ahead.

The bus was located on a plaza, via an underpass and a food truck selling cinnamon buns. We were joined by Reading’s own Jules Nixon and, much later than planned, we boarded a double-decker to Wokingham.

As you do.

It was a jolly trip. I had foolishly hoped to see a bit of countryside, but it was lovely houses and ribbon development all the way.

Our journey took us past Winnersh Triangle, and that was the closest we got to three points all afternoon.

With half an hour to kill at the other end, we piled into theStation Tap, where Noah was entranced by the at-seat tellies and my chagrin at Frank Lampard’s lengthening winning streak with Coventry deepened

Back to the choo choo, a dirty diesel bound for Gatwick Airport. I had to do a double-take on that. Yep. Wokingham boasts a direct link to Crawley Aerodrome. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

This wasn’t the Gatwick express, though. We stopped at what seemed like every hamlet in Berkshire and flirted with Hampshire before arriving in the Surrey Hills. In no particular order we briefly visited Sandhurst, North Camp, Blackwater and Shalford (me either).

But finally, after 2 o’clock, with hope in our hearts, we jumped off at Dorking West. Inconveniently for the “it’s a tough place to go” narrative, Dorking is a thoroughly pleasant little town. There are plenty of nice pubs, but we headed straight for Meadowbank via some parkland featuring duck-friendly streams and lakes.

Does anyone else remember Meadowbank Thistle? I’ll do a piece on them one day, unless you’re nice to me.

Anyway, we got into the ground easily enough, with the stewards taking wildly differing approaches to checking tickets. Mine was never checked, but the scarf and goggles lads were subjected to close scrutiny, an IQ test and a full cavity search.

Anyhow, in between fielding phone calls from home (broken broadband trauma) I had a pint with my brother, my son and Alan Wills, and we looked forward to the afternoon’s entertainment. Reactions to the Torquay line-up were on a spectrum between mild bafflement and full blown “what is he playing at.”

We played at about 15% effectiveness. It was the sort of performance that will be remembered for a long time, and about which thousands of words have already been said and written. Many Torquay fans justifiably voted with their feet well before the end.

My feet still had some work to do. The good thing about Dorking railway stations is that there are lots of them and they aren’t far apart. The bad thing is that I am still quite hazy about which is which!

I went to the Morrison’s garage for a wee. Matty picked up some supplies and we said our goodbyes at the side of the dual carriageway: he was off to Dorking Main and I walked up the ramp to Dorking Deepdene.

Deepdene had been our intended destination earlier, but the later train we ended up getting only stopped at “West”. I thought Deepdene was a good bet for the journey home. But there were no Torquay fans on the platform. The only person there was a teenage girl who was probably delighted when I quickly realised I had dropped a clanger and made myself scarce.

A quick WhatsApp had revealed my error. It was to DorkingWest I needed to return. Retracing my steps, I felt it would be helpful to ask a local if I was headed in the right direction, but the first people I saw were Dave Thomas and his son (they thought asking a local was a good idea too!).

I made it in plenty of time. It was only 10 minutes past the ducks and around the back of the football ground. I only took one wrong turn and was soon able to join a hundred annoyed Yellows as we started our dejected homeward treks.

It was ok. We’re long suffering and nobody had died. There was, of course, bewilderment at the dropping of Jordan Young and the inability to get a tune out of our talented squad, but there was gallows humour aplenty as we traipsed back the way we had come.

Keith befriended the guard. It turned out he was a former referee who had got as far as the Football League and he chatted amiably about that for a while. I’m pleased to report that he’s also enjoying his new post Covid career.

Jonny Jones rocks up everywhere, and he only had to come as far as Wokingham, where he now lives with his wife. The rest of us emerged from the dusk and drizzle straight onto a waiting bus.

There was a long wait at Reading, which we filled with a reflective pint and a half-decent Burger King. Keith and Kirsty were good listeners and my mood was fairly philosophical.

The journey home on the last train of the day was enlivened briefly by Zak from Newbury. Zak was steaming: noticeably drunker than any of us and trying to come to terms with Chelsea having lost at home to resurgent Sunderland. This was news to me (it had genuinely passed me by: I absolutely wasn’t playing the famous game of “how did you get on today, mate?”). I had spent most of my time chatting nonsense and watching Paul Wotton’s post match interview. I told Zak how dreadfully sorry I was, and Kirsty refrained from belting him for pinching her chips.

Zak managed to get off the train at the right time, but I would rate his chances of having got back to his Mum’s as no better than 50-50.

It was about half 9 by now. Truthfully, all any of us wanted now was home. Noah was feeling it. He’d busted his tib and fib a few weeks before. He’s in a boot now and he could probably give Sonny Fish a run for his money, but it had been a long day and he was aching.

The railway wasn’t done with us though. As we cut through the Blackdown Hills there was a problem. We slowed. We stopped. The word on the jungle telegraph was that it was a signal showing green and red at the same time. Not ideal for the driver.

We eventually made it to Newton Abbot. There was an old boy at the bus stop who knew his sport inside out, and was obviously a regular traveller. A Rugby League fan, he wasn’t at all troubled by the “Ashes” hammering at Wembley that afternoon, snd was full of enthusiasm for Round Two at Everton, which he also has a ticket for. I’m sorry to say I couldn’t be bothered to continue the conversation so I made sure we finished up on different decks as the good old number 12 took the strain for the last leg.

Into bed at midnight with the welcome prospect of an extra hour’s sleep as the clocks went back.