A Galle-ing loss, but an incredible place...

Singapore was the first stop on the sleep deprived departure of Australia, a full 18 hours during which I managed to have a good look around and, lo and behold, fit in some cricket.

Heading straight to Singapore Cricket Club, a flat acre of green in an otherwise high-rise city, I met Grant Stanley, head honcho of all things Singapore cricket. With an hour to spare until lunch in the old, colonial pavilion, I headed over to observe two locals practising in the nets.

Despite the unbearable humidity and the fact that all I had in the way of apparel for the next 24 hours was the jeans, shirt and holey shoes I was wearing, I could not stay ‘observing’ for too long. I wheedled my way in and after half an hour bowling to the two lads – who turned out to be from the Singapore Army – I was forced to stop through exhaustion and realisation that my neighbour on the plane might not appreciate my odour.

If Singapore was hectic, Colombo was unreal. Sri Lanka’s capital was stifling, its unrelenting tuk-tuk drivers, ludicrously dangerous traffic, beggars and overwhelming heat meant a walk down the street was simply exhausting.

It was no wonder, then, that H and I caught up for a feed and a few refreshments just 50 yards from our hotel and scarpered to Galle first thing the next morning.

Galle. Now there’s a city. Built around an incredible 16^th century fort – which 500 years on survived the Tsunami – the panorama from anywhere on top of the fort walls is simply stunning, whether staring out to the Indian Ocean or overlooking the cricket ground.

With the Sri Lankan Cricket Board looking to cash in on the 8000 Barmy Army present in the city, ticket prices were raised 1000%, so unsurprisingly the fort walls were packed come the first morning, England fans indignant over the principle of increased prices. With this came a carnival atmosphere; singing, joking and when a smart local suddenly realised he could make some money, a fair few lunchtime beverages.

Once we smuggled ourselves into the ground through a hole in the fence, the atmosphere continued to swell into the afternoon and, Mighty Elstow flag in hand, H, Ben and I adopted two extraordinary randoms – Tommy and China – to the Lion-drinking, Barmy-Army-chanting, Elstow-heralding cause.

The next three days of Test cricket were a fantastic blur of gargantuan proportions but our constant singing and tomfoolery could not guide England to a win as we slumped to an all to familiar collapse.

Despite this, as the English do best, we drowned our sorrows at a charity Barmy Army party on Unawatuna Beach (the same location that a day later H would produce yet another emotional sub-continental beach cricket batting display) and our batting woes were – temporarily at least – laughably jested at.

Whilst staying in the fort itself – being treated like the royal family by all staff at The Pedlar’s Inn – we took in the best of Galle, and found a fitting way to round off travels with a stunning, atmospheric sunset out towards the Indian Ocean from the fort walls.

Picture from Galle: http://pic.twitter.com/hNrFO1Ad

An Australian Farewell

The final dregs of the cricket season in Australia was like the bottom of a pint; warm, unfulfilling and leaving you hankering for more.

Since Christmas the rain had become incessant, Queensland’s tropical trait of stifling heat with thunderous precipitation a nagging bore on the mind. Coaching, training, games – all rained off. Beach – wet. Cabin fever at least meant journalistic work could be pursued ferociously, but Australian TV’s relentless broadcasting of England’s epic failure in the UAE did not help.

The games that escaped the rain were incredibly hard-fought. A first innings defeat at Caboolture – where we batted in tough conditions only to bowl on a road in blazing sunshine the following week – was particularly feisty to say the least. This preceded a trip to picturesque Tewantin-Noosa CC on a sweltering day. At 30 for 4 we had made early inroads and hoped for an early finish to their innings, but watched on helplessly as their first grade batsman hit 160 and kept us in the field for the full 80 overs.

The positive element throughout the climax of the season was undoubtedly the banter and merriment had with all of the lads at Nambour Cricket Club, and also the learning experience and support when training with the Sunshine Coast Scorchers rep side.

With the Australian summer ending, the only up side to the rain was the more pleasant conditions with which to play football. Knowing my time on the continent was short I decided to sign up and play a handful of games for Nambour-Yandina United in the Sunshine Coast league. Training twice a week, the football was taken very seriously and run ultra-professionally – but all at the same standard at Wilstead firsts. My debut was surreal in the extreme; a PA announcer greeted the 100-strong crowd in our small stadium ground and with victory at the final whistle we were ushered over to salute the fans for their support. I was reliably informed that for the big derby versus Woombye Snakes FC, private security guards have to be hired to control the rival tension amongst the 250 fans.

As I bid farewell to the country more torrential rain and flash flooding swept through the Sunshine Coast and I escaped just in time, with a host of great memories fully intact.

A Kiwi Adventure..

I should apologise for the gap in time between blogs. It is completely unacceptable, I realise. Below is the first of three final blogs of my travels 2011/12.

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Queenstown Airport is the location, a small but busy hub of tourist travel across the South Island of New Zealand. Through the glass-fronted exterior a small crowd gathers in anticipation as flight NZ245 from Wellington touches down. As with most small airports, the passenger entry is further dramatised by the visible traipse across the tarmac towards the terminal building.

As the hordes depart the plane, some laughing uncontrollably, it is left to the last punter off the plane before the crowd is satisfied. As the man in question – dressed in an ill-fitting pink playboy bunny suit – makes his way through the terminal doors with nervous trepidation, a roar erupts as the entire airport stands and applauds. A fitting way to start an unforgettable stag do with the Beige Brigade – NZ’s equivalent of the Barmy Army.

The next two days mixed stunning scenery across the Southland with incredulous laughter, silliness, genuine fear, endless wit and the fine art of ale tasting. With two minibuses filled with Speights, men dressed in the theme ‘Been at the bookies four days straight’ and an air of chaotic anticipation, we began a 200km pub-crawl of Herculean proportions.

The road to Te Anau – surely the story for a future blockbuster movie – featured the stag being ushered to bungee jump from a bridge in full playboy bunny attire, a visit into the caves of the Gibbston Valley winery, stops at Kingston, Garston and Mossburn pubs, a magnificent BBQ on the Gerken family farm and bar stool jousting in Manapouri.

This, in hindsight, was merely the warm up. Saturday morning, bleary eyed but still functioning, the buses loaded up once more and headed further south. On a farm just outside the small country town of Tuatapere, the stag – dressed in a one-piece camouflage lycra – was left with the farmer for two hours as the group wandered off up the road to shoot clays. On return the result was astonishing: the stag wondered back, gun in hand, with an actual stag. As we all applauded his efforts and marched onwards with the prize antlers to boot, a near washout of a game at Winton CC failed to dampen the spirits. If anything it spurred on the company as Invercargill was taken by storm with more gusto than Poland in the Blitzkrieg.

A long night followed by an emotional farewell breakfast in the morning marked the closure of an epic weekend, but from there my Southland adventure continued with a full day of work, ferret hunting with The Goosh.

After a quick pre-Test shave it was on to Dunedin, the city of students and burning couches, for two days of international cricket at the most southerly Test ground in the world. So southerly, in fact, it felt like we were in the arctic.

It was a sight to behold: Chris Martin ripping through the South Africans – dressed like Michelin Men with four or five layers – in front of a brave crowd at the picturesque University Oval. Alas, the Kiwis would fail to capitalise on a fantastic platform and fall to a glorious defeat. Kiwis, they’re just too nice.

Dunedin – with its people holding two great qualities, namely being students and New Zealanders – was also a perfect place to Couchsurf. So, on the steepest street in the world, Elizabeth and her flatmates opened their house to me, and with the couch fortunately not alight, two days of nostalgic, university-style banter resulted. A further day of Couchsurfing in Christchurch followed before heading back to Australia to see out my last two weeks of travels. New Zealand, to me, still remains the best country on Earth (bar one, of course).

Coaching Galore...

The start of the Olympic year heralded a new wave of Australian Sports Camps to coach at across the continent and with them a chance to gain yet more experience from a host of cricketing greats.

Sydney merged into Perth then Melbourne as the excess of no-frills domestic flights, intense heat and all-day coaching blurred into a singular, exhausting, incredible event.

It was during the final afternoon’s coaching at Trinity Grammar School in East Melbourne when I paused momentarily to take in the scale of the previous six weeks’ happenings.

Submersed in the crux of the camps, shepherding the young troops between greats, I had barely realised the cold, hard facts. 17 Test players had been present totalling 56 hundreds and 1042 wickets between them across 581 Tests (plus the not-so-minor attendance of twelve other First Class players).

Sydney was the precursor, a hard graft of sweltering proportions. Doug Walters’ wise old words were intertwined between Danny Morrison’s amusing Kiwi self deprecation and the T20 glitz of Sydney Sixers players Stuart Clark and Moises Henriques in pink apparel. From here, via a few bevvys with Beige Kiwi Blair and barefoot bowls with Jez, Heidi and the family, Perth called from afar.

Perthites seem, reasonably enough, not to have a care in the world. The city is the most isolated on Earth, three full time zones from the country’s bustling south east coast and with a newfound wealth due to its lucrative mining reserves.

After strolling through Fremantle’s quaint port harbour, convict prison and brewery (I leave you to guess where we spent the longest), then up to Perth’s lofty King’s Park, it was time to head to the much-anticipated coaching camp.

Figure-headed by Justin Langer, the former Test great turned Australian assistant coach is a large factor in the huge number of kids in attendance from all over Western Australia [and even lads in my group from as far away as Darwin (4000km) and Christmas Island (4 hour flight)]. In all, 450 youngsters across two sites lived and breathed cricket for the three days in typically sweltering conditions.

It was on the second night that Doug Walters threw on his best slacks and summoned us all to the pub. Another difference in Perth is that they serve pints, as opposed to the two-thirds-of-a-pint ‘Schooners’ across Queensland and beyond. That I had to pay $10 for the pint was a little London-esque, but this annoyance soon abated as we found a table in the posh, opened-planned bar in full view of the TV. Half a pint in, transfixed to a nervy finish in the T20 game on the box, a hiatus in the game allowed me to take in my surroundings and more importantly the revered company I was in. To my left, Danny Morrison, Rodney Hogg and two fellow Sunny Coast boys along for the ride; to my right, Spud Murphy, Doug Walters and Dennis Lillee. I took another sip of beer and returned to the game, fully dumbstruck with awe.

With the final day of coaching a foggy, reflective haze in 39-degree heat, Perth came and went, exhausted bodies strewn across the hard airport floor as we all prepared for post-midnight flights.

Melbourne was the finale, a conclusion of sure-to-be nostalgic memories. The presence of Test players Ray Bright, Brad Hodge, James Pattinson and even a brash, irksome Dean Jones were just a bonus. It was the vibe of the camp that offered real value; the banter between coaches, the enthusiasm of the kids, the relaxing beer after a long day outdoors.

After a farewell beer with the Australian Sports Camps family, my Melbourne leg finished with classic Australia Day celebrations, all-day BBQ and beer on Torquay beach with Symo and Carly. Unbeatable.

DKL and PTJ (click here for pic): http://pic.twitter.com/Cb5guHbA

State to state and still a storm

A packed Australian festive period begins with the first of six summer coaching camps across the country.

The programme of three-day courses for budding young Pontings starts in Queensland, handily just a few miles from our apartment on the Sunshine Coast. I take up a position as a coach to a group of 11-year-olds who amongst the drivel of Pommie MCC textbook spiel I serve them, are treated to several sessions from specialist coaches.

With former Test players Gary Cozier and Danny Morrison taking charge of the batting and bowling as well as further wicket-keeping and all-round specialists, the kids soak up every minute of cricketing expertise.

The course flies by and before I know it I’m boarding a flight ahead of the Adelaide leg of the trip. With Greg Blewett making fleeting appearances in between Fox Sports’ TV commitments and Test spinner-turned author Ashley Mallett also giving his insightful views I feel quietly humbled to be part of it all.

Barely having time to take breath, we fly immediately to Melbourne where, having boarded the cheaper late night flight, I opt to try my luck hiding in the departure lounge and gain a much needed few hours sleep sprawled out on the comfy seats.

Unfortunately this lasts all of ten minutes as I am politely asked to vacate the area despite several pleading requests. Through the one-way doors I trudge into the ignominy of the airport lobby. Despite traipsing the length of Melbourne Domestic and International Airports, to my dismay every wooden bench available is taken up by backpackers sound asleep for a free night’s accommodation.

At 3am, with the drone of inane airport television overhead feeding my unwanted insomnia I make the rather drastic decision to move outside to the balmy morning air. Finally, laying against the glass airport wall with my bag for a pillow I manage to nod off.

Half an hour in to an inglorious but necessary sleep I am woken not by noise – my iPod has seen to that – but by a tickling sensation on the left hand side of my face. Rather startled, I open my eyes to see the rotating brush of a road sweeper mistaking my ear for an item of rubbish.

Apoplectic, I explain to the driver that although I have not had a shower in a few hours I am not worthy of such a fate. Looking like he understands less English than the average North Korean, I give up, head inside and listen to the airport TV until morning. Melbourne Airport: poor form.

Morning means the start of the next camp and despite ultimate sleep deprivation, I call upon waning reserves to lead my group through another star-studded day of coaching.

On top of the expertise, the facilities at our Scotch College residence are quite incredible. Five turf nets, six Astroturf nets, three turf-wicket ovals, a further three synthetic wicket ovals, all pristinely cared for with outfields akin to bowling greens.

This time coaching a dozen 12 year olds it was incredibly rewarding to see their improvement over the three days under the guidance of legends.

With Christmas came a welcome break from hard work and a trip down the Ocean Road to see Elstow CC Aussie legend Steve ‘Symo’ Reid. It didn’t take long to realise that he hasn’t lost it; a game of backyard cricket with brothers Reid had me playing and missing outside the line of the wheelie bin on several occasions, this after my bowling was regularly deposited into the chrysanthemums at long on.

After a veritable Christmas Day feast with the family at Mrs Reid’s, the sunny Melbourne sky swiftly turned to ominous nimbostratus and the mother of all hailstorms resulted, golf ball sized lumps of ice covering the ground to ensure we did indeed have a white Christmas. Albeit at 30 degrees.