The Road to Trent Bridge
We, that is, my husband and I, are trying to go to Chatsworth. We’ve never been, though we did see the Keira Knightley movie, and that seemed, well, complicated. But we’re the age when you get the stately bug, so we’re going to admire the fanciest McMansion in all of Bakewell. Which is in Derbyshire, which is one county up from Nottinghamshire, which is the home of Trent Bridge.
And now the plot thickens, because we’re also going to the cricket. The fourth day, and the fifth, which is trickier than most days on the best of times, and these are not the best of times, at least not if you’re a ticket-holding England fan, or Australian for that matter.
Because, you see, Chatsworth followed by the cricket sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? But it’s a three hour drive on the M1 to Chatsworth, and then another to fair Nottingham itself. And it’s a Saturday. A third-day Saturday. And after Edgbaston, the third day is a crucial day. It could see a result. Possibly a series-clinching result. Or a series-apotheosizing one. And we’d be in Chatsworth. And then what?
Sure, yes, one can listen to TMS all the way up, but, really, you’d arrive in Derbyshire as the umpires cross the ropes, and be in the Duchess of Devonshire’s reception room, admiring the china and determining whether you should pop to the World of Wedgwood down in Stoke for cake and a complete replica set of neo-classical tea things (my husband is angling for the mug from the Lord’s museum — you know the one, with the burnt bail bits in it), and be all distracted when Broady finally takes his 300th test wicket. Or Finny gets a hat-trick. Or somebody — possibly Steven Smith — gets a century, or two.
You’d be in this grand old home, glued to the BBC text, or the Cricinfo stats, or your Twitter feed of choice, and you’d jump up and down a bit, or do that awkward wiggle (in lieu of the more rumbunctious lager dance), and look furtively around to see if anybody noticed. And try not to knock over anything, especially the china (though note the aforementioned Wedgwood nearby — “Would factory seconds be acceptable, Your Grace?”), and you’d wonder if they have wi-fi at the cafe, and ponder the fact that really, you sort of kind of would have liked to have been home watching on the telly, because, for god’s sake, how often are England going to be within a whisper of regaining the Ashes the day before you have Trent Bridge tickets? And do your emotional outbursts really need to be fodder for the next series of the estate’s reality tv show? (I’m not signing that waiver, before you ask.)
It used to be simple. You’d get your tickets, you’d watch the weather, and if luck was on your side, you’d settle in for a lovely day of cricket. Or of England batting, which was still a nice excuse for a drink in the sun with the papers and your dad (or kid, or mate, or spouse, or bunch of dancing bananas). But three tests into this Ashes series, uncertainty reigns. The forecast is confused, the pitch is green, and there is absolutely no telling which kind of batting performance would turn up on either side. Or how bloody long it will all take.
So it’s a swingy sort of series. And Trent Bridge is a swingy sort of pitch. And we’re going to Chatsworth, and hoping England will still be there when we get back, so we can lift the urn together, late on the fifth day, in glorious Trent Bridge in sunny Nottingham.
Right?
