A winter warmer

I love where I live, but I wish it was in God's own county.

Scotland is a fantastic place to live and bring up a family. We live in a semi-rural village ten miles north of Glasgow. Close enough to be in the city in no time, but only an hour from the water in either direction. The cricket is good too and although the game doesn't have an especially high profile up here, there are a lot of good clubs and good players. Some clubs run four or five elevens, there are a lot of them with thriving junior sections and the main barrier is the weather.

My first game in Scotland was over 25 years ago, and however cold you've been on a cricket ground, I reckon I was colder that day. The East of Scotland in April is often dry but can be freezing and on this day I had pyjama trousers and long johns underneath my whites, while a vest, T shirt, cricket shirt, short sleeve sweater and two long sleeve sweaters made no impact except to make me look like the Michelin Man...

Of course, two hard chances came my way in the early overs and both went down. It was like trying to catch a ping pong ball between two planks of wood and I went home that evening thinking Scottish cricket was a non-starter.

Of course, years on and I'm still playing and enjoying it. I've played in balmy weather where the sun hat and cream were essential and come off with reddened arms when I forgot to apply it before going out to field for 40/50 overs.

Yet the one regret is that I've not been able to watch regular Derbyshire cricket for years. Any game on Sky is essential viewing and I usually get to two/three games every season when work/holidays/family commitments permit. I think back with a great deal of fondness to going to matches back home.

Of course, it was always sunny. We'd study the weather forecast and go when it was in any way favourable. Many's the time I'd go to bed when I was a kid and pray that the day would dawn bright and sunny, just like Michael Fish or whoever had said it would. I'd wake to a beam of sunshine between the bedroom curtains and sleep a while longer, safe in the knowledge that there'd be a game that day.

After breakfast we'd load the car. Deckchairs - check. Picnic (lunch and tea) - check. Pens and pencils for the scorecard - check. Binoculars - check. I always preferred Chesterfield when I was a youngster as you were closer to the action, but as the County Ground was developed it gained a space in my affections.

Even at that time for Championship matches it was a little like the old joke.

"What time does the game start?"
"What time can you come?"

The exception was the Yorkshire game, when there'd be a good crowd building from early on. You'd to get past the stewards first and Dad used to reckon that Derbyshire took retired SS men from Hitler's Germany. They were many things, but not helpful. Most comments were prefaced "You can't" and I've previously written about encounters with them. We used to get there early enough to be right on the boundary edge (just in case they needed a 12th man...)and we'd settle back to see who was knocking up.

Things were more leisurely then. A few took throw downs but there was little running around the boundary, loosening up or fielding practice before Eddie Barlow's time. I still smile at the thought of Fred Rumsey doing these activities.

Back in July at Chesterfield with my family, we sat on a bench across from the old scoreboard and my mind went back 40 years to my first game there. Yorkshire. We got beaten heavily. Over the years I'd guess I've seen far more defeats than wins, yet the latter are the ones that stay with me. You don't follow Derbyshire if trophies are your raison d'etre. Glory hunters need not apply. Occasionally we will rise from a morass of mediocrity to be competitive and from time to time will threaten to become something special. Under Eddie Barlow, Kim Barnett, Dean Jones and now Chris Rogers.

However many defeats there are, however many times I'll switch off the teletext or computer muttering about the "load of rubbish", I know I'll never get rid of the bug. On match days I'll still wake up and look for the sunshine, or if I'm up here I'll check the forecast to see if we're likely to get the chance to win (I know).

At all the home games, I'll imagine myself sat by the sightscreen with Dad, putting it to rights and getting frustrated when we collapse during a routine run chase.

Forty years of following Derbyshire does that for you.

But they're still MY Derbyshire.