FIFTY years ago to the day since sneaking into newspapers via the inky tradesman’s entrance, to be working last Sabbath – “working” as in “You-surely-don’t-get-paid-for-dong-this-do-you?” – seemed wholly appropriate.

That the occasion was the Countess of Feversham Cup Final, one of the great green-letter days in the grass roots cricket calendar, was more fitting yet. Short of changing the column’s name by deed poll, the Feversham Cricket League seems almost to have adopted us.

“All that is best, blessed and indelible about village cricket,” we’d written as far back as 1998.

Though I’m still carrying a broken arm after last week’s crash landing outside RAF Boulmer, they also want me to present the trophy – new meaning to the phrase about one hand on the cup.

It’s a Feversham League competition, North Yorkshire moors around Helmsley. The first and last time I’d attended the final was in 1995, up back of beyond in Bransdale.

The Union Jack had flown over the hen hut, sandcastle flags marked the boundary, the umpires’ coats had inadvertently been given to a jumble sale and raffle prizes included a box of Tetley tea bags, some Peppercorn assorted biscuits and a tin of sliced peaches.

“Star prise is’t ‘en ‘ut,” someone said.

The ground was at the distant end of a road to nowhere, or at least nowhere else, the finger post identifying Bransdale Cricket Club about as likely (we said in 1995) as one indicating Lord Lucan’s Lodgings.

The field had enough wool to clothe the entire Marske Fishermen’s Choir, the air enough flying ants to drive the doughtiest to distraction.

“It’s t’only bit of level land in Bransdale and not very level at that,” said Brian Leckenby, playing for Gillamoor against Harome.

Twenty years ago the trophies were presented by Lady Clarissa Collin. Last Sunday she must have been making the dinner.

THE final is at Duncombe Park, Helmsley, a ground which still slopes – as Feversham League grounds are much inclined to do – but which compared to most of them warrants fully paid-up membership of the Flat Earth Society.

An internet map reveals it to be in Braxton’s Sprunt, an online dictionary adds that a sprunt is a Scottish term – of which Roxburgh folk are particularly fond – for a game in which boys chase girls around a haystack, especially after dark. It should not be confused with the Braes of Derwent Sprunt.

The ground’s well-equipped, the scorebox particularly quaint, like a Doberman’s dog kennel. “It still needs a bit of tender loving care,” says David Westhead, chairman of a league now reduced to just four clubs.

The match begins late, recalling that “What time can you get there?” joke. You know the one.

Duncombe Park are among teams who no longer play in the Feversham, but are invited to contest the cup. Their side includes spinner Bev Nicholson, Helmsley’s sub-postmistress, who’s played for MCC. Visitors Spout House, perched precariously on a Bilsdale hillside, open with Brian Leckenby, aforesaid, probably the most prolific batsman in Feversham League history.

The atmosphere’s wonderfully congenial, the smell of roast beef and Bisto wafting from out the back. Cliff and Jean, Two Way Family Favourites, would complete the journey back in time.

Spout bat. Leckenby’s fourth out, 30-odd, skipper Dave Medd hits a quick 37 not out, they finish on 120 from 20 overs.

“Mebbe not enough,” says Brian, and for a long time that’s how it seems.

Then suddenly Duncombe Park want ten from the last over. Leckenby, deep on the boundary, leaps high to parry a certain six, hurls back the ball and sees the batsman run out.

Higher and harder, he leaps yet more spectacularly two balls later, the batsmen restricted to two runs. Spout House win a most wonderful cricket match by three runs.

“I’m in tears,” says Brian. “All these years in the league and I’ve never won the Lady Feversham." Dave Medd lifts the trophy, as high as the Bilsdale transmitter.

THERE’S a second presentation, surprise acknowledgement of league secretary Charles Allenby’s service to the Feversham, and a little speech by fellow Echo columnist Harry Mead, Spout House man and a journalist for getting on 60 years.

“I regard Mike as a johnny-come-lately,” he says.

Charles, oft reckoned hereabouts to bear a resemblance to the Big Friendly Giant, is said by Harry to be the best cricket secretary north of the MCC and to submit lovely little reports to the Darlington and Stockton Times. “There’s a touch of the Neville Cardus about him,” he adds.

My own researches discover that, until 1990, Charles had been in charge of an old-fashioned Helmsley draper’s called Job Clarke’s – closed in 1990 because the Duncombe Park estate was putting up the rent – and that, in 2010, he had essayed a sole incursion into the ranks of Hear All Sides correspondents.

The statuesque Ms Janet Street Porter had had her photograph in the paper, said to have been taken near her home in Nidderdale. In truth, said Charles, it had been taken in Hawnby, up the road from Helmsley.

“By no stretch of the imagination,” he thundered, “can that be considered to be Nidderdale.”

Clearly he’s much taken by the presentation. “It means I can’t retire,” says Charles.

“Aye,” says David Westhead, “I think that was the idea.”

HELMSLEY’S just a couple of miles from Harome, jointly celebrated for its Michelin-rated Star Inn and for the cricket team, National Village Cup finalists at Lord’s in 1991.

The column had followed their progress, made friends save for a slightly deprecatory remark about the dressing rooms – something about Mainsforth keeping pigeons in better huts – joined them in Hospitality Box J at Headquarters. Harome, population 238, had all but emptied, police patrols sent to deter the opportunistic. “Someone has to keep an eye on’t spot,” said 73-year-old club president William Barker, pipe smoke billowing towards long on.

They’d even recruited the horn blower from the Sinnington Hunt, the poor chap silenced upon being told that Lord’s rule 6d forbade such aurally blunt instruments.

Thereafter asked the score, he rather took the huff. “How should I know, I’m only the horn blower,” he said.

Harome lost, the Star wins international acclaim. Indisputably excellent, inarguably expensive, it was impossible not to recall the infamous occasion exactly half a century earlier on which I’d found a length of string in the works canteen cabbage.

Three hours into journalism, what’s a Shildon lad to do? Complain, of course. Oliver Twist suggesting that a few more chips might not go amiss probably met a similar reaction.

Sunday lunch for two, with a few modest drinks, costs more than £100 – and once every 50 years, may be considered worth every butter bean. Then again, aren’t we all?