Top of the shop

No matter that proceedings began at 3pm, when in the winter months other pursuits more traditionally kick off. No matter also that a former senior club official had likened the new place to the biggest bingo hall in town.

A great Barney army of former players was there, the mayor was there; the column caught the 76 bus and was asked, 52 years after the railway station crashed into life’s buffers, if it had come by train.

The town band might also have been turned out, if only to accompany Sir Robert Grant’s momentous hymn O Worship the King and the wholly appropriate line “Pavilioned in splendour and girded with praise.”

The splendours were self-evident, the praise chiefly provided by club president Stephen Brenkley, who in the summer had overseen the club’s first North Yorkshire and South Durham League top division title. “A wonderful, historic occasion in a wonderful, historic year,” he said.

Brenks is a former colleague, began in journalism as a 14-year-old by reporting Barney’s matches for the Saturday night Pink – five bob a time – joined the Darlington and Stockton Times, wrote the John North column for seven years and became The Independent’s greatly articulate and globally-travelled cricket correspondent.

He’d also been first team wicket-keeper for around 15 years, good enough to win three league awards for most catches and stumpings and might also, it’s whispered, have won an Olympic gold for sledging.

Now he’s retired back to Teesdale, had had a haircut, shaved off his moustache (“a retirement experiment”), but appeared to be wearing the same old Home and Colonial suit. “It’s a different one,” he insisted. “I have 17 identical.”

Though the microphone initially performed less well than the cricketers had – “he sounds like Norman Collier,” said someone, unkindly – he spoke eloquently, assuredly and in well-practised manner.

Steve Dixon, who’d overseen the building, and club secretary Steve Steen – who’d sorted the grants – were particularly lauded. “Getting grants is about attention to detail and brown-nosing in equal measure,” said the president and might have added that to hold high office in Barnard Castle Cricket Club the first name Stephen appeared a decided asset.

Brenks retains lots of friends in high places. If there’s to be a more official opening, it’s probably because the celebrants were being brought down to earth in Bangladesh.

THE club was formed in 1832, used an out-of-town farmer’s field at Marwood, played for up to five bob a man against village sides like Scorton.

They moved to the present site in 1863, the cattle market next door, the town centre but a quick single away. The old pavilion had been around since the 1870s, and only an estate agent might have supposed it commodious.

Old hands recalled that only the visitors’ dressing room had running water, the home team required – reduced, perhaps – to water the gardens out the back. “It killed the snails,” said former player and secretary Newton Wood, forensically.

North of the Tees, they’ve also hosted four Yorkshire benefit matches, including one for John Hampshire at which Sir Geoffrey was in attendance but declined to play because of a poorly tummy. “He still ate three teas, though,” said Harry Ashmore.

Until the 1960s they didn’t play league cricket at all, were finally allowed into the NYSD and won the second division in 1962. Though three more titles followed in the next two decades, promotion didn’t. Still they mutter about closed shops, still they name names.

“If they’d let us go up when we should have gone up, we’d have won the top division long ago,” said Newton Wood.

“There were clubs just didn’t like us,” said Harry.

It’s a big league and a remarkable achievement, nonetheless, particularly with a first team comprising mostly local players. Former wicket-keeper Colin Byers recalled that he’d thought he was coming a long away from West Auckland. “Now there are clubs bring players from Australia.”

THE second team, which last season won two cups, is entirely local. The junior sides, drawn from the 120 youngsters who turn up every Wednesday evening for training, also did well. Success, it’s said, coincided with the arrival of democracy to the North Yorkshire and South Durham League.

The president had particular cause to be happy. “I know that in Middleton-in-Teesdale they think we’re the big city, but we’re really just a small town club, still 16 miles from Darlington.”

They’d also made a DVD of how work had progressed, part of the accompanying sound Fairground Attraction’s 1986 hit It’s Got to be Perfect, about too many people content to take second base. In Barney they don’t any longer.

MKO’d

SPENNYMOOR Town travel to Milton Keynes on Saturday, FA Cup first round. It’s irresistible to recall the last time that Spennymoor and Milton Keynes were mentioned in the same breath, one of the most memorable Backtrack columns of all.

It was October 1993, Frank Bruno against Lennox Lewis at Cardiff Arms Park, absurdly described in the programme as “the greatest sporting event in British history.” We joined a crew bus from Spennymoor Boxing Academy, headed for overnight accommodation in Merthyr Tydfil.

“We were about to discover,” the column observed, “why the word ‘crew’ is so often prefixed by the word ‘motley’.”

Among them, inevitably, was our old friend Paul Hodgson, then the club secretary and, then as now, British and Commonwealth dole drawing champion. “It’s that long since I worked, our lass had to ring someone to ask how you put bait up,” he said.

It went OK until a refreshment stop near Birmingham, north of where the M1 and M5 radiate. It was thus a little surprising, after a post-breakfast kip in the back, to pass a sign reading “Milton Keynes 5.”

Milton Keynes and Merthyr Tydfil are not noticeably in close proximity. A hasty detour was planned across the Severn Bridge, further disoriented by roadworks and by numbskull navigation. The journey took 12-and-a-quarter hours.

A chap in the hotel bar was unsympathetic. “Columbus discovered America quicker than you lot discovered Merthyr Tydfil,” he said.

“It’s a ride out, isn’t it?” said Hodgy.

The greatest sporting event in British history took place in the early hours; goodness only knows who won, only that Hodgy blagged a ringside seat. Needing to be home by Christmas, the column caught the 3.10am milk train from Cardiff to Paddington and duly headed north.

The Moors head south knowing that, a bit like Hartlepool, MK Dons haven’t won at home since March. We wish them a smooth journey and a knock-out afternoon.