St Austell v Godolphin Atlantic
A return to the south for the weekend. At Paddington on the way down it was a first encounter with the future high speed traction in the west as my service was formed of one of the new IEP services.
However, new trains, same old railway as the incoming working was thirty five minutes late due to signalling problems around Bristol. Some smart work by the crew got it turned round in seven minutes, but it then sat awaiting the signal for a further eight minutes, being given the road exactly the same time as the following Bristol service did, which it promptly followed block on block behind it all the way to Swindon. It did give me a chance to take in the First Class, seeing as I was the only person occupying it.
The next day and it was back to Swindon station, with a trusty HST on what else but 1C04, the morning service to the West Country that conveniently goes via the Great Western main line. It was pretty wedged but the other persons getting on were the two women on the right with four little yappy dogs that were continuously barking. I have never seen so many sole occupants of bays of four seats, be so keen for me to join them, thus avoid having these horrendous animals in their midst for the three hour journey to Plymouth that the owners announced they were partaking in.
With the permanently barking dogs being shoved in the direction of the guards van, we progressed westwards. Over the coming year, the HSTs are due to be replaced by the new IET trains. The HSTs still have slam doors and opening windows. As I didn't know when i'd be doing this journey again, it was an opportunity to maybe get a last chance for a head out the window run along the estuary and sea wall. So first of all running along the Exe at Starcross.
Turning right at the lagoons at Dawlish Warren, with the feather on the signal for the loops at the station.
Out alongside the English Channel itself, which looked very cold.
Through Old Maid Rocks by virtue of Kennaway Tunnel.
And then the final run along the sea wall at Teignmouth, with some brave soles/stupid dog walkers, enduring the bitter weather for a seafront stroll.
Up over Dartmoor, through Plymouth, and then high over the Tamar on the Royal Albert Bridge, and into Cornwall.
I alighted at Par.
Where this sign gives a hint of where my three minute connection was heading.
My HST carried on its journey on the main line to Penzance, whilst my more mundane onward traction was on the right.
Namely a thirty year old Sprinter, which after a lifetime rattling around the West Midland suburban network, is seeing out its days in the West Country. Today it had the glory of the Newquay Branch service.
St Blazey is/was the railway depot for the area and adjacent to the yard is the Blaise Psrk home of the football club. This was the ground where future England goalkeeper Nigel Martyn was playing when he was spotted by the Bristol Rover's holidaying tea lady who recommended him to her club and so a trial was set up and the rest is history. Who says football is all about luck?
However, I wasn't going the full distance, leaving the only other passenger in my carriage, someone wearing the rather unique combination of a Cronulla Sharks woolly hat and a Sheffield United shirt, as I alighted at Bugle, a china clay village.
I'd been here previously whilst at University in Plymouth, both for football and also to look at the legendary Carbis Wharf branch. This was an opportunity to have a look at both again, although the railway had long since gone, comparing the modern day view of my unit heading off to the Atlantic Coast, with times gone by. But more of the branch later.
A short walk took me to the football ground, which like the railway, is also now disused. Bugle were a long time member of the South Western league, though not particularly successful, though they did win it in 1985. However, the social club had problems in the 1990s, which saw funding for the football dry up, and they dropped down to the East Cornwall league, and finally gave up in the later part of the decade.
I'd played for the university team at Molinnis Park in the latter part of Bugle's existence, and it was of a very good standard with a stand and even a press box, though the social club was boarded up. Surprisingly, as one of the reasons given for the club folding was continued vandalism, the ground is still in very good condition. It hasn't been used since Bugle folded, and now only hosts the annual brass band convention, which sees attendance from the more committed groundhopper. The ground is definitely still maintained. with the grass cut, and the stand (which is a copy of the one at Helston's old ground) is still in good nick, though the tiny dugouts have gone.
With that bit of Nostalgia now over with, it was time to head off for the next part, which was a West Country version of my favourite B-Road grass verge walk of shame. This was the road out to Carbis Moor, which paralleled the Carbis Wharf branch line. China Clay is basically hosed out of the ground, then taken to kilns to have all the moisture taken out to make it as small and light as possible for transport. It has a multitude of uses, obviously ceramics but also in pharmaceutical pills, toothpaste, sun-block, the white coating in frosted light bulbs, and is a major component in paper. The reason I know all this is that being in University in Plymouth, every single example, case study and field trip involved China Clay. There were a few departures into tourism or even the South West pilchard industry, but overall, English China Clay PLC had a strong monopoly on tenuous application of bsuiness practices.
The Carbis Wharf Branch line was a very odd survivor in the modern age, as it was a long single line from Goonbarrow Junction which only saw use every few months, and even then, it was a single wagon which headed up to a toilet manufacturer in Glasgow. However, the end result was a mainline locomotive, heading down a completely overgrown single track, on load one. The stack on the right is for another set of driers, and was previously a level crossing.
Further along and this is where the branch terminated, the driers at Carbis Wharf. These were an unusual survivor in private ownership, right to the end of their existence. Independence from English China Clay meant the railway access was retained rather than a pipeline or lorry trips to a central drying location, but it also meant a lack of investment and these were the last coal fired kiln driers in the country, and when they became life expired, they were shut. They have now been converted to holiday flats, and the railway bridge demolished, giving a very different view from its previous existence.
But undeterred by nostalgia, I continued on, and how about this for a very unusual first view of a ground?
I was heading for Roche, another village on the fringes of the china clay heartlands.
Though Roche is most well known for this Roche Rock. It is a granite outcrop, on top of which a chapel was built in the 1400s. It has been inhabited by various legends of King Arthur, hermits and lepers, but has been a ruin for the last few centuries.
So, that scuppered my plans for an afternoon of geological sampling, looks like I'll have to go to some crap football instead.
But first of all, if its there, you might as well climb it. The pathway up it used to be the very precarious granite steps going diagonally up the right hand side.
However, at some point they have been replaced by this.
As regular readers will know, I cannot stand heights, so I was very pleased with myself when I successfully scaled the ladder up the sixty foot rock.
Only to turn round and find more.
But the courage was found to overcome those as well, and this was the reward; me hanging on for dear life, in a biting cold wind, to get a first view of a game that was meant to be kicking off in 45 minutes, but was completely deserted. At this point, I was shaken from my despair by a voice announcing 'careful, its slippy' to find that I wasn't alone. Looking down, a group of teenage goths were on the rocks below, consuming energy drinks. I waved and thanked them for their advice, only for them to reply that they didn't say anything.
A view the other way and yet more teenage goths with energy drinks occupying hercynian batholiths, don't they have cider, parks and Jesus and Mary Chain in Cornwall? They spotted me and I thanked them for their advice, confident these were the owners of the voices, only for them to shout back something that was lost in the wind, therefore me to start to doubt that in my euphoric climbing victory, I was hallucinating safety messages from pre-pubescents.
I thought I'd have a look from the neighbouring tourmalinised stacks.
With the main rock behind me, but eerily unoccupied.
As well as the main pitch is the reserves pitch.
Perpendicular to it, on the western face of the rock, the main pitch was located in the foothills, and I made my way to it.
A glance back at the rock, did at last reveal the vantage point of the health and safety advisors, sat right at the top of the main outcrop.
This was supposedly the 'main' entrance to the ground, but I don't see why everyone doesn't share my method of access.
I made my way back in. In one of those 'did that just happen?' moments, a cheery bloke walked past carrying a gravestone. He asked me if I was going to climb the rock, to which I replied that, no I'd already done that, and was here for the football. His response was to watch out, as more people get hurt by all the adders in the undergrowth around the rock than do actually climbing it. As someone who enjoyed a healthy childhood pursuit of chasing adders in the woods that surrounded our village, I would contest about whether a large grass snake is more dangerous than an eighty foot sheer drop onto granite, but he'd headed off with his tombstone, though I was relived to see him heading in the direction of the adjacent cemetery.
First of all, the only photo that anyone (apart from the ever excellent Darren Luke) seems to take of the ground, except the name board has now gone. It had long since fallen off its mounting and previously, photos always had it propped up with a stick whilst infront was a large rectangle of dead grass where it had obviously been laying in the dirt.
With now thirty minutes to kick off, it was obvious that no game was taking place today.
Despite its looks and location, it is actually a relatively new ground, the club relocating here in the 1980s from a previous pitch by the church visible in the background.
There are a couple of structures around the pitch, and these seem to double up as both dugouts and spectator cover.
The one on the far side being divided into two, and sometimes being used by both teams, with spectators taking sole occupation of the opposite cover, and sometimes, this one is shared with spectators, and the other one being used for the football. Such a detailed explanation of such a boring scenario. You can tell I had a long journey home.
However, here is the money shot, the ground and the rock, with the goths fully silhouetted atop it.
The small stand and large rock, with the teens having now moved to a rather more precarious position on the north face.
It was only going through the pictures later on that this sense of perspective confused me, as I am now closer to the rock, but it has got smaller. All a bit Father Ted.
As I was here, I might as well take in the seconds pitch.
Taking the term 'post and wire fencing' to its absolute word.
I can't find any signs of a reserve team in existence and the pitch looked to be out of use for some time. There were some great holes in the goalmouth which were flooded, and the goals had collapsed or been pulled down, with the grass growing through the nets in a strange Mary Celeste like abandonment.
There were some sturdy dugouts here as well, though they had gained the attention of the local graffiti artists, though it did give some composure to the rocky backdrop.
A check to see if there was any activity in the clubhouse, just found a strongly worded note to Mrs Brett, who seems to be dumping litter.
I was going to head for my intended game at Newquay, but a random check of trains, revealed that the servcie that heads into Cornwall to form the last train of the day back to London, hadn't run, and was my intended bird to freedom. A distant spot of a truro bound bus, a frantic check to confirm St Austell were at home, and a snatched shot of my next move.
This took me back past the ground, viewed from the top deck of a East Lancs - Myllennium Lolyne bodied Dennis Trident.
This took me on a winding tour of china clay pits, before dropping down into St Austell.
Where a short walk took me here.
St Austell 6 v Godolphin Atlantic 1, Carlsberg South West Peninsula League - Premier Division
St Austell were formed in 1890 and played in the Plymouth & District League and the Cornwall Senior League before becoming founder members of the South Western League in 1951, where they have remained ever since, including its morphing into the South West Peninsula as it merged with the Devon and Exeter. Despite being one of the bigger clubs in the league, success has strangely eluded the club, with a solitary win of the old league in the 1960s. By the 1990s, St Austell were mostly at the lower end of the table, and were placed in division one west of the new set up. However, recent times saw a name change to become an AFC, and backing from the eponymous local brewery saw a title win in 2015, and a Vase adventure to the semi-finals, being knocked out by Glossop.
Godolphin Alantic were formed in 1980 as a pub team, playing in the Duchy League. Steady progression took them to the premier division in the mid 1990s. They were runners up in 2005, which saw promotion to the East Cornwall League, where another runners-up spot in 2008 gained promotion the South West Peninsula League. They won Division 1 West in 2013, securing promotion to the Premier Division, where they join their local rivals Newquay.
Poltair Park has been St Austell's home for well over a century.
The only structure is the main stand, which always looks deceptively bigger in photos. It dates from the 1930s and for all my previous visits, looked like it hadn't been touched since it was built, but it has obviously had a lot of work done on it recently and now looks in very good condition.
The rest of the ground is open, with gentle grass banking behind the goals, and thankfully no stupid signs telling spectators to keep off them. I used to come here a lot in the 1990s as it was an easy evening game visit from Plymouth, and to then get the sleeper train back afterwards. Anyway, there still wasn't any hard standing around the pitch then, it being all grass, but a narrow concrete path is now in place.
FIoodlights are another relatively recent addition, being installed in 2012. The teams emerged.
And the game got underway.
It was very much dominated by St Austell, and they took an early lead.
Despite their varying levels of success, St Austell have always been one of the best supported clubs in the league, traditionally getting more than recent upstarts Truro. The attendance stats in the programme confirmed this. Camelford must have been hoping for a larger highest attendance.
There was a decent attendance at the game, with most spectators seeking refuge around the stand and tea hut.
The only other person to join me on the far side was this bloke in a donkey jacket, with a carrier bag full of newspapers, a dog with its own towel to lie on, and a huge camera. I don't know what you think, but I have my suspicions he may have been a Groundhopper?
Somehow Godolphin equalised.
Though St Austell soon retook the lead.
The pitch has a massive side to side slope. St Austell seemed to actually have a game plan based on it, with all attacks along the top touch line, then whipping in crosses, or shooting from the higher side. It worked as they retook the lead.
And added to it.
The home goalie had an @keepers_towel which got some TLC.
This was actually the photo I tweeted out, but it gained most comment about the Godolphin 18 looking like he had shat himself.
Half time and checking in on the slightly niche neighbours.
There was an excellent programme, with a pound getting both a glossy season booklet, with a large insert specific to today's game. Forget match reports or Manager's messages, I would gladly have every page of a programme devoted to pictures of the team lining up with Liquified Gas road tankers. More of this please.
There were some excellent stats in the programme. Looking through the recent transfers, I can't help but think that there has been a recent managerial switch from Callington to Torpoint.
The second half was watched from the aforementioned grass banking. Apparently the ground was used by US servicemen during the war, and they wanted to level the playing surface out, but the club refused as they had just built the stand.
The linesman was going for what looked like a Michael Jackson tribute look with only one glove. This had also intrigued the home keeper as during a lull in play, he enquired about this rather bold fashion statement, to be told it was actually protecting the aftermath of a DIY accident.
The home side carried on the scoring. What was this, five?
Which would make this the sixth.
And that was how the game finished, a not undeserved 6-1.
I hurried back to the station, desperate not to get trapped down here overnight. So desperate in fact, that I'd overlooked it was actually a Sprinter move up country.
Over a murky Tamar.
Into Plymouth.
For a six minute, cross platform change onto the up London. This was all running well until we got to Exeter, where we were held for service from Exmouth, which was delayed by rugby supporters acting like bell ends. And who was it held for to make the connection? Yes, the same rugby supporters who'd delayed their train in the first place. Not only that, the branch train was then let out infront of ours to head off to Barnstaple, so we were now fifteen minutes late.
This meant connections were missed at Taunton, Westbury and then mine at Reading, which was compounded by the following Bristol service being 36 minutes late. As if I could have detested rugby union any more, this episode some how managed it.
But eventually I did get home, only to awake the next morning to find Swindon awash with snow.
This seemed to have taken the Western by surprise, as I then took over five hours to do the hour long journey into London, due to a mixture of no points operator being booked for a possession (45 minutes), then point heaters at Didcot not being in use and known about but the signaller still routing our train via the points (2 hours 15 minutes), and finally forty minutes at Slough whilst a steam train shunted. No fault of those in charge on the day, but you do wonder what preparation took place in the previous week, as there is a lengthy process to mitigate against all this?
So, in the end, I gave up trying to get north and returned to Swindon, where they had occupied themselves by building a snowman.
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