Creetown

Creetown v Dalbeattie Star, Pre-Season Friendly

I originally had football and rugby sorted for Saturday, and cricket for Sunday, however, a requirement to work Sunday with Friday off in lieu, threw up a few possibilities, which of course required a full day at work planning.

The new trams at Blackpool (which actually sounds like a click bait list of great 80s gigs) and then Fylde v Stranrear was an option, but then this intrigued me. Checking out the fixture list , there was also a game on that evening at Creetown. So simple.

It was only when trying to plan the day that I realised how vast the area was, made more complicated by places not being where I thought they were, and all public transport connections missing by a minute. Anyway, eventually a plan was formulated and off I went.

First move of the day was the 0636 off Sowerby to Preston. I arrived at the former just to see the doors closing but a mad scramble to the guards door saw me on it but no starting photo, so here it is 41 miles later on arrival at Preston.

Onward from there was the 0758 to Glasgow. This is a Transpennine service, which despite having just electrified the line from Manchester, is operated by a diesel train. The Virgin service from Birmingham to Edinburgh, despite being wholly under the wires, is also a diesel.

We headed along through Lancaster, Penrith and Carlisle, into Scotland. North of Locherbie, the railway climbs up over Beatock Summit and then follows an innocuous river which I'd never bothered finding out the name of. I'd always been intrigued by this stretch of line and on seeing a bus, took a few shots of some landmarks to plan a future trip.

  

My destination was Lanark, 30 miles south of Glasgow. However, as my train didn't stop at Carstairs or Motherwell, I had to go all the way into Central station. 192 miles.

My train back to Lanark was strangely formed of a London Midland EMU, which normally operates between Euston and Northampton. My connection onto a bus at Lanark was one minute, with the next one three hours later, so I was reliant on some punctual operating by Scotrail. Predictably it left three minutes late.

We retraced our steps to the junction where the Lanark branch leaves the main line, passing it 90 minutes after I had gone flying through it on the way into Glasgow. We had regained a minute arriving into Lanark, but were still 2 down arriving. The bus station is adjacent to the railway equivalent, and was fully expecting to see the back of the bus or an empty stand. However, the bus was still there and the reason was clear, the driver was being talked to death by a pensioner. A mad dash through a side gate saw me get to the bus with a -3 connection. For once, the omnipresent OAP rambling to a too-polite-to-move-on rural bus driver, had worked in my favour. Which was doubly good as Lanark is shit. Oh, another 30 miles to add to the train total.

Having paid my £2.50 for a 70 minute journey, I joined the throngs on the bus, all three of them. Coming out Lanark, the lower reaches of the Clyde is crossed.

Initially, the journey is through lowland farming areas…..

……where we seemed to encounter every milk tanker in southeast Scotland.

It was only now that I started to plot the route of the bus. The reason I was doing this service was because at the very southern tip of the route, the road was being repaired for the last mile between Leadhills and Warlockhead. However, between these two points runs a preserved narrow gauge railway, so they are operating a bus replacement service this week. I wanted to take in the full value of this unique occasion by using the bus part as well. However, studying the route, firstly I couldn't work out why on earth the service operated in the first place, as it goes from a tiny place, through other tiny places, to somewhere quite remote when Lockerbie or at a push, Carstairs would seem more logical. Then there was the route, which was as indirect as it could possibly be. I was alerted to this as we passed over the West Coast Main Line just as the 0830 Euston - Glasgow passed underneath, and about 2.5 hours after I had been underneath it.

As we continued to follow the railway and the river, a degree of familiarity overcame, as I realised we were on the exact road that I had been taking pictures of from the train as one I would like to visit. This is the reverse of picture 4.

We carried on, with the other question answered, as to which river it was, it being the start of the Clyde.

Hillsides who's trees look like those stupid Peaky Blinder haircuts that seemed to plague the Euros.

If these pictures are making Sam is get whistful for old Blighty, here is one to prove we can still fuck it up. Where better to stick a massive new electricity substation than slap bang in the middle of previously unspoilt moorland.

By now we were quite late, which wasn't helped by the driver stopping for a five-minute chat about foot and mouth with a couple of regulars.

As we were late the driver decided he wasn't going to go to the station, and instead dropped everyone (ie me) in the village, which meant I was in danger of missing the train, who's sole purpose was to connect into the bus. (42 miles of bus travel)

However, a stomp up the hillside....

.....found a bleak looking station with the train still waiting.

A quick purchase of the £1 single and we were off.

Until now, I hadn't realised how high up we were. The dwelling adjacent to the station declared itself as Scotland's highest house. The railway itself was boasting this. Adhesion means it doesn't use a rack system or is a furnicular, otherwise, I would expect Cairngorm and Snowdon railways are higher.

As we trundled along, there was a lot of construction activity along the road. The only previous bus replacement train I had been on was when the bridges around Workington had collapsed in the floods a few years back, and a loco hauled shuttle service was operating from Maryport, which was just full of trainspotters.

This area was based on lead mining. Deposits had been discovered 400 years ago and small scale extraction had taken place. However the mining boom of the 19th century led to a huge increase in production. This led to the railway being built as previously the only way out was by pack horse. The drop in the use of lead in the 1930s resulted in the price crashing, and despite a small revival in the 1950s, the mines all closed.

Shortly, we reached the end of the line (1 mile). This is rather an abrupt stop in a cutting.

The reason for this is that the line onwards is owned by a Tennant farmer who didn't want his sheep disturbed by trains, so wouldn't allow it to be extended into Wanlockhead proper. However, he has now retired and his sons have no interest in farming so there is hope the line can now be completed.

So carrying on by foot, following the other passenger, who was genuinely replacee, using the line to access her place of work from her home in Leadhills. Unfortunately the track bed was sodden.

Into Wanlockhead, which was declaring itself as the highest village in Scotland. Make your own heroin/buckfast joke.

I had an hour before my bus onwards, and was torn between visiting here....

....or here.

After a while watching sheep eating sand out of a grit bin...

....I headed to the adjoining attractions, but was won over by the Inn being Scotland's highest pub.

Inside and whilst enjoying a Strathaven - Drookit Rabbit, I mentioned to the barman about it being the highest pub, at which point he made the joke about a 'Maryhill cocktail' which apparently is a mixture of methadone and Buckfast. One for Mad Dai to try.

Feeling a twinge of guilt about the lack of education, I drank up and headed for the museum.

The museum was entered through the gift shop and consisted of a display of what lead is used for....

....a mock up of a mine....

....and some rocks.

This took me about 2 minutes to do but I found that the exit was back through the gift shop, straight passed the lady who was still ringing in the three pound I had just given her. I felt guilty about the perfunctory regard I was giving to the exhibition so went round again, which wasted another 2 minutes. Eventually I summoned up the courage and hood up, changed back through the gift shop, passed a collection of second hand books with the Scottish overlord in prime position.

Perusing outside, this attracted my attention. Having seen the various Gold mining shows on Discovery, I am aware that the industry is beset by clueless novices with an unmentioned addiction to narcotics. Fitting half of that criteria I returned to my friend in the gift shop to find out how much gold panning I could do in 20 minutes. The answer was, not a lot.

So I headed off to the bus shelter, but not just any bus shelter.....

.....one immortalised in a Sci-Fi film with Scarlet Johanson. Imagine how many 20 somethings in black t shirts have interrupted an on-line game of Dungeons and Dragons to knock one out over a freeze frame of this image.

Bang on time, my bus arrived. I had another five hours of bus travel ahead of me, all on Stagecoach, which the driver informed me could all be done on a £7.20 explorer ticket. Bargain.

The route out of the village was down a very deep, winding gorge. An extremely picturesque journey.

I was heading for Sanquror, but pulling on to the main road, the driver informed me the previous bus to Dumfries was running late so I made a minus 10 connection onto it in a lay by in the middle of no-where.

I was intending to stop off at Thornhill for the guide pub there, but the description was 'Popular with hunters and anglers, one real ale on, usually Speckled Hen'. As this was a worse offering than Yates, I continued into Dumfries, 32 miles of bus travel.

Dumfries describes itself as 'The Queen of the South'. My view of the queen is that she is probably the least unacceptable pick of a pretty rum bunch, so it is probably a fair description of the town.

With an hour to kill before I could book into my B&B, I had a wander around the town, taking in some of the five GBGs in the town. Firstly the riverside New Bazaar for a Belhaven (ie, what Greene King badge themselves as in Scotland), but then remarkably, a very rare Old Mill - Yorkshire Pearl, which I have never seen round my adopted parts, so god knows how it got up here.

Next was the 'how on earth did that get in' Coach and Horses, which only had Bass on, so I was forced to have a Tennants.

Finally, the Robert the Bruce, for a Chelsea - Alpha 5. Normally I don't do Weatherspoon’s but I was desperate for a shit and to be fair to them, although their beer all tastes the same, their bogs are usually clean.

Nature got its own back next as a pigeon shat on my ear, the debris splattering all over my Ipad.

After checking into my very nice B&B, I headed to the railway station, which was the departure point for my next bus. This turned out to be a coach, which had been sat in the baking sun, and the driver refused to turn on the air con, so was like an inferno.

The end destination was Stranrear. This used to be a busy through bus but since the ferry port moved to Cairnryan, it is now only commuters, shoppers and day trippers returning from Dumfries.

The bus passes through very sparse population, save for the major conurbation of Castle Douglas, and the wonderfully named Gatehouse of Fleet.

The road has been considerably upgraded, as it is still heavily used by or rise heading for the port. Part of this means it has been routed right along the shoreline of Wigtown bay, looking across to Whithorn head, and further on to the Isle of Man.

After a sweltering 42 miles on the road, I spied the ground.

As I had half an hour to go, I carried on into the village of Creetown itself.

After doing the village on both sides of the road, I now only had 28 minutes to kill. The only thing of interest was this place.

It was most noticeable for the hundred year apart before and after pictures, being only different by the appearance of a Vauxhall Astra in one of them.

Heading on to the ground, I did at least find a shop, in this hithero Unknown chain of petrol station, where supplies were procured for later.

Arriving back at the ground, it rather mysteriously went under the Guise of Castle Cary Holiday Park.

Sure enough, there was the opportunity for that ultimate vacation, camping in the car park of a non-league football ground.

Strangely, despite it being July and school holidays, only two caravans, a motor home and four boats had taken up this opportunity.

Creetown 1 v Dalbeattie Star 6, pre-season friendly

Creetown have been in existence 1895, though with various names, most notably Creetown Rifle Volunteers. They play in the South of Scotland league, aka the arse end of nowhere league. They recently moved to this new ground.

Dalbeattie Star reformed in the 1970s, after a previous club disbanded in the early part of the century. They played in the South of Scotland league, until promotion to the lowland league three seasons ago.  

The ground itself is incredibly scenic. At one end is the shoreline of Wigtown bay.

Whilst behind the other is Knockeans hill.

Facilities could be described as basic but are actually quite good for this level. A large log cabin housed the changing room, tea-hut social club and also the camping amenities.

In front of this was a pitch railing with hard standing. A decent sized crowd had turned out for the game. In the background are the mountains around Newton Stewart mountains that separate Dumfries from Ayrshire.

The dug outs were on the far touch line and were of an unusual style.

The higher standard of the visitors was evident as they soon raced into a 0-4 lead.

However, their main tactic was to bore everyone to death by just passing the ball along the defence, before hoofing it upfield. In Berkshire, this is known as 'Tommy Burns football' (see also, making a load of youth team players at other clubs join an agency that you are part owner of, then sign them for the team you manage at a vastly inflated fee). My suggestion for a rule change this season, would be that for every ten passes between central defenders, when there are no opposition in the half, sees the other team awarded a goal. Either that or all pitches should be quagmires and all forwards small and nippy, so the defenders look like complete cocks when the ball stops halfway to their team mate.

By now it was time for food, and the dinner of kings was had as Dalbeattie knocked in a couple more.

From the side, the dugouts looked more like portaloos, and seemed to host the trainers from the 1973 cup final.

The port road was immediately behind the goal, and gave a great opportunity for some lorry spotting.

Behind each goal was large patch of stinging nettles…

…..which brought deep joy to the keepers as they went to retrieve wayward shots. After a while, the away keeper was diving full length to save shots that we're going 20 foot wide.

My bus back was the last one of the day, and this was no place to be left stranded, so I headed off before the end of the game, to make sure I didn't miss it. Sure enough, five minutes early, the bus arrived, with its three occupants.

We headed back, with the game in progress.....

.....and the sun setting over the Rhins peninsula.

With another 42 miles of bus travel under my belt, we were back in Dumfries. I headed off to clear the other two guide pubs but the Caven Arms was no-where near where it was shown on the map, however, the Tam O' Shanter more than sufficed with a good range of Broughton IPAs and the local Sulwath of Castle Douglas.