Chronicles of the Berkshire Pig: Bala lah la la lah

Bala Town v Alloa Athletic, Scottish Challenge Cup.

Dolgellau Athletic v Tywyn and Bryncrug, Mid-Wales League.

An eagerly anticipated day since the fixture list was first released. The reason for this was that it was the first weekend of games when football finally went truly bat-shit mad, though in a good way. I am of course talking about the Scottish Challenge Cup being played in the arse end of Wales and Northern Ireland. As I am about to embark on a 13 game European non-league spectacular, culminating in Serbian rugby league, I decided against a trip across the water, so instead headed for mid-Wales, where the strange decision to actually televise the game at lunchtime, meant I could also get another in.

Anyway, an early start and my first of the season in darkness, taking advantage of Sowerby Bridge market’s 24 hour cafe.

Sowerby in the dark. The big building on the hillside in the background, is right in the middle of the town and makes the rubberised road surfaces that go on all level crossings in the U.K. You'll remember that when you next go across one, and be disappointed with yourself for all the useful stuff that you have forgotten.

Bang on time, the 0617 to Manchester Victoria rolled in.

Approaching Manchester and you pass Newton Heath depot. This was the railway works for the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, which was known for its green and gold emblem. In 1878, the Carriage and Waggon works started up their own football team. They were very successful, both on and off the pitch. So much so that a group of investors saw an opportunity to make a killing out of the club, so bought it on the cheap, changed its name and colours, and moved it across the city. I'm not sure what happened to the 'Manchester United' it became, but I am sure of one thing; there is no way it would ever let itself be exploited by predatory investors ever again.

Into Victoria, the Cinderella of Manchester stations. The city is ringed by stations from all the separate companies that originally built the local railways. Central and Exchange have gone, leaving Piccadilly and Victoria on the opposite sides of town. Victoria used to be a huge, decaying edifice with a massive, leaking, glass roof. In the 1990s, taking inspiration from the architectural splendour of Birmingham New Street, British Rail decided what was needed was a huge concrete slab dumped on top of it, because natural light just ruins a station environment. Hence half the station is a dingy hell-hole underneath the Manchester Arena.

However, the other half has recently had a vast glass labyrinth stuck on the side. Unsurprisingly, this is the tram stop part of the station, as trans are all that Transport for Manchester are interested in and all they spend money on.

Although my onward train actually departed from Piccadilly, I was able to do a positioning move from Victoria to Newton-Le-Willows.

This took me passed the works for the new Ordsall Curve. This is a couple of hundred metres of new rail line that enables through running between Piccadilly and Victoria. It's main purpose was that it means trains from the east, heading for Manchester Airport, no longer have to cross the whole station throats at Victoria, though they are now dumped on the most congested line in Britain, the two tracks between Piccadilly and Oxford Road. However, its main purpose now seems to be as the poster boy for the 'Northern Powerhouse', as people still just think it is an electrical appliance retailer.

Despite being before 8am, it was re-assuring to see the police helicopter hovering over Manchester. Like Ladbroke’s banner ads, crime never sleeps.

Into Newton-Le-Willows, with the army's youth division boarding. I'm not sure when cuddly toys became part of the backpack equipment. The town lives up to its Francophile name, being grimey, with unpalatable food, and inhabited by reluctant working, sexual predators. However, it has produced a phalanx of notable people. Of borderline cuntdom status; Rick Astley, Andy Burnham, George Formby, Pete Waterman. Of, I don't really have an opinion status; Ed Clancy, Joe Fagan, Roger Hunt, Wilf Mannion.

However, the real hero of the town are the Vulcan Works. This was originally an ironworks foundry, but on the opening of the nearby Liverpool and Manchester railway, the first ever to carry passengers, Vulcan started to build steam locomotives. Over time the British railway companies developed their own loco works, so Vulcan instead concentrated on supplying the commonwealth. Thus their product can be seen around the world, India, China and Argentina having thousands of Vulcan traction. The works really came into their own in the 1950s, when they were taken over by English Electric, just at a time when British Rail was replacing steam with electric and its own works couldn't keep up with demand, so thousands of new diesels were built here, including class 40s, 20s, 30s and the wonderous class 50s. On the flip side, they also built the 'lets stick two whiny submarine engines in a train and then moan about fuel consumption' Eastern region Deltics, which lie in the same category as Astley and Waterman. Anyway, my move on was of Metropolitan-Cammell heritage, being a Washwood Heath built class 175, although predictably, Met Cam have long since been taken over by the French company Alstom, who have closed the Birmingham works.

This leg was with Arrive Trains Wales, on a Llandudno bound service, full of backward Mancs taking their kids out of school for a week in order to populate North Wales bingo halls and Wetherspoons. This took us through Warrington. Avid readers may remember the trip through Middlesbrough trip a few weeks ago, and the mention of the three remaining Transporter bridges in Britain. This is one of them, being built in 1915 to connect the soap works complex which was divided by the river Mersey. It has been out of use since the 1960s, but is a listed monument so can't be dismantled and sold to Native Americans by any chancing Geordies.

Fortunately, I alighted at Chester, just as the Manc retards had got onto Brexit. Surprisingly, this wasn't inspired by the pounds obvious vulnerability to huge exchange rate losses in the currency markets, but instead by the 'fucking chinks' who boarded the train at Helsby, and that somehow Brexit will rid 'England' of.

Guess which one takes ten minutes longer to get to?

Another ATW service, this time Birmingham bound, via Shrewsbury.

Football grounds visible from the railway; the Racecourse Ground.

I alighted at Ruabon, who's pronunciation makes it sound like you are mumbling as you don't know how to say it. It is the birthplace of Ted Hughes and Mark Hughes, but not footballs most famous Hughes; Docker. Perusing the towns Wikipedia entry, it boasts '13.6% of the population have some ability in Welsh'. What it doesn't clarify is if 'Welsh' means the language, or the ability to eat seaweed, petrol bomb holiday homes, and declare cheese on toast as a national dish.

Onward travel was by bus from outside the station. Disappointingly, mid-Wales is the preserve of local operators, which don't have a reciprocal travel arrangement with First, so I have to buy a ticket. It's not the cost that concerns me as I'm absolutely minted, but the trauma of having to pronounce 'Llangollen' like you have a double set of dental braces.

There is however, one place on the route with a great name that is easy to pronounce. Why does Wales have so many places with names like kids from a 1970s council estate? Trevor, Barry. I'm sure there is a Gary and a Kevin in Gwynedd somewhere.

Into Llangollen and I left the bus as it headed on into town. Llangollen is to Liverpool what Bewdley is to Birmingham, so as per previous ramblings, it is second date, Scouse divorcees, feigning interest in snow globes.

Instead, this was my destination.

Llangollen was situated on the beautifully scenic, but financial basket case, railway from Ruabon to Barmouth and Blaenau Ffestiniog. Somehow the line clung on until the late 1960s, at which point a preservation society took over. They have slowly extended the line to its present limit, 10 miles away in Corwen.

Buying a ticket from the shop, and a last a railway author has admitted to the link between trainspotting and sex offending.

Haulage today was 80072, a British Railways standard class 4 tank of 1953 vintage, built at Brighton works. It was originally based at Tilbury for services into Fenchurch Street, so anyone using C2C, this is what your train looked like 50 years ago. With electrification, it moved to South Wales and the West Midlands, before withdrawal in 1966. It was taken to the famous Dai Woodhams scrapyard in Barry docks, but like so many British steam locomotives that survive today, wasn't cut up as the decimation of British industry meant there was a constant supply of much easier to cut up goods wagons. By the time they got around to start cutting up steam locos in the 1980s, the preservation movement was in full swing so most of them got rescued. Without the 'Barry Miracle' (I'm not talking about Cilit Bang), only a handful of the British steam locos in existence today, would have survived. Which is a shame as I fucking hate them.

Anyway, 80072 was one of the last to be rescued, as late as 1989 in this sorry state. It was restored at a number of locations, eventually steaming again in Llangollen in 2009. It has just returned from a summer stint on the North Yorkshire Moors railway.

The line starts off following the River Dee. It's first stop is the money shot of the line, with the train on a quaint viaduct adjacent to the mock Tudor station building.

I normally visit the line once a year for the heritage rail car gala in May, but moving up north meant I missed it this year. Despite Paul S' pathological hysteria about, well pretty much everything, but specifically the Dean Forest Railway, the Llangollen is the centre for first generation diesel rail cars. This gives an opportunity to ride on the crap units from my childhood, this class 104 being a prime example, which spent the 60/70/80s trundling between Buxton and Blackpool. In twenty years, I'll be doing it on Pacers. Though it is just as likely they will still be on commuter services into Leeds.

The DfT rolling stock cascade from the Isle of Sodor.

Further along the line and the valley widens out, running just above the flood plains. Here we arrive into Carrog.

Football grounds visible from the railway, Glyndyfrdwy. Get some vowels, you Crystal-Palace-consonants-record wannabes.

The final 2.5 miles of the line into Corwen has only just re-opened in the past year. It currently terminates at a temporary stop to the east of the town, as it is awaiting a sewer to be diverted from the track bed before the new station can be constructed.

The temporary station doesn't have a run-round loop, instead the loco pushes the train back to Carrog to change ends. Here it is departing, in a typical kettle glory hunting theatrical show. Stop showing off, anyone can boil water mate.

Corwen is a farming community in the middle of not much else. It is best known for being the home of Ifor Williams Trailers, which any motorist knows as they see the sticker on them as they follow them at 20mph down narrow lanes, being pulled by a Land Rover defender, as a farmer moves sheep/smuggles barrels of red diesel.

Still off the beer, and with 45 minutes to kill, I headed off to the football ground.

Corwen Amateurs FC were formed in 1877, playing in the inaugural Welsh Cup. They play in the Welsh National League, which in keeping with most leagues in the Welsh Pyramid, bears no relation to the area it covers, which is actually just Wrexham and surroundings. They did have a short stint in the Cymru Alliance.

The War Memorial ground is little more than a railed off pitch…

…but with a bizarre fenced in stand.

Now I'm the last one to belittle lower league football, after all, that's one non-league day is for. Well, actually, I'm the first one to, but at least it's from a position of knowledge. However, it does shock me that this is all the facilities required to reach the second tier of Welsh football. Not Welsh non-league, Welsh professional football. It seems the dugouts were replaced.

And a whopping 14 seats installed in the cover.

But no permanent railings or hard standing on one touchline as it is shared with the cricket pitch. Even Northampton eventually got theirs sorted.

I headed back to the transport interchange, where a running in board from the original station has been preserved. Work progresses in the background on the line to the new station.

Next was a move on the modern day equivalent of the line, the TrawsCymru T3 service which operates from Wrexham to Barmouth. On arrival, there was text book local bus driver action, as he took the fares, then exited the driver’s seat to reveal he was in a shirt and tie with jeans and trainers, and proceeded to smoke a roll-up in the doorway.

The TrawsCymru network is a series of bus routes originating from mid-Wales to all points north, east and south. The routes don't have much in common other than the branding and a public subsidy that that would bring tears to the eyes of even the most hardened communist. Still, a pensioner’s vote is a pensioners vote.

After 30 minutes or so we were into Bala.

Bala is basically a street near a lake in mid Wales. By a fluke it became a railway junction for lines to Llangollen, Barmouth and Blaenau Ffestiniog, which gave it some prominence in the last century. They have now all shut meaning it relies on tourism and despite only having a population of 2,000, it has a UEFA cup standard football team.

Today's game had obviously captured the hearts and minds of the town, with adverts on the Main Street.

I followed directions and shortly was at the rather scruffy entrance to the ground.

Bala Town 2 v Alloa Athletic 4, Irn Bru Scottish Challenge Cup

The Scottish Challenge Cup was the Auto Windscreens shield for Scotland. However, this season the SFL got wind of the utter lunacy that the EFL were thinking of with premier league under 23 teams, decided that they needed to go one better. But instead they went about twenty. Seemingly have got roryfsmith on board, given him as much crack as a human can handle, then letting him design the structure for this years competition. So as well as the SFL clubs, there are also under-20 teams of the twelve Scottish Premiership clubs, four teams each from the Highland League and Lowland League, and two teams each from the Northern Ireland and Welsh leagues. Utter lunacy, though even the SFL drew the line at the Isle of Man and Enya. Anyway, here was the creators last project.

Bala Town were formed as long ago as 1880. In turn, they merged with the wonderfully named Bala North End, Bala South End and Bala Thursday's. By the 1920s they were playing in the Welsh National League North Division but by the 1950s were in the Wrexham Alliance. Real progress has only come about in the last 10 years, joining the Cymru Alliance in 2004, and then the Welsh Premier League in 2008. They have have qualified for Europe on a couple of occasions, but have to play the home ties at Rhyl as their own ground is not up to UEFA standards.

I have seen Bala play once before, in my annual pilgrimage to watch Luxembourg clubs in the European qualification rounds, I'd seen Bala lose to Red Boys Differdange, having beaten them in Rhyl. The previous year Bala had been knocked out by Estonian outfit Levadia Tallinn, again, after having won the home leg.

Maes Tegid reputedly holds 3,000 people, with 504 seats and has been used by Bala Town since the 1950s. The relatively recent success of the club means the record crowd is only 938, set in 2009 against Bangor City, missing out on the attendance boom and lax health and safety requirements of the 1950s, when most clubs set their records.

On entering the ground, there was carnage around the club shop gazebo as the 200 print run had sold out but some one had gone to get another 25 which had been reserved for someone in Alloa. Cue an almighty stampede when they arrived, with some groundhoppers threatening to self combust with the nylon friction static.

The Bala social club was signed in the type of lettering that is the sole preserve of cafes that haven't had any form of modernisation since the 1960s. The Rafina Coffee Lounge for instance.

As ever, the most substantial structure at any Welsh Premier ground, is the TV gantry. This one resembled a gunning placement.

The second most substantial was a compound that contained no less than eight sets of goals.

The seats at Maes Tegid are second-hand from Chesterfield and Coventry City, and were installed when Bala won promotion to the Welsh Premier League.

The Bala ultras had already marked their territory.

Before the game, the discarded tools of ultra cuntness, a drum and wig in team colours.

At the opposite end, a small covered terrace.

As mentioned the game was being televised by S4C. This was the pre-match, on pitch intro, which seems to be the fashion these days. I will give a solid gold house to anyone who can identify who these three are.

You don’t see endless miles of 240v cabling trailing around in the mud at most televised games.

Nor is the satellite feed nailed to wooden fence.

For those with a deep ignorance of Scotland (ie, Conservatives or Premier League football scouts since 1995), Alloa is an actual place, being situated in the middle of Scotland, next to Stirling. It was mostly a coal mining area, but like most places up there, also had, wool, weaving and distilling activity. Alloa fans had travelled in numbers. Thankfully none of them was knobbish enough to go for the kilt and leather waistcoat. Oh, wait.

Alloa were formed even earlier, in 1878. They were originally Clackmannanshire County FC, but this didn’t fit in with the ‘and that is why we love you, we love you’ song that all Scottish clubs seem to sing, so they became Alloa Athletic in 1883. After a lot of success in the Central league, they joined the Scottish League in 1921. Without anyone noticing, Alloa have had six separate stints in the top division, but none have lasted for more than two seasons, and the last was in 1989. They are currently in division 1, having been relegated last season.

Anyway, come 1300 and history was made as the teams entered the fray. To add to the variety, the officials were from Northern Island.

A potential flash point occurred at kick off with the teams changing ends, so did the supporters. Meaningful stares as the two sides approached each other. Until it was realised that the Bala ultras were all 8 year old kids, and Alloa were all middle aged families.

Tantalisingly, the sub keeper appeared with an @keepers_towel

But, thankfully, so did the Alloa keeper, though this was discarded in the back of the goal.

Ooh ah, Alloa, say ooh ah Alloa. Which they did. Repeatedly.

Over the summer, the pitch has been replaced with a 3G surface. On newly installed 3G, the rubber pellets are still both plentiful and loose. This means that whenever someone is running, a black cloud is kicked up and it appears as though their feet are smoking, like when someone scores three consecutive baskets on NBA Jam 95 on the Megadrive.

Another things you don’t normally see at televised games; a sub having a piss in a hedge behind the dugout.

A novel feature at the ground was a hangmans gibbit.

The ground clutter consisted of a goal, wrapped in brown paper. If any kid gets this on Christmas morning and can’t guess what it is before unwrapping, they deserve to be forced to watch Noel Edmonds at the top of the Post Office tower for two hours.

Rather boringly, Maes Tegid translates as ‘Bala Area’. Looking at pictures I had thought the ground was rather basic, but having seen Corwen, I realise it is actually like a Welsh San Siro.

Alloa were in the bizarre position of the current manager, Jack Ross having agreed to join St Mirren after this game.

For perhaps the first time in history, this phrase is used in favour of Alloa, but the gulf in class really showed, with the Scots absolutely dominant in the first half.

After 10 minutes and a few chances, Alloa did get a goal.

I'll be honest, a televised game with a relatively big crowd in a recently rebuilt ground, isn't my sort of thing. There were buses onward at two or three, and my timings meant I was getting one and a half games in. In the end I chose to sacrifice this one as Alloa had gone three up by half time. It finished 2-4 to Alloa.

I headed back to the centre for the next T3 service, which was a completely unnecessary double decker.

I managed to battle the one other person on the top deck to get the front seats.

This part of the route is even more scenic than that previous. Firstly, it runs along the shoreline of Lake Bala.

On the far side of the lake was the old railway, which has been re-opened as a narrow gauge steam railway.

As the lake ends, the mountains start.

I would give some details of the places we went through, but the required constant use of the letter L would cause a dent in my iPad screen.

The road follows the old railway, along the river Afon Lliw valley.

After 30 minutes, we arrived into the picturesque Dolgellau square.

I immediately headed off for the football as firstly it was a 1430 kick off, and secondly, there was absolutely jack shit else to do in the place. Heading to the vicinity of the ground, I could hear a lot of shouting, however, this turned out to be rugby, best viewed from the main road.

However, at the end of the lane, the football ground was soon reached.

Dolgellau Athletic 2 v Tywyn and Bryncrug 1, Spar Supermarkets Mid-Wales League.

Dolgellau Athletic were formed in 1971, after the previous club in the town had packed in some time earlier. They have played quite successfully in the Aberystwyth and District league, winning the league and cup double last season, moving up to the Mid-Wales division 2 this season, though the summer saw a lot of players depart for local rivals Barmouth.

Tywyn and Bryncrug are based in Bryncrug, which is adjacent to the Cambrian Coast. I don’t know much about them, other than at some point they must have merged with Tywyn, but it is starnge they don’t play there as it is by far the bigger of the two places.

I have been to the T&B ground as it is on the Talyllyn railway. It has a tiny stand, which is at a bizarre 45 degree angle to the pitch, so you can’t see one goal from it.

The Mid Wales League was, I seem to recollect, formed in the mid 1980s, from what, I do not know. It sits at level 3 of the Welsh set up, feeding into the Cymru Alliance, which is the step 2 league that covers the rest of Wales that the other step 2 league, the South Wales based Welsh Football League, doesn’t cover. The Mid Wales league covers mid and west Wales.

Stepping into the ground and I immediately knew this was my thing.

On the opposite touchline was the only cover in the ground.

The makers plate betrayed the structures origin, a barn with one side cut off. But thankfull to see some innovation, not just another Atcost pre-fab.

Speaking of innovation, this is truly the best interpretation of the ground grading requirement of covered seating for visiting directors.

This has to be the ultimate insult when the council install a park bench on the touchline, but have it facing the opposite direction to the pitch, looking straight at a hedge.

@nonleaguedogs

Behind the near goal was the clubhouse which seemed to be doing a healthy trade, but without spawning a posse of pissed up knobs that they can produce.

The rest of the stand side had posts but no railings for the pitch surround.

The Dolgellau keeper was sporting hair from the 1980s. I was tempted to wait until after the game to see if he had stone washed jeans.

The referee was taking the new respect campaign to the extreme, demanding that anyone who said something or even looked unhappy with his decisions, was made to walk across the pitch for a talk from him.

Dolgellau made the headlines In 2012 when 19-year-old David Webber became the youngest football manager in senior British football history

Cae Marian is a slightly less disappointing translation, being Marian Pitch.

The games entertaining, and of a reasonable standard. Both sides had chances. Dolgellau eventually scored a couple of goals. Tywyn did pull one back, but it ended 2-1.

Afterwards, I headed off, with the rugby still going on. On the way in I'd missed some sort of stone circle next to the rugby pitch, with a large granite alter as the centrepiece, where they sacrifice those who believe in electricity.

Back in the square, and my bus was already waiting. This time it was the T2 TrawsCymru, which goes from Aberystwyth to Bangor, through the Cambrian mountains and along the coast.

Everything was in place apart from a driver, despite the doors being wide open. He eventually appeared from the adjacent hardware store with a couple of minutes to spare, jumped in his seat, and off we went.

This time I had actively avoided cheese, mainly because the deli in Corwen only had Caws Cenarth. Instead I went for another DIY cheese biscuit set. 'A good source of calcium' it advertises. Yeah, and heart disease.

The route passes by Lyn Trawsfyndd, a 1920s reservoir originally built for the Maentwrog hydro electric power station.

The reservoir was joined in the 1960s by Trawsfyndd nuclear power station, the only one in the UK built inland. It was designed to sympathetically blend in with the landscape.

Passing through Trawsfyndd it was starnge to see a Network Rail van, seeing as we are miles from any railway, it is hardly the most convenient place for an employee to live.

For once, this appears to be quite a busy TrawsCymru route.

Carrying on, and looking across to the slate hills of Blaenau Ffestiniog.

Into Minford, where the famous Ffestiniog railway runs alongside the road, as it also crosses the national rail Cambrian Coast line. Our passing couldn't have been timed better, as a down train was passing an up service, formed of the vintage quarryman’s carriages.

As we approached Porthmadog, we crossed the Britannia embankment, more commonly known as the cob.

This was originally built to reclaim the Traeth Mawr area behind it for agricultural use, but had the secondary effect of creating a deep water channel so that ocean going ships could access Porthmadog harbour. This is the view back up the estuary.

In order to link the slate quarries at Blaenau with the harbour, the narrow gauge Ffestiniog railway was built, which ran across the top of the Cob. The exhaustion of the slate quarries in the mid 1900s, saw the decline of the railway and its abandonment in the 1950s. However, a group of enthusiasts took it over and it became one of the pioneering preserved railways. The line did terminate at Porthmadog Harbour.

However, it has now been extended across the town and all the way to Caernarfon, under the guise of the Welsh Highland railway.

Leaving Porthmadog, and looking down onto the Cambrian shoreline and the Irish Sea.

By now the weather had closed in and it was pissing it down.

I didn't notice our arrival into Caernarfon, so how about this for a rushed shot of the castle?

Which can only be bettered by a shot of the Menai Straits, but with a Morrisons in the way. I was waiting for a shot at Menai Bridge, but we went inland via the hospital so this was the only picture.

Into Bangor, which due to the driver stopping for some weak bladdered teen to use the bogs at Porthmadog, was seven minutes down on an eight minute connection. Notice the dog on the left, which exposed another way in which owners are the least socially responsible group of people on the planet after hot drink orderers in pubs. The dog absolutely stank. It was acrid in the bus despite all the windows being opened and a liberal dose of deodorant. When the smell was raised by a number of people to the owner, his response was 'well get off the bus and walk, I’ll take him wherever I want'.

Somehow, the connection at Bangor was made, with me carefully avoiding the canine skunk and its considerate owner.

We headed back along the North Wales coast, across the Conwy estuary.

And looking across to the Wirral with the tide out at Point of Ayr.

Into Chester and we were greeted by a battalion of British Transport Police. They were escorting a group of 14 year old Wrexham fans back from Tranmere. They were singing 'Chester's a shithole, we want to go home'. With such a stunning lack of self-awareness, they should own dogs.

I then jumped on a Manchester bound ATW service, alighting at Oxford Road.

A quick wander across town, on the fringes of the village. Despite it only being eight o’clock, I couldn’t believe how many people there were, of all ages and kins, absolutely leathered. Hark at me, six weeks off the sauce and already sanctimonious as fuck.