Long Wittenham Athletic v Stanford in the Vale
Wallingford Town v Thame Rangers
The need to be in Reading for the evening for the 50th birthday jaunt of the previous weeks euro travelling companion, meant a Thames Valley based day on return to domestic proceedings. Reports from Sofia/Istanbul/Turkey/Georgia/Germany/Hungary/Poland/Lithuania will be posted over the forthcoming week. After two weeks of eating Albanian cow lung (all will become clear) i'd managed to get food poisoning off my very first meal back in Blighty so have been laid up all week.
Anyway, a Friday Cross Country jaunt saw a change at Oxford witness the commemorative class 180. The recent open day at Old Oak Common had seen a line up of historic Great Western traction through the years. Amongst such luminaries as castle and manor steam locomotives, Warship and Western hydraulics, class 50 and HST diesels, was somehow a class 180, which was quite a surprise to those who have had to operate or travel in them. Never mind, the future of front line traction on the route seems to be going well.
Of almost as much surprise was on arrival at my Swindon residence, finding a note regarding my missed appointment with the community midwife, which is some achievement for a 41 year old single male.
The next morning and off for a few games spread around the former Berkshire reaches of the Thames Valley. So off a still OHLE devoid Swindon.
Down the GWML, with the lineside venue for my morning game looking ominously devoid of activity.
To get back to the ground, there was an interchange at Reading onto the number 17 bus, which is the main route through the town.
Heading west, and down the Oxford Road. This part of town has always been one of the ethnically diverse areas of the town. When I was a kid, it was very much the Irish and West Indian area. As ever, the new geographic populous had marked their presence in the way that they always do; unidentifiable fruits and chronically parked vehicles.
Carrying down the 'Occie Road' there were the usual landmarks of a trip through west Reading. Network Southeasts lingering presence at Reading West, marked by the attempt at brightening up the rail bridge with some doves that actual look like they were suffering from morbid obesity when they flew at full pelt into it.
The previously mentioned driving skills defined by the car on the right overtaking our bus and avoiding oncoming traffic by driving down the opposite pavement.
A mobility bingo full house with both crutches and a scooter hurtling towards the drive through McDonalds.
The bike shop that every youngster in West Reading got their childhood ride from, now converted to a really shit Irish pub. May's Britain (although I'm pretty sure it got converted in the Major years, let's not miss an opportunity to kick her when she's down).
The new kids in town, with the Abu Bakr mosque rising majestically behind the Polskie schlep superstore. Ultra-convenience for any pickled vegetable loving fundamentalists out there.
And of course, the bespoke table decoration stores. The Asians lead the way in table decorations, which look as impressively flamboyant as they do in flagrant contravention of any fire retardness requirements. This outfit boast 'quality and affordable disposable tableware for any occasion'. I've dropped them a request for suitable accompaniment for the following occasions; -
1. The November cut for my toe nails.
2. A none Sealed knot society sanctioned re-enactment of Second Peloponnesian War.
I will inform you of their quality and affordable suggestions.
Anyway, with this particular journey over, it was time to alight at Norcot Junction, formerly the hub of the Reading Trolleybus network.
This is adjacent to what appears to be a nondescript light industrial estate. However, as the name indicates, this was the site of Tilehurst stadium, the original home of Reading speedway, before it moved to Smallmead in the 1970s, and now only lives on in lego. These days, builders buy self tapping rawl plugs from Screwfix direct, where once Dave Jessop saw off the spirited challenges of Bob Kilbie.
I was onto another notable name in the sporting history of west Reading.
Where a dive through the railway embankment...
...saw the last vestiges of non-league past.
This is Ibis complex, basically the Sports and section of Prudential, a major employer in the town. Ibis standing for Industrial Branch Insurance Services, which was the part of the Prudential who set up the recreational society, originally in London.
Within its confines is Scours Lane, a ground built up by Reading Town. They were a rising force in local football after leaving their lower Burghfield origins for the bright lights of Reading. They had settled in the Hellenic for a number of the years. However, the clubs greatest source of income came from the grounds location adjacent to the Reading Festival site, and renting out the ground to a security company for their staff to camp on during the festival. Said security company were actually the Battersea and Wandsworth Trades Union Council, and in a strange course of events, bought the football club as they thought this would be a great way of avoiding camping costs. However, they greatly underestimated the costs of running even a step 9 football club, and in the end, things came to a very acrimonious end, the football club going bust and the union losing use of the ground.
It has since been taken over by Highmoor Ibis. These were two localish teams, Highmoor a tiny village north of Teading who always had a strong team but only a ploughed field to play on, whilst had the lush facilities here to play on, but a team of hungover insurance underwriters. The two merged and have progressed up to Hellenic, stealing Reading Town's ground and Brazil's badge.
Also present are Woodley United, who have emerged in the last few years from omni-presence in mid table in the Reading Senior League, to also being in the Hellenic.
The Ibis complex is an absolute myriad of pitches spread over all corners of the site. From bitter experience, Ibis is like the Bermuda Triangle of Reading football, in that fixtures go there, never to be seen again as they are liable to either enforced postponements from precious groundsmen, or they are organised with the slight oversight of not booking a pitch, and one of the thousand other teams that are based there have got the slot instead.
I was intending to watch Tilehurst Albion v Bethel United in the Thames Valley Christian League.
However, a tour around the complex revealed only kids games. As the wasteful youth of today are only interested in Snapchat and reclaiming social equality through the ending of austerity, I determined that none of them would be involved in faith based football, so concluded that this was another blow out. Although I did get to see a load of parked up class 387s at the adjacent Reading traincare depot.
Being in the arse end of an industrial estate, there was a myriad of badly worded signage to dissect. At what point is it easier to write 'K-9' rather than 'dog'?
Well done for managing to write one word of the four on your sign, even if that word is only 'CAR'. The local readers may wish to admire that the opening digits of this persons mobile number are also the traditional dialling code for Reading, before it went all 01189 fancy. Let's build a wall and capture the Who.
My onward move was to Tilehurst station.
To be reminded that class 70s still exist.
Until my all shacks turbo landed.
Heading country bound, passing Didcot and the railway centre, with a Prairie and auto coach on the demonstration line, like a tribute to the final years of the Princetown Branch.
I was off at Appleford, just north of Didcot yet one of the places that no-one has ever heard of. The previous platform Pagoda shelters have finally succumb.
Appleford is just two streets of nothingness.
I headed to the picturesque village church, where a horse looked at me.
I was walking to the next village, and the next farmyard animal to stare at me were a heard of predictably immobile cows. I find it unjust that benefits claimants, immigrants and drinkers in Wetherspoons all get grief for just sitting around doing fuck all except, yet cows seem to be blatantly encouraged to do so, and shit on footpaths in the process. At least only one of my nominated groups does that.
My walk took me through the beauty of early autumnal Britain.
Only enhanced by the presence of a half collapsed power station on the horizon.
Across a field.
I was then joined by the upper reaches of the River Thames.
A final tree line glade...
...brought me out into the quitisential English Village of Long Wittenham. Quinisential in that no one under the age of sixty can afford to live there.
I was heading for here, which whilst looking like a persons house with a pub sign outside...
...is actually the UKs largest permanent model railway exhibition. Probably.
However, whilst size may be contestable, quality isn't. Most model railway exhibits are tourists attractions who's prime audience is kids and families. However, Pendon's aim is to faithfully recreate 1930s Britain. Pretty much like the Scottish junior ground grading committee do.
There are a few layouts. This one is the Madder Valley, which is recognised as one of the first scale model railways, until then it was mostly clockwork trains for kids.
It depicts an independent light railway running from a fictional port. Due to its age, it only runs a few times a year, today not being one of them.
Next is the Dartmoor scene, with a depiction of a branchline crossing the Barron features of inland Devon, including this impressive timber trestle viaduct.
And this junction station, with a mixed train of LSWR stock heading to Exeter. But then, in a faithful recreation of the real thing, the operator couldn't get anything to go, and dived off under the layout to wiggle a few wires.
So I headed off upstairs to the centre piece of the museum. This is a massive model of the Vale of the White horse, which sits between Didcot and Swindon.
It includes a sprawling portrayal of a wayside Great Western station.
It's associated village.
Although things have gone too far, when in a world you are creating, you have the pubs serving Arkels. Has mankind learned nothing.
I've been coming to the museum for 35 years, and this layout has been under construction all that time. For those eventually reading these reports in chronological order, there will be a hugely funny joke comparing the project to the Lithuanian national football stadium, but until I get that report in, you'll have to make your own up.
Anyway, this means there are some big chunks missing out of hillsides.
And the graveyard comes to an abrupt end.
However, it does give a view of the normally hidden storage yards, which, being a rail operator by profession, I spent most of the time watching, feeling a bit guilty for those who had laid every individual roof tile on each building.
Finally, it was out to the gift shop where a model of the sea wall at Dawlish is linked to the Dartmoor model, with apparently trains now back on the move, albeit in one direction only.
But I suppose I'd better get to some actual football. As I said Long Wittenham, is a quintessential English village. I started taking photos of thatched cottages, until I realised it was more noteworthy to find one that wasn't thatched.
However, rather than perched on the village green, the football club are located on the northern fringes of the village.
Leading me into here.
Long Wittenham Athletic 5 v Stanford in the Vale 1, North Berks League - Division 1
Long Wittenham Athletic were formed in 1902; so that badge has been in development for 115 years. They have mostly been in the North Berks league, though did taste the heady heights of the Hellenic for a few seasons in the 1970s.
Stanford in the Vale is small village located between Oxford and Swindon, and grew up as the workers housing for the local manor.
The football club, well, I'd like to congratulate the village website for providing the most charmingly vague information about the club. It would be wrong of me to contradict these words with things like fact or detail, so we'll leave it at this.
For some reason the overall ground shot I took, looks to have been taken from Nortamptonshire. I can assure you there is a football pitch in the distance there somewhere.
The changing room/clubhouse was a strange arrangement, in that it appeared that there had been some wizard of Oz style tornado, which had deposited the changing rooms on top of the clubhouse. The end result being the roof of a village hall emerging from a mobile home,
It is said that the hardest working person football is the holding midfielder. That is bollocks. The undisputed holder of this title is whoever ropes off the pitch at Long Wittenham. Such thoroughness, complexity and robustness I've never seen before in over 3500 ground visits.
At this point I was joined by my dad, who had foregone games at Basingstoke and Thatcham fro some action further afield. As he has progressed through senior status, his ability to be impressed seems now to be limited to two things;-
1. The luxurious provision of public toilets.
2. Innovations in maintenance free construction.
So whilst he was off assessing the first, when I met back up with him, he was very endorsingly banging the exterior wall of the building. "See this, its plastic", in a look that probably wasn't too dissimilar to early mankind’s self awe on creating fire.
There was a mascot devoid minutes silence to one of the recently deceased league's comittee, who was actually from Stanford. Unfortunately, it coincided with the start of a heavy shower, so there was the moral dilemma of staying respectful or staying dry. I chose the latter, so spent the latter 30 seconds wrestling with a coat. It's what Ken would have wanted.
The game started with the unnoticed presence of a helpful volunteer scooping up dog shit onto a snow shovel, so was immediately adjourned.
But proceedings got back underway at a second attempt, with the sun now trying to break free of the perma-grey cloud that encloses Didcot.
The visiting keepers initial activity was a struggle to get his pants out of his arse crack.
Which may have resulted in this merry dance, infront of the traditional village backdrop of the church tower and portaloo.
The Didcot cloud was still winning its battle with the sun.
This time last week I'd been watching first versus third in the Lithuanian premier league. It is perhaps a sign of the domestic interest in Baltic football, that there were more spectators present here at fifth versus seventh in the North Berkshire League first division.
The spectators included the traditional man and his dog, who obeyed the ropesman's handywork.
There were more @nonleague_dogs present, including these two, who didn't appear to have hit it off. Some good high ball action in the background.
Long Wittenham took a very early lead.
With Stanford then scoring an equally early equaliser.
The home side regaining the lead later in the half.
Long Wittenham have previously hosted games as part of an organised ground hop, so they may have devised the rope system to mark out different holding areas for each category of sex offence the groundhoppers hold.
Another welcome re-acquaintance was with the soft agricultural burr of the West Berkshire accent, of which I am also blessed. This is a much friendlier than the distinctly harsher tone that starts to be encountered down country of here. In West Berkshire, the word 'shoiitttte' would be a honest appraisal of your neighbours home brewed barley wine, get passed Swindon, and it would mostly be accompanied by 'fucking' and be used to offer scorn that the 1833 Slavery Abolition Act has yet to be repealed. To reinforce the bucolic ideal, Stanford in the Vale's most famous ex-pat is Pam Eyres (i.e. 90% of the daytime content of Radio 4 extra).
Long Wittenham added another just before half time, from a surprisingly flowing move.
A half time visit to the very tidy clubhouse, was occupied and manned by a contingent of exceedingly cheerful and helpful officials.
For some reason, I'd thought this was a cup game that kicked off at 1330, so could get in another game elsewhere. However, it was instead a normal league game, so it did still overlap with the 1500 kick offs. We hung on for a while into the second half, before heading off to a second game. This one eventually finished 5-1 to Long Whittenham, who would certainly be recommended as a lovely location and vert friendly hosts.
I had intended to walk down to Didcot for the next game, but with my dad offering a lift, instead it was down to here.
Firstly a few moments taking in the reserves game Wallingford Town against Crowmarsh Gifford. They had been winless in the season so far, but a 5-0 victory saw them rise off the bottom of the table.
The rather homespun stand being more something hastily constructed for staging a team photo, rather than an obvious spectator facility.
Wallingford Town 3 v Thame Rangers 4, Uhlsport Hellenic League - Division 2 East
Wallingford Town were originally formed in the 1920s, playing in the North Berks and then Reading league until being a founder member of the Hellenic league in the 1950s, where they remained until the 1990s. At this point, Wallingford United were rising up the leagues, with decent backing from the chairman. Town had been relegated to the Hellenic first, and United couldn't progress any further due to their ground, so a merger ensued, though in essence this was just a takeover of Town by United to get the ground. They carried on playing in the Chiltonian league, before promotion to the rather geographically inconvenient Combined Counties, where some heroic tussles with the newly formed AFC Wimbledon ensued. However, the financial backer moved on, which saw fortunes plumet, and a spell back in the North Berks league, before promotion back to the Hellenic this season, and a reversion to the Wallingford Town name.
Thame Rangers are just a renamed version of Thame United reserves, who are also newly promoted to the Hellenic, having won the Spartan South Midlands League last year. The main club have a long footballing history, being founded in 1883, and were long standing members of the Hellenic league. The 1990s saw the moneyman from Peppard finally give up trying to get them a ground, and instead bankrolled Thame up to the Southern League. However, they cash ran out, and Thame also lost their ground, and ended up back int he Hellenic, coincidentally, ground sharing at Wallingford. However, a new ground back in Thame has seen their fortunes improve, winning the title last season, by virtue of a last day 9-0 win at Henley, having had a goal difference of seven goals worse than fellow contenders Bracknell.
Wallingford Town played at the town centre Bullcroft ground, until the opening of Hithercroft in the 1970s, which saw United take over their former ground. I’ve been here a number of times, but find it an uninspiring if capable venues, so is never a ground I’ve rushed back to visit.
For many years, this was the sole cover, which had a few seats added. It has now being joined with an adjacent Atcost offering, and some sort of lounge area has been built in half of the cover.
The presence of the Atcost is doubly frustrating. Firstly, because its an Atcost, but secondly, it means that the famous Wallingford bus is no longer in use. This was a Bristol VR parked at one end of the ground and used as a stand, but now sadly appears to have departed.
Photo shamelessly stolen from the Wallingford Twitter account.
The far end has seen the trees grow, but not much other activity.
Ditto the near end, but without any trees to watch grow.
My last visit to Hithercroft was in 2003 when they hosted the fledgling AFC Wimbledon in the Combined counties league. This was a table topping encounter, both sides having being edged out by Withdean the previous season’s titile. Wimbledon had been giving it large since their inauguration, causing not considerable ire to the normally sedate activiites of the ex Surrey Senior League. However, the normal opposition of a few committee members and huddle of pensioners at the likes of Hartley Witney, weren’t going to cause too much of a fuss. However, come the day of this game, and fate dictated a very late postponement of nearby Oxford’s home game. A few of their more robust followers decided to head up river to Wallingford for the game. Thus, when Wimbledon gave it some of their primary school-esque goading in the club house, all hell let lose as Blackburn Ley’s finest gave them short shrift. The issue was, that a lot of the Wimbledon supporters weren’t actual used to trouble, so tried to do things like reason or restrain the Oxford lads, which just prolonged the situation (the correct cause of action is to give no clue about which team you support, to confuse them into not carrying on their activities). The police were called, arrests were made, and because it Wimbledon were still a story at the time, subsequent banning orders made the headlines. The aftermath saw Wimbledon sign Wallingford’s star striker, Shane Small King, who was the only footballer to be wider than he was tall, which then saw Wimbledon run away with the title. Anyway, here is the programme from said game. (edit - actually it isn't, its from a visit with AFC Newbury in the Berks and Bucks cup the following season)
As we entered the ground, we got to see the away side take the lead.
Immediately followed by a penalty for Wallingford.
A stroll around the ground saw an opposition forward on a similar aimless wander around the edge of the penalty area.
Until he turned and curled it right into the bottom corner of the goal.
Fortunately, normal service was resumed with some fantastic high punts.
Into the second half and the away forward now took it upon himself to round the home keeper and slot into the goal from a very tight angle.
Wallingford kept on. Here is a corner amongst the trees.
The visiting manager was former professional Craig Faulconbridge, the only player I've seen at both Coventry and Wingate & Finchley.
I'd had a consistent day for being at completely the wrong end for where the goals were being scored, and kept on with Wallingford being awarded a penalty upfield from my location.
Duly dispatched.
Only for Thame to score again, just as a linesman appeared from the 1950s.
To add to quite a goalfest of a day, Wallingford made things quite interesting by pulling it back to 3-4.
But that was how the game ended.
Which is also how the report ends, as rather than my usual yomp back to Sowerby on a steam powered airship, instead it was just being dropped back in Reading by my dad, which is where the evening do was being hosted.
I then proceeded to show people at the party the picture of the Wallingford bus, only to be looked at incredulously as actually and be told it is a Leyland Atlantean, not a Bristol VR. There ain't no party like a bus spotters party.
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