A Note from the Club

Members will be sorry to learn that our esteemed correspondent JK Bowling never received word of this week’s change of fixture. She was last sighted on Saturday in a hostelry in Lynchmere, and there has been no word since. More intriguing still, Mr Brooker has lately returned from his French exile — and was reportedly seen bound for that very same corner of Lynchmere. Two old collaborators reunited and both quite incommunicado; tongues are wagging, and the committee is saying nothing.

But fortune, as ever, smiles upon Lavant. For there, crouched motionless among the hedgerows and stinging nettles, camouflaged to near perfection, was discovered another chronicler of rare distinction: the one and only Sir David Battenborough. Having spent seven decades observing the natural world, the great naturalist simply could not resist an ecosystem as rare and wondrous as Lavant in high summer. Sir David, over to you…

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In all my years exploring the natural world, some habitats are so rare, so gloriously peculiar, that a lifetime may pass before the chance to study them presents itself. This is one such place.

Here, in a sun-dappled clearing in the heart of West Sussex, exists a community unlike any other. One clearing. One summer. One extraordinary community. This… is Planet L’Oval.

The creatures that gather here are a strange and wondrous assortment — an unlikely troupe drawn together, against all odds, by two of nature’s most powerful binding forces: a shared devotion to the ancient game of cricket, and the deep bonds of friendship. They differ wildly in age, size, plumage and temperament. Some are lean and swift; others, well past their prime, move with the slow deliberation of a creature that has learned there is no need to hurry — unless, of course, the herd is moving toward the nearest watering hole, at which point a surprising turn of pace may be observed in even the most ancient of beasts. By any reasonable measure, they ought not to function at all. And yet — remarkably — they do not merely function; they thrive. Patience now. Keep very still. If we are quiet, and we are lucky, we may just see them at their most magnificent…

The toss, as so often, did not fall Lavant’s way, and the pride were sent out into a heat that must be seen to be believed. The clearing had become a parched Serengeti savannah: the outfield scorched to a brittle, tinder-dry gold, the earth cracked and smoking, the air shimmering above the baked ground. In conditions only the hardiest could endure, the pride spread across the plain and prepared to hunt.

Leading the hunt was Phil — lean, supple, magnificently bald, his smooth pate glinting in the sun. He is nature’s cheetah: all coiled athleticism and guile, preferring to probe and tease, giving his prey just enough hope before tightening the noose. At the far end came a very different beast in Benny C — raw, untamed vigour, young and virile, his mane streaming as he thundered to the crease with the reckless energy of youth. The sly and the spirited, working upon the same unsuspecting prey.

And what a contest it proved, for the creatures of Aldwick were no easy quarry — classy and brutal in the strike, they bared their teeth and fought back. Yet our hunters rose to it. Phil prowled through a superb four overs for just fourteen, and it was Benny who drew first blood — the young stallion’s opening kill snapped up, most fittingly, by his very own namesake. One Benny felling the prey, another completing the deed: a magnificent burst, all the more remarkable for the searing heat.

As the openers retired, panting, to the shade, another rose to take command: Mark S. Here, unmistakably, is the old lion who has ruled this territory for many a season. His mane is not quite the magnificent thing it once was, thinned a little by the years; but do not be deceived, for his guile and courage remain undimmed. While younger beasts tire and seek the trees, the old lion will not yield — seven overs unchanged in the punishing sun, one maiden, two wickets for thirty-two. Arguably his finest spell of the season. The mane may be greying, but there is still only one king of this pride.

And that wicket introduced one of the ecosystem’s most curious creatures of all — a beast seldom seen at rest, only ever glimpsed scurrying about the fringes of L’Oval. Nature’s own meerkat: small, upright, endlessly alert, with peculiarly short little arms, twitchy and quicksilver, chattering ceaselessly to any who will listen. A master forager, too, and — though quite unlike anything else in the pride — loved by all who share his habitat. His name is Will T. And here the little sentinel had his moment: the old lion lured the Aldwick No. 3 a fraction from his crease, and in a blur of short arms and chattering triumph the meerkat leapt full length to complete a stumping of the most dramatic and unconventional kind.

Down at the river end came Tam — nature’s honey badger: modest in appearance, easily overlooked, yet possessed of a fearlessness that belies his size. Underestimate him at your peril; many a larger beast has tried, and failed. Sweating freely, limping still from the wounds of previous campaigns, he refuses a single backward step, each ball a fresh puzzle of speed, length and dip. His reward: a smart caught-and-bowled, and seven full overs for a mere nineteen runs. Superb.

Then a brief cameo from the old hippo, Willy Mac — a large and ageing hippopotamus, well-fed and gloriously unbothered, wallowing in for three overs of sweat, toil and chuntering at a world that dares to be so hot. Alongside him lumbered our other Ben, a great bear down from Bury — the Bury Bear, all beard and honest graft — who rumbled through three overs of his own, quite enough in this heat for any creature with fur.

If the Bens and the hippo were the muscle, Professor Peter Webster was the artist. Silver-coated, bespectacled and wise, he is nature’s grey fox — cunning, unhurried, conserving his energy for moments of exquisite craft. And what craft it was: the ball kissing the burnt surface, then spitting and hissing like a cobra from the long grass. He prised out Aldwick’s finest with a grubber along the ground — too good, simply too good — and finished with four overs, two wickets for just eight. A spell composed like a sonnet.

And so, in one of nature’s perfect symmetries, where Phil the cheetah had opened, his brother James — cut from the identical cloth — came to finish. Nursing an aching shoulder, the second cheetah battled through two fine overs, the curtain brought down by a catch driven to mid-off, where who else but Phil should be waiting — bowled Allen, caught Allen. Two brothers, one dismissal, the circle of life. 

So the first act closed. In heat so fierce that survival alone was an achievement, this was a triumph of the collective — eight different hunters sharing the burden, each playing his part. Aldwick finished on 138 for 8 from their thirty-five overs: a fine total, but one the pride would fancy running down. And now, in the welcome shade, a feast awaited — lovingly prepared by Tam, and a treat for every hungry beast on the plain. But rest, in nature, is fleeting. For soon would come the most primal spectacle of all: the chase.

To open it strode Harry — a creature of impeccable breeding. Upright, well-spoken and utterly no-nonsense, he is nature’s giraffe: tall, poised and serene, surveying the plain from on high with aristocratic calm. Alongside him came the meerkat Will T, still glistening from his labours in the gloves. Against relentless, probing bowling, the two could hardly have differed more — Harry all languid elegance, caressing the ball to all parts; the meerkat all frenetic, darting urgency — and yet they complemented one another to perfection. Together they raised 59 in eleven overs, the first great feast of the chase.

In at three came the grey fox, Peter Webster, now with bat in paw — calculating and watchful, running hard in support, until undone at last by a guileful delivery, caught and bowled. A promising innings cruelly cut short. Next bounded the Bury Bear — no frills, just raw power, growling at the bowlers and stinging fielders’ paws, until an almighty swipe was caught on the boundary’s edge for a fiery fifteen. But the bear went down swinging, defiant to the last, as is his nature. Then James Allen, well set and growing in assurance, was speared by a devious yorker — another fine creature cut down in his prime, though for such a warrior there is always another day.

The giraffe, meanwhile, reached his half-century and retired on 50 — a magnificent, stately effort in testing conditions. But no sooner had he departed than the mood of the plain shifted. Ben C came and went, trapped cruelly LBW for 2, and all at once a cool wind stirred across the savannah — the first chill of a mini-collapse. At 100 for 4, all had seemed serene. But nature is capricious. Surely, after all the blood, sweat and toil, this proud pride was not about to implode?

But cometh the hour, cometh the cheetah. Enter Phil Allen, striding out to steady the listing ship — a couple of watchful singles, then a crisp four and a mighty, soaring six, and the danger was past. In tandem stood Tam, the indomitable honey badger, fast becoming a master of the tight chase after his legendary exploits against Walberton but a few weeks past. Together these two grizzled warriors set about the task with calm assurance, and a brisk stand of 35 saw it handsomely done. Game over. A fabulous win for a fabulous team, forged in the burning heat.

Special mention to Justin, who helped steer proceedings before sitting back to revel in his companions’ triumph. What a specimen he is: strong, brooding and magnificently handsome, all rippling power and quiet intelligence — nature’s panther, watchful at the edge of the clearing, saying little, missing nothing.

And so to the ceremonies. The Champagne Moment: anyone who saw the meerkat’s full-length leap to halt a ball speeding metres down the leg side would agree — a miraculous piece of work, a flash of pure instinct that will live long in the memory. And the Man of the Match: here there could be little argument. Harry, the serene giraffe, never once looked troubled — elegant, assured, the anchor upon whom the whole chase was built.

But every great saga must have its sequel. The cycle turns, and the two tribes are fated to meet once more: this very Sunday, the creatures of Aldwick return to L’Oval, hungry for revenge, and battle will be joined again on these hallowed, sun-baked acres. Will the pride prevail a second time? Will the old lion roar once more? Keep very still, and keep watching. Until then… goodnight.