One could scarcely have asked for a more topping day for cricket, what? The lads of Ware, positively brimming with the vim and vigour one associates with chaps embarking upon an away fixture, set off for the stately pleasure-dome that is the North Enfield ground, drinking in the delights of the A10 as one might savour a rather good Stilton—slowly, cautiously, and with the occasional raised eyebrow.

A minor hitch was encountered when our esteemed leader, Captain Griffin, was unavoidably detained at his gentleman’s club, no doubt wrestling with the moral dilemma of whether to have the kedgeree or the devilled kidneys. In his stead, the ever-reliable Meakin took the reins, strode to the middle, and, with a gambler’s twinkle in his eye, elected to bat on a wicket drier than Aunt Agatha’s sense of humour.

Alas, poor Pricey’s off stump was sent cartwheeling in the very first over, a development that caused the more delicate souls in the pavilion to clutch their lemonades with some agitation. Fortunately, young William Pringle strode in and immediately set about treating the bowling attack in the manner of a man de-spidering the bath—swift, ruthless, and without a trace of pity. Boundaries were smeared, the oak tree quivered in terror, and the locals were left murmuring into their teacups. Sixty dashing runs later, he departed, leaving behind the faint scent of linseed oil and mayhem.

Enter Lord Tom Parker, a study in poise, concentration, and, somewhat controversially, the running out of two team-mates. His undefeated 78 was a masterclass in grit, timing, and that special brand of charm which allows a fellow to commit such crimes and still be offered a cucumber sandwich afterwards. Cameos from Will Tyrer (a delightful 16) and Liam (who treated the crowd to some six-hitting that rattled the crockery in the tea tent) pushed the score along, and Unwin, batting at eleven in what can only be described as an affront to both cricket and civilisation, demonstrated sublime touch. Ware closed their innings at a hearty 240.

North Enfield’s reply began in a manner most vexing, their openers forming a partnership of the sort that makes a chap wonder if the scorers will require a second ledger. Relief came in the form of Jacky Wickets, who winkled one out, and then the deadly spin-twin assault commenced: Henry Harvey, a veritable cobra in flannels, snaffled four wickets, while Graeme Unwin twirled away to the tune of three. The combination proved irresistible, the opposition folding like a bad hand of bridge, and Ware at last brought the curtain down on a worrying losing streak.

In all, a day to warm the cockles of any Ware man’s heart—and, as Jeeves might put it, “most satisfactory, sir.”

A Most Curious Affair at the Cricket Ground

It was on a Friday, with rain slanting at suspicious angles and storm clouds hanging like a conspiracy above the trees, that the peculiar events began to unfold. Ware Cricket Club, ever valiant, found its spirits as sodden as the ground beneath their feet. One could not help but wonder: would the enigmatic Julian reach the machinery in time? Or would the pitch—vital scene of the coming drama—remain shamefully unprepared?

At precisely 1 o’clock, the game commenced, not with a bang, but with murmurs—low and uncertain—as Captain Griffin, ever the man of bold choices, won the toss and elected to bat. Eyebrows rose. Doubts rustled through the changing room like wind through autumn leaves. A curious decision indeed.

No sooner had the curtain lifted than mischief arrived. To was run out—victim, perhaps, of Will’s distracting penchant for idle conversation with the umpire rather than any focus on running. But in true redemptive style, Will reappeared, wielding his bat with theatrical fury, dispatching the ball to the boundary as if to hush all prior indiscretions.

Alas, such victories were short-lived. Price swung gamely; Griffin, with tragic irony, inside-edged onto his own stumps. Ware, like a suspect under questioning, began to look nervous.

Enter the detectives: Reid and Meakin. Hugh Reid, with an innings of exactly 50, played the part of the reliable inspector, while Kev Meakin partnered him with dogged determination. Together, they stabilised the innings. But the run rate—ah, the run rate—slipped through their fingers like a vital clue overlooked. The Old Cholmelians bowled with steady menace, like a criminal syndicate in waistcoats.

Will McKenna, ever the swashbuckler, made a valiant stand. But the innings concluded with Ware on 162—a total that seemed respectable, though perhaps fatally insufficient.

The second half of the drama saw Ware’s bowlers take the field, full of righteous purpose. They gave their all, battling ball by ball in that great British tradition of quietly heroic failure. Kev Meakin, the relentless sleuth, added again to his tally—top of the division’s bowling charts, and rightly so. Jack, too, struck with dependable accuracy. But the mystery was solved not by a dramatic twist, but by a single, quiet figure: a batsman who stayed not out with 80 n.o, unmoved, undeterred, and ultimately victorious.

Defeated by four wickets, Ware trudged from the field. A case closed, but far from forgotten.

We try again next week, of course. The game, like any good mystery, is never truly over.