THE Ship Inn Cricket Club at Elie, in the East Neuk of Fife, is, its captain says—and I believe he is right in saying so—the only cricket club in the world with a beach for its home ground. As someone who has played cricket, with great pleasure, but little distinction, ever since he could stand upright, I knew as soon as I heard about it that I had to see this place. Inquiries, introductions and arrangements were made. Not only would I see the place, I would play a game of cricket with the Ship Inn side into the bargain.
As it turned out, the fixture was versus I Zingari. I Zingari are an interesting lot. The name is slangy Italian for The Gypsies. They are a wandering side, with no home ground of their own, founded in 1845. They are as famous for their facetious rules and regulations (‘That the Entrance be nothing, and the Annual Subscription does not exceed the Entrance’) as they are for their illustrious membership (a smattering of royalty, innumerable aristocrats and several captains of the England team among them).
I Zingari arrived by boat. Of course they did. En route to Elie across the Firth of Forth, they passed the Bass Rock, once an island prison where Jacobites were sent to rot, now home to a vast colony of gannets. The morning’s rain had freshened everything up, the sun had come out, there were puffins galore and dolphins swam alongside the boat. I wondered what the puffins made of I Zingari, whose black, red and gold blazers bear an uncanny resemblance to that bird’s beak.
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber ? Sign In
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Tales as old as time
By appointing writers-in-residence to landscape locations, the National Trust is hoping to spark in us a new engagement with our ancient surroundings, finds Richard Smyth
Do the active farmer test
Farming is a profession, not a lifestyle choice’ and, therefore, the Budget is unfair
Night Thoughts by Howard Hodgkin
Charlotte Mullins comments on Moght Thoughts
SOS: save our wild salmon
Jane Wheatley examines the dire situation facing the king of fish
Into the deep
Beneath the crystal-clear, alien world of water lie the great piscean survivors of the Ice Age. The Lake District is a fish-spotter's paradise, reports John Lewis-Stempel
It's alive!
Living, burping and bubbling fermented masses of flour, yeast and water that spawn countless loaves—Emma Hughes charts the rise and rise) of sourdough starters
There's orange gold in them thar fields
A kitchen staple that is easily taken for granted, the carrot is actually an incredibly tricky customer to cultivate that could reduce a grown man to tears, says Sarah Todd
True blues
I HAVE been planting English bluebells. They grow in their millions in the beechwoods that surround us—but not in our own garden. They are, however, a protected species. The law is clear and uncompromising: ‘It is illegal to dig up bluebells or their bulbs from the wild, or to trade or sell wild bluebell bulbs and seeds.’ I have, therefore, had to buy them from a respectable bulb-merchant.
Oh so hip
Stay the hand that itches to deadhead spent roses and you can enjoy their glittering fruits instead, writes John Hoyland
A best kept secret
Oft-forgotten Rutland, England's smallest county, is a 'Notswold' haven deserving of more attention, finds Nicola Venning
