Didn’t we have a lovely time the day we went to Falmouth. Well, apart from the match that sentiment does ring pretty true. Forsaking the fleshpots of Walton, two intrepid Dulwich fans, Mishi and myself, acting as interpreted, decided to take in the FA County Youth Cup match between London and Cornwall. A number of Dulwich players were selected in the squad - Billy Waite, Rob Hughes and Dan Mulligan eventually making the long journey into the heart of King Arthur country.
With long journeys, refreshment is frequently needed and so half way down the coach turned into a service station. One problem with service stations - no booze! So after a fruitless search of the establishment, plan B went into operation. Spotting a church and using the logic that Church=Village=Village Pub we set off in search of liquid sustenance. After 15 minutes walk it seemed as if this search too might be in vain. Then the Holy Grail appeared. The Friary (Portbury) beckoned us in. A quick pint then laden with supplies for the rest of the journey it was back to the coach. As town turned to country, bemusement swept the coach at the sight of little lambs skipping in fields. Most players had probably only seen them in a doner.
Arrived in Falmouth expecting the usual rundown B&B, but no - a stunning 3* hotel awaited, complete with towels, bathrobes and other souvenirs. First day so decided to introduce ourselves to the locals, greeted with a warm ‘Hello, we’re Cockneys’. After sampling the delights of Falmouth, the Cutty Sark, The Quayside Inn, The Bosun’s Locker, The King’s Head, we stumbled upon the Victory. Apparently a new hostelry, this pub seemed to be populated mainly by Danish Graphic Design students, but it had one saving grace - Hoegaarden on tap and at £2-60 a pint. It seemed that one of them has a sister living in Melbourne Grove, but we failed to get her address. Could be handy for crashing after an evening in the Cherry Tree.
Day two started early, if only because the Fish snores like a road-drill. Match day but still time for a bit of sightseeing in Falmouth. First stop - Falmouth Maritime Museum. This was a typical small museum maintained lovingly by a handy band of volunteers. Next stop the local art gallery and then a long trek back across town for a piece of heritage. Atop the port of Falmouth stands Pendennis Castle, built by Henry the Eighth to defend against the French & Spanish. A bit bleak in winter, but fascinating all the same. Shame some of the players didn’t take in the local culture. Maybe they were saving that for the evening after the game.
With kick-off time fast approaching, it was off to the ground. By this time the heavens had opened and it was back to traditional Cornish weather - p*****g it down. Nice bar/social club. All the important things. Historic pictures. Rizlas behind the bar. Old git propping up bar and regaling all incomers with stories of the glory days. Still I found one way to shut him up. By the 17th time I mentioned that the last time I’d been to the ground was to watch George Best play in an exhibition match in the 70’s, none of them would bother you. Falmouth Town’s ground could put a few Ryman League grounds to shame. Rather ramshackle in places it nonetheless possessed standing cover behind both goals and on one side as well as an imposing wooden stand. The less said about the game the better, although a short report follows this. Cornwall played some excellent football in poor conditions. Martin Eede would have done his nut as the smooth playing surface was ripped to shreds. Billy Waite’s mind seemed to be elsewhere as one minute he’d make a brilliant save and then next a complete howler. Mully warmed up for his heavyweight title rematch and Rob seemed to get sucked up in the mud, reappearing on brief occasions with a flash of skill. The game was a cracker to watch and the only blot was the atrocious performance of the ref, which had even the locals shaking their heads in bemusement. Cornwall’s reward for their six-nil victory would be a long road trip to West Yorkshire or Durham. London had only the night-clubs of Falmouth to dive into.
Cornish hospitality extended to post-match. Not curly cheese sarnies, but a full sit-down meal. Two tables had spaces as we bowled up from the bar. One with the referee and his team. Another with a load of Cornwall FA officials. Definitely made the right choice. The old boys were a great laugh. Apparently the Cornwall players run a scam where the officials are fined a pound for various offences such as wearing a white shirt, too loud a tie or whatever they think of at the time. All the money goes into a kitty that pays for a knees-up at the end of the season. Seems Dulwich used to have regular Easter tours in Cornwall years back and one of the old boys had an autograph book with a number of Hamlet players in it. Mishi looked a trifle worried as he scanned the menu - ‘must be some local delicacy, this ROAST CORNED BEEF’. Draw your own conclusions. Time for the usual speeches and by now a sweep was operating. Apparently the Cornish Youth Secretary has a penchant for saying once again. Just time for a quick rabbit with the Cornwall chairman. Small world, but he lives 5 minutes down the road from my mum.
Saturday nights in Falmouth’s a little different from South London. All the pubs close at 11 and the night-clubs at one. Everyone seems so polite, even the bouncers. Strolling into the Prince of Wales pub at the end of the high street, we decided to settle down to listen to a local pub band. Pretty good they were too. Blues and Rock from Blues Busters. Their first number was announced - ‘Going Down’. Shit, they know we’re from Dulwich. The evening continued on a surreal vein. Rose West got thrown out and then spent 15 minutes trying to get back in by way of various backdoors with the landlord, dressed like a seventies' throwback attempted to keep her out. Then some nutter covered in tattoos stripped off his shirt and started table-diving. At closing time it was back to base, not forgetting a quick thank you to the landlord for such an entertaining evening.
Strolled back to the hotel it was time to claim at least one souvenir. An estate agents sign - Miller For Sale, that’ll do nicely. Having wrenched it out of the ground, we were gently strolling on up the hill when a car pulled up alongside us. Oh no, the Plod! The explanation about finding it lying in the street cut no ice and despite protestations, we had to leave our trophy lying on a nearby wall. By the following morning it had gone. Pykey b*****ds!! Back at the hotel still time to console the players as they drifted in. Oh and to have a row with the night porter (the Cornish Big Vern) as to whether Tavistock’s in Devon or Cornwall.
Next day and it was time to say goodbye to Cornwall. Still at least we know the nearest pub to Gordano Services and the coach stopped by the Pyro in Nunhead. Cheers.
PS: Tavistock is in Devon
With long journeys, refreshment is frequently needed and so half way down the coach turned into a service station. One problem with service stations - no booze! So after a fruitless search of the establishment, plan B went into operation. Spotting a church and using the logic that Church=Village=Village Pub we set off in search of liquid sustenance. After 15 minutes walk it seemed as if this search too might be in vain. Then the Holy Grail appeared. The Friary (Portbury) beckoned us in. A quick pint then laden with supplies for the rest of the journey it was back to the coach. As town turned to country, bemusement swept the coach at the sight of little lambs skipping in fields. Most players had probably only seen them in a doner.
Arrived in Falmouth expecting the usual rundown B&B, but no - a stunning 3* hotel awaited, complete with towels, bathrobes and other souvenirs. First day so decided to introduce ourselves to the locals, greeted with a warm ‘Hello, we’re Cockneys’. After sampling the delights of Falmouth, the Cutty Sark, The Quayside Inn, The Bosun’s Locker, The King’s Head, we stumbled upon the Victory. Apparently a new hostelry, this pub seemed to be populated mainly by Danish Graphic Design students, but it had one saving grace - Hoegaarden on tap and at £2-60 a pint. It seemed that one of them has a sister living in Melbourne Grove, but we failed to get her address. Could be handy for crashing after an evening in the Cherry Tree.
Day two started early, if only because the Fish snores like a road-drill. Match day but still time for a bit of sightseeing in Falmouth. First stop - Falmouth Maritime Museum. This was a typical small museum maintained lovingly by a handy band of volunteers. Next stop the local art gallery and then a long trek back across town for a piece of heritage. Atop the port of Falmouth stands Pendennis Castle, built by Henry the Eighth to defend against the French & Spanish. A bit bleak in winter, but fascinating all the same. Shame some of the players didn’t take in the local culture. Maybe they were saving that for the evening after the game.
With kick-off time fast approaching, it was off to the ground. By this time the heavens had opened and it was back to traditional Cornish weather - p*****g it down. Nice bar/social club. All the important things. Historic pictures. Rizlas behind the bar. Old git propping up bar and regaling all incomers with stories of the glory days. Still I found one way to shut him up. By the 17th time I mentioned that the last time I’d been to the ground was to watch George Best play in an exhibition match in the 70’s, none of them would bother you. Falmouth Town’s ground could put a few Ryman League grounds to shame. Rather ramshackle in places it nonetheless possessed standing cover behind both goals and on one side as well as an imposing wooden stand. The less said about the game the better, although a short report follows this. Cornwall played some excellent football in poor conditions. Martin Eede would have done his nut as the smooth playing surface was ripped to shreds. Billy Waite’s mind seemed to be elsewhere as one minute he’d make a brilliant save and then next a complete howler. Mully warmed up for his heavyweight title rematch and Rob seemed to get sucked up in the mud, reappearing on brief occasions with a flash of skill. The game was a cracker to watch and the only blot was the atrocious performance of the ref, which had even the locals shaking their heads in bemusement. Cornwall’s reward for their six-nil victory would be a long road trip to West Yorkshire or Durham. London had only the night-clubs of Falmouth to dive into.
Cornish hospitality extended to post-match. Not curly cheese sarnies, but a full sit-down meal. Two tables had spaces as we bowled up from the bar. One with the referee and his team. Another with a load of Cornwall FA officials. Definitely made the right choice. The old boys were a great laugh. Apparently the Cornwall players run a scam where the officials are fined a pound for various offences such as wearing a white shirt, too loud a tie or whatever they think of at the time. All the money goes into a kitty that pays for a knees-up at the end of the season. Seems Dulwich used to have regular Easter tours in Cornwall years back and one of the old boys had an autograph book with a number of Hamlet players in it. Mishi looked a trifle worried as he scanned the menu - ‘must be some local delicacy, this ROAST CORNED BEEF’. Draw your own conclusions. Time for the usual speeches and by now a sweep was operating. Apparently the Cornish Youth Secretary has a penchant for saying once again. Just time for a quick rabbit with the Cornwall chairman. Small world, but he lives 5 minutes down the road from my mum.
Saturday nights in Falmouth’s a little different from South London. All the pubs close at 11 and the night-clubs at one. Everyone seems so polite, even the bouncers. Strolling into the Prince of Wales pub at the end of the high street, we decided to settle down to listen to a local pub band. Pretty good they were too. Blues and Rock from Blues Busters. Their first number was announced - ‘Going Down’. Shit, they know we’re from Dulwich. The evening continued on a surreal vein. Rose West got thrown out and then spent 15 minutes trying to get back in by way of various backdoors with the landlord, dressed like a seventies' throwback attempted to keep her out. Then some nutter covered in tattoos stripped off his shirt and started table-diving. At closing time it was back to base, not forgetting a quick thank you to the landlord for such an entertaining evening.
Strolled back to the hotel it was time to claim at least one souvenir. An estate agents sign - Miller For Sale, that’ll do nicely. Having wrenched it out of the ground, we were gently strolling on up the hill when a car pulled up alongside us. Oh no, the Plod! The explanation about finding it lying in the street cut no ice and despite protestations, we had to leave our trophy lying on a nearby wall. By the following morning it had gone. Pykey b*****ds!! Back at the hotel still time to console the players as they drifted in. Oh and to have a row with the night porter (the Cornish Big Vern) as to whether Tavistock’s in Devon or Cornwall.
Next day and it was time to say goodbye to Cornwall. Still at least we know the nearest pub to Gordano Services and the coach stopped by the Pyro in Nunhead. Cheers.
PS: Tavistock is in Devon
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