Matt Thacker: What I did on my holidays – The Nightwatchman archive

I had run a company with cricket at its core for the best part of 20 years yet, for whatever reason, I’d never been to Australia, the tour all England fans dream of. And here I was, mid-December, flights booked but not even looking forward to my trip of a lifetime. Nothing to do with the sense of impending cricketing doom – the knowledge that, despite the bluster, we were just not as good as them. No, it was more that I had grown older, the world had grown colder, and nothing was very much fun any more. 

We are going to “AirBnb it”. My companions are Wisden Cricket Monthly editor-in-chief Phil Walker, with whom I’ve worked for more than a decade, and pop-star-turned-WCM features-writer Felix White: a winning mixture of wide-eyed innocence and been-there-done-that knowingness. None of us are exactly looking forward to living cheek by jowl; it has the makings of a long three weeks and there is some apprehension as we meet at Heathrow. That is dissipated as Felix tells me a close friend of his who is suffering from cancer has just been given the all clear. Already things look a little lighter, a little brighter. 

***

England have already surrendered the Ashes by the time we take off. I know of people who’ve been on four of these Ashes jaunts and never seen us win a game. And then there are those chosen few who were there in 2010–11 and wonder what all the fuss is about. This time it hasn’t been a massacre. The party line is that we’ve had our chances in each of the Tests but just haven’t taken them. The reality is that they’re considerably better at bowling quickly and considerably better at bowling slowly. And their freak-of-a-batsman-captain is doing considerably better than our freak-of-a-batsman-captain. 

We fly for what seems like days, but as we eventually get close to Melbourne, Phil has the window seat and spies cricket pitch after cricket pitch after cricket pitch. Initially wherever there is a clearing in the trees and then, as we approach the city, just bloody everywhere. “Jeez,” he drawls, “it’s a miracle we’ve ever won a single game here.”

Andrew has added a visitor centre out back with a wealth of material that keeps us intrigued for hours, calling out to each other at each surprising discovery. Thousands of historic photos and documents from the private collections of Keith Miller, Ray Lindwall and Percy Fender amongst others; the pocket book of expenses from the Invincibles’ tour of 1948 (£4 for some shenanigans or other at Piccadilly…); Test cricket’s first triple-century bat (Sandham, not Bradman!); and my personal favourite, a letter written by Charlie Macartney in the 1950s that is startling in its prescience. He writes: “I often feel convinced that the Atom bomb explosions are largely responsible for the changeable and violent weather… Scientists say that this is wrong… I’m afraid I cannot agree with them.” What a treasure trove.

Andrew, naturally, drives us back to Sydney, tired but happy. The next day is our last in Australia. Felix and I fancy a swim in the ocean so we amble down from Bondi to Coogee, a well-worn beach trail that takes us through Waverley Cemetery, where Victor Trumper is buried. We search aimlessly for a good half hour but cannot locate his grave but we do chance upon the resting place of Henry May and Margaret, an imploring angel atop two marble slabs. The names mean nothing to us but the angel’s face compels us to look closer. On the side of the stones are their names and those of their children. Born in the 1850s, the parents lived to 66 and 78 respectively, while not one of their children lived beyond five years old. It puts cricket, and any troubles we may have, firmly in perspective. 

We move on towards Coogee and I receive a text from my ten-year-old including a birthday wishlist. The big day is over five months away. The list contains shaving foam, borax, malic acid and a purple chrome Segway. I’ve not had time to process this information and alert the authorities when Felix says: “I might be wrong but I think we just walked past Fulham Academy director and former Crystal Palace manager Alan Smith.” Improbably, I know Alan fairly well, and we both turn round at the same time, do that double take thing, then chat about Fulham’s chances in the Championship, a subject very close to Felix’s heart. We finally end up in the ocean, splashing happily until thoughts turn homewards and we realise we’ve idiotically not thought to bring anything to dry ourselves with. A mere $60 and two towels later, we’re sorted. 

And off we go again, from one corner of the world to another. But really Australia, in cricketing terms at least, is just around the corner. So here’s to next time, which I promise to look forward to.