The circular email from my yacht club a fortnight ago would ordinarily have received a cursory view. But something caught my eye, and my imagination.  I had long believed the Brambles Cricket Match to have been an urban myth, part of nautical folklore. Allegedly, once a year, a notorious sand bank in the middle of the Solent, one of the busiest yachting centres in the world, would appear from beneath the waves for no more an hour. At which point, members of the Royal Southern Yacht Club and, representing the Isle of Wight, the Island sailing Club, would descend upon this tiny patch of seabed in their boats to play cricket. Yeah, right...!!

So the invitation to play a part in this very strangely English sport seemed too good an opportunity to miss.  However, as I was making my way down the Hamble River in my boat at stupid-o’clock towards the Bramble Bank on Saturday morning, I was beginning to question my judgment.  It was so dark, I had to put my navigation lights on.  As I neared the bank, dawn was just breaking and I was met by this surreal image - a mirage of people, many wearing full cricket whites, walking on what appeared to be the water.  I beached my boat and several spectators and players were quick to help lift me, and my wheelchair, down onto the pitch.  Well, I say pitch. I use the word with a degree of poetic licence.  The Bramble Bank at extreme low water is not exactly the same hallowed ground as you might find at Lords, home of the MCC.  To say it is undulating and slightly waterlogged would be an understatement.

Playing for the RSnYC, my fellow team members included Sir Robin Knox-Johnston and comedian Rory McGrath.  What followed was 30 minutes of complete and utter surreal madness.  After breakfast, yes, breakfast, our team flipped a coin and chose to bat second.  I was deposited in a “silly mid-off” position, centimetres from the batsman, completely unable to move, even had I wanted to.  Cricket balls, real ones, those hard red leather things, not some namby-pamby neon-green furry tennis balls, were soon flying everywhere as batsmen fired them into the crowd. People were ducking and diving to avoid facial injury. I should point out that the boundary was, how shall I say, well, it was prone to constant change as the moon worked her gravitational magic on the tide.  There must have been one point when we reached the giddy heights of 2 inches above sea level.  But even with the tide at it’s lowest, the boundary was never more than 30 feet away.  More challenging was scoring runs. Again, I use the word “runs” with some scope for interpretation.  More often than not, a barefooted batsman running between wickets would have been better equipped as a mountaineer wearing SCUBA gear in order to traverse the sandy hillocks and the underwater canyons, cunningly disguised as shallow pools of water.  Our ringer, Freddie “the Knox-Johnston” Flintoff had soon dispatched the opponents for 20 something runs and it was our turn to bat.  The McGrath / Inkster partnership was pretty impressive as they scored well over 100 runs in less than 5 minutes.  I was last in bat at number 6.  Believed to be the first quadriplegic to have played cricket on the Bramble in a wheelchair, I faced my young adversary as he made his run up to bowl.  I could see the white of his eyes as he let the ball fly, thumping into my chair.  There was a call for “wheel before wicket”, perversely from one of my own team, but with no umpire present to adjudicate otherwise, I faced the second ball.  This time willow connected with leather, albeit with hardly any force. I was so shocked, both bat and ball fell to my feet in a rather pathetic thud.  My nominated runner, with intuitive and inspired thinking, picked up the ball and threw it into the sea - we piled on another 30 runs.

For a video of the above cricketing highlight, CLICK HERE

And then there came a call that no cricketer wants to hear; “the tides coming in, everyone clear the bank”.  Minutes later, the flotilla of boats were making their way back to the Royal Southern YC for yet more breakfast and an obligatory glass of port. It was by now 8.00am.  We were the victors having scored some 200+ runs but apparently it was our turn to win anyway; the insignificance of the scoring strangely appropriate and fitting for such a whacky morning’s fun.

So it seemed odd watching England win the Ashes on Sunday, beating the Ozzies on that beautiful, flat, green wicket.  For their efforts, they win a little urn of ashes.  For our efforts, everyone went home with shoes and pocketfuls of sand, and memories of a bizarre day.

I will end with a quick note to say that I met up with my dear friend and record-breaking, Indian Ocean rowing, chocolate muching heroiness Sarah Outen last week.  She had only just gotten off the plane from her flight back to the UK but we found a layby in Rockingham to rendezvous, exchange hugs and salty stories for 5 minutes - she doesn't look like she's just spend 124 days rowing across an ocean does she - heroic stuff - fab girl - everyone on their knees to pay homage to Sarah.