I was drawing some extra bits and pieces for the motion graphics of the beach cricket below, and had to come up with a new bowler with whom to start the story …

and as I did I began to feel another dready growing out of it all …  something simpler, more subtle …

and this was it. eh … as the last days of summer begin to fade and the light changes, softer, less sudden …

I can remember only ever doing it twice, but who knows -100 years ago as a small boy and more recently as a grown ass man(ish) being … once in Kent and once in Sussex I watched village cricket: the Sussex one is gone really, just remember the lovely pitch, down from the road in a hollow on the way to the house I was staying … 

but the one in Kent where I sat in the cool grass near the boundary – I was 9 or 10, and watched the game … probably my first time and first summer-ish day in britain …

cricket at home had been hot and dusty and dry, the ground as hard as the willow of a bat … I mean not a Sabina park with grandpa, that’s not dusty, but village cricket, farm cricket, is dusty and red dusty … there is a dusty red cricket ground (also football pitch, same time) just outside golden grove, on the steer town road between moneague and drax hall … in the days before the highway, we’d pass it, and always, on a weekend there was a game in play, sometimes would stop and get a drink at the bar cross the road … 

when I was doing the research looking at the vibes of cricket often the pictures were of kids playing on pitches like that in India, in Africa … 

shine …