The pub quiz scoreboard © Gavin Scovell

He’s standing in the centre of a pub, holding aloft a trophy in front of a crowd of over a hundred, which includes his New Zealand team-mates, coach Andy Moles, the team support staff, Mahela Jayawardene, Ian Bishop, and Danny Morrison.

Given the tour Guptill and New Zealand have had so far, the moment calls for massive cheer all around, and whoops and whistles from his New Zealand team-mates. The setting is the Cheers pub in the basement of the Cinnamon Grand hotel in Colombo, and Guptill’s team, Pole City, has just won a quiz night after staving off last week’s champions, this time around aptly called Beauties & the Beasts, which comprises Jayawardene, his wife Christine, Jehan Mubarak, and the Sri Lankan support staff including assistant coach Paul Farbrace, team trainer Jade Roberts, and physiotherapist Tommy Simsek, and another couple.

Pole City, Beauties & the Beasts, the Daryl Tuffey-lead 6 Guys, 1 Cup – including Daniel Vettori, Shane Bond, Jacob Oram, Ross Taylor, and Gareth Hopkins - and a fourth team all ended the final round of the quiz tied on 68 points and had to go through a general knowledge shootout. In the end, Guptill’s team won and as he walked up to received the trophy the crowd cheered raucously. For once on tour, the New Zealanders were able to laugh out loud.

It was a super evening. Ten teams and a bunch of enthusiastic onlookers were treated to seven rounds of intense quizzing by quizmaster Darren, who along with his wife put up a tremendous show. It was a rare moment where production crew, cameramen, players, commentators, management and the public sat back and just had fun.

I was part of a Ten Sports team that had recently lost to the Sri Lankan team – Jayawardene, Christine, Farbrace and the rest – narrowly. I’d been briefed that our team – aptly titled Give Us Our Trophy Back! – had to beat them this week. Our unit also included the statistician Mohandas Menon. We picked the cricket round as our ‘joker’ round, in which points tallied are doubled. A doozy, right? A cricket-mad television crew, a statistician, and two cricket journalists. You can’t go wrong.

Not really. We ended up short by two points have incorrectly answering two questions in our ‘joker’ round: who hit six sixes in the 2007 World Cup, and which Twenty20 international had the most sixes? The first was so easy that we all just nodded in approval, most of assuming we all knew it was Herschelle Gibbs, but in the milieu of bonhomie the question a few of us heard that they were asking about the World Twenty20 and so the answer penned was Yuvraj Singh. The second answer was a Twenty20 between New Zealand and India earlier this year, while all of us were certain it was the first match of the 2007 ICC World Twenty20.

Shucks. But, still, we were the best Ten Sports team of the five in the fray, so that was some consolation. Even though poor Gavin, the director of production on this tour, won’t be hearing the last of it for having two outsiders in his team.

We started off slowly but gained steam in the sports and film/television round. Gavin was given a hard time by his colleagues because I wasn’t an employee, but all was good-naturedly laughed off ... or so I was assured. At one point, I felt a firm pair of hands on my shoulders and looked up to see Bishop looming above, looking disapprovingly at Gavin. But Bish being the nice man he is, didn’t rib Gavin too hard about it. I’d like to think I made a decent contribution – I got Pamela Anderson’s character’s name in Baywatch and the name of the bartender in The Simpsons, Moe – but the others were really very sharp and we didn’t do too bad at all. There was some intense discussion as to whose derrière one picture was of, but in the end, the racquet manufacturer convinced us it was Maria Sharapova. No, really, it was the racquet handle that did it. There were some other easy ones, such as a behind shot of George Best, at which time Jayawardene yelled out and chided Darren – “What team did he play for?” Props to Gavin for answering ‘Lassie’ to the insanely difficult question about which popular female film and television character was first played by a male in 1943. And the rest of the team all chipped in with some good answers, until of course we came to the easiest one of the lot.

All in all, a really good time was had. It was a scenario I would have never seen back in India. Imagine a visiting cricket team playing a quiz in a pub in Bombay, with Sachin Tendulkar and his wife sitting amid the crowd without security or any intrusion. Great stuff.

As we were leaving, Mike Haysman stopped us, looking rather concerned: “Umm, so boys, which of the cricket questions did you lot not get?” Turns out our team didn’t do as bad as the commentators’ group, out of which Danny Morrison didn’t get a singe question pertaining to New Zealand correctly. Not even the one with the picture of Jade Stadium.

Well at least a few Kiwis did their team-mates proud. Good on ya, Guptill.

“Standby, five-five, seven-seven,” cracks Gavin.

I stare intently at the 22 consoles in front of me to try and spot which one moved when, but I can’t keep up. This is hard work.

I’m sitting inside the Ten Sports production room in the bottom floor of a nondescript green structure at the SSC. It’s a dark room, illuminated by a few flickering tube lights. There are large black coffins all around, used to ship the expensive equipment, and consoles and laptops and other beeping gadgets all around. For a second I recall one of those wire-tapping FBI go-downs that Hollywood pictures have implanted into our mindset.

Gavin, the director, sits in the far left corner. There are 22 screens in front of Gavin, who tells me that’s a small number. There can be as many as 45 when it’s a big series and India are involved. The screens flash almost every conceivable view the cameramen can cover, including the commentators’ box, the dressing rooms, the spectators, the third umpire’s cabin, the press box, and the various entry and exit points. One of the camera constantly provides a panoramic view of the ground and is the one which the team scorecards and summaries are displayed.

Gavin has to coordinate all the cameras across the ground. There’s a panel in front of him by which he can speak to everyone involved. Jude, to his right, is his visual switcher - “my eyes and ears” – and controls what images are inputted. It is only Jude's second day on the job. Behind them is a sound recorder.

Gavin and his team of about 50 have various responsibilities. There’s sound, visual, production to be looked after, all a rapid rate. This is live cricket, remember. One man feeds ball-by-ball information into a computer. Gavin asks one of his crew, over headset, to input statistics for the commentators. Others feed replays and graphics. There’s also a replay co-coordinator and another man who has to check about the ad breaks. More than one laptop has Cricinfo’s ball-by-ball commentary open.

Each of the monitors in front of Gavin – there is one large set which displays the Ten Sports feed that goes out to viewers – has a piece of yellow electric tape stuck on it with the names of the cameramen of a specific code word or number that signifies what angle the camera is covering. A couple say Hamish, Kapilla, Shantha and Yaps. Other are gibberish to me. The side-on view of the bowler is also known as ‘BLUE’ and the angle from the bowler’s arm is ‘BLACK’.

Part of the job is providing the on-air commentators with statistics and news. As Danny Morrison gets talking of New Zealand’s one-day squad, Gavin informs him that the squad is coming up on view for all to see. “VT just said ‘BLUE’”, says Jude to Gavin. Immediately the main screen focuses on Jeetan Patel bowling from side-on.

Gavin was amazed when he first heard I do a lot of ball-by-ball commentary. “How do you type so fast? There’s hardly any time?”Looking at what he and his crew have to do, my job seems like a stroll in the park.

Despite the frenetic pace of proceedings and the constant need to be on guard, there is time for fun and games. “Where’s that American photographer?” asks Gavin into his headset. Almost immediately one of the cameraman picks out Andy down on the sidelines, clicking away. “There he is,” says Gavin. “The American from Portland, Oregon, on assignment covering cricket. Go figure!”

A few minutes later, after feeding Danny Morrison with squad news, Gavin asks him to give camera nine a smile. Morrison turns to his left, eyes on the cameraman in question, and gives us his best Jim Carrey impersonation.

It’s a stressful environment but everyone looks in control. Clearly they’re pros. But, given the duration of live broadcast, there’s the possibility of messing up. “It happens, yeah, but we’re a good unit,” says Gavin. “I shout a lot and things get fixed!" I don’t really have time to ask much because the play is going on live outside. Gavin and his team get roughly 30 second between overs and much of that goes in snacking on a biscuit while keeping one eye on proceedings.

Just then Chris Martin gets Prasanna Jayawardene to top-edge a hook to long-leg. Gavin and Jude sit up. “Purple, then white, roll white!” yells Gavin into his headset while Jude moves his fingers across his console manically. White and purple imply certain camera angle; each angle has a particular colour code. Gavin and Jude get cracking. I take that as my cue to exit and get back to my routine.

What a day. Opened my inbox to hear from a friend on Facebook that Shashi Tharoor, the former UN Under-Secretary to Kofi Annan and a prominent Indian diplomat, had Tweeted about me. Then I watch Daniel Vettori make history at the SSC. After the day’s play, I stand in a guard’s booth fit for two with seven security guards and a machine gun, waiting for the rain to stop. To top it all off, my evening ends with a taxi driver encouraging me to become an actor because, with my dual languages, Arnold Schwarzenegger may one day help me bridge the gap between Hollywood and Bollywood.

True story.

I attend the post-match pressers and make my way to the main gate of the SSC to get my taxi. He calls to say he’s stuck in traffic. It starts to rain. The guard at the gate beckons me to stand in his cabin and stay dry. Thing is, there are already six rather large Devcon security guards and another soldier in commies with a machine gun inside. I hesitate but the rain is getting heavier and I have a laptop, recorder and an ipod in my bag.

“Please, please come,” yells one of the Devcon – that’s like a name out of Robocop. He and another guard make way but we’re really struggling to fit in, especially me with my bag. It’s a tight squeeze if ever I saw one, and I don’t do well with machine guns in my face.

So what do you do in such situations? Well of course, you talk cricket! We don’t get very far because none of them speak English, but settle on the fact that Muttiah Muralitharan is great and that Mahela Jayawardene really gave it to the Kiwis. I keep one eye trained on that machine gun the entire while.

My taxi comes to the wrong gate and I see the driver pulling in, so I excuse myself from the Devcon gang and run after the car. He doesn’t see me in the drizzle and dark, so he heads toward the enclosure inside. Finally I catch him, by this time pretty soaked, and we’re off to the hotel. Barely two minutes into the conversation – about the weather - he says I don’t speak like a foreigner.

I explain that I grew up in India and his eyes light up. His father is from Kerala and he has been on pilgrimages to Ahmaddiya Muslim sites in Kerala, Punjab and Bombay (sorry, I can’t refer to it as Mumbai). I tell him I live in Bombay and he starts telling me about this small mosque near the Bombay Central railway station. I pause. I live five minutes from that station.

Then he says the mosque is down the road from this famous cinema – Maratha Mandir, I remind him to cue much enthusiasm – and near the YMCA. By now the hairs on my neck have stood up. My house is opposite the YMCA and next to the mosque he’s talking about!
Then comes the killer punch. “And next to this little mosque is one building where I was told the white actor in Hindi films lives,” says Mohamed Ali-Bawa. I tell him that’s my father and he loses it, slapping his forehead and exclaiming Allah’s power and taking his eyes off the road to shake my hand. He is thrilled; I am zapped. This cannot be happening.

In the next few minutes we discuss how small the world is, and by the time we pull into the hotel Mohamed has told me I should chuck all this cricket journalism “uselessness” and go in my father’s footsteps. He also tells me that Shah Rukh Khan, the Hindi film superstar who was detained for questioning at a US airport recently, has been invited for dinner by Schwarzenegger. “My friend, you speak English and Hindi, you have real talent which you are hiding,” he cries as I exit the taxi. “You join movies, you get power, you never know, one day Shah Rukh Khan and Arnold come to you and you mix Bollywood with Hollywood! It’s really great to meet you! May we meet again!”

And with that, he pulls out of the hotel driveway. Maybe tomorrow I’ll stick with an autorickshaw.

Its 8 in the evening and I just got back from the most amazing stroll on Galle Face Green, a sea-facing promenade along the longest road in Colombo, Galle Road (which is more a boulevard actually). I’d been recommended by an old college friend to saunter down the promenade when I was here last year, but didn’t get the chance. It was definitely worth it - despite having my left foot run over by a Honda Accord - and I plan to do it again. Its one of Colombo's must-see attractions.

The view of the beach from my hotel window had been tempting me since yesterday and this evening I decided to have a walk The skyline at either ends of the beach makes for stunning viewing. Right from the Ceylon Continental and Galadari hotels, situated at the top of Colombo’s business district, to the Doric-column Old Parliament Building – now the Presidential Secretariat - and the looming World Trade Center (WTC), down to the wonderful and very colonial Galle Fort Hotel at the other end, it is a serene stretch. All the more as the sun sets and the lights from the WTC and Presidential Secretariat light up the evening and the moon sprinkles itself on the Indian Ocean.

It’s about a kilometer and a half stretch, I’m told by an elderly gentleman sitting and enjoying the salt spray of the waves lap against the concrete parapets. There is a large stone plaque overlooking the ocean that decrees: “Galle Face Walk – Commenced by Sir Henry Ward 1856. Completed 1869 and recommended to his successors in the interest of Ladies and Children of Colombo.”

The largest open space in Colombo, the sea face is literally a striking view. Down at the Galle Face Hotel end children jostle their parents to buy them cotton candy and savoury rolls and kuku paaka - coconut chicken with boiled eggs and potatoes – while vendors yell out other sweet-smelling goods and couples cozy up one concrete benches. It’s literally like a mini carnival, with the yells of the vendors and laughter of children sifting into the night sky along side the dancing fireflies. Pondering a tempting piece of barbeque chicken, I suddenly yelp in pain to look down and see that my left foot has been run over a backing-up vehicle. The driver gives me a dirty look and tries to maneuver himself out but has no luck; the tuk tuks are commanding right of way. I decided to chuck the barbeque chicken and limp back. Galle Face Green, I’ll be back. It was a real pleasure.

Does anyone know how I can get the medley of Jerusalem, Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory out of my head? It must have been played a few times a day, every day, during this series. Yesterday it was on repeat as soon as Michael Hussey got out. And today it won’t leave my mind. What does “weave thy diadem” mean? That’s more confusing than Australia’s selections. Please, make the music stop. Losing the Ashes is nothing compared to this.

While it wasn’t such fun to watch the run-outs or the collapse at the end, it was special to feel the emotion of a crowd that likes nothing better than thumping Australia. The series was gripping throughout even though the teams were not that great, but the Ashes still remains the most special contest in cricket – at least to two countries.

Wound down at a dinner with some very polite and distinguished England fans. None of them teased. Most of them will be back in Australia in 18 months, so must remember to match their manners when we’re at the SCG in the first week of 2011.

Airport officials the world over must have told my story a couple times. I’m white. I have an Indian passport.

Yeah, go ahead. Read it again. White. Indian.

I’ve had some pretty interesting – and thoroughly frustrating – incidents at airports in and outside of India, often having to explain the whole story of why I have an Indian passport and even once been asked to show additional documents to prove my passport wasn’t a phony.

Seriously?

The last time I flew to Colombo from Chennai the lady behind the immigration counter took one look at my passport and burst out laughing, then waved to another lady standing behind an empty counter and called her over. After showing her my passport they both had a laugh. Now I don’t speak Tamil but I know when the joke’s on me.

Anyway, this time when I get to the immigration counter in Bangalore there is not much of a line to stand in and I approach the moustached man behind the counter, extending my passport, ticket and immigration form with a smile. He looks at the ticket first, then the immigration form. I love this part.

He takes it, raises an eyebrow over the Republic of India printed on the navy blue cover, flips it open, and …

“Sir, this says Indian citizenship on it.”

”Yes sir, long story.”

“You are Indian?”

I nod.

“Where you stay?”

“In Bangalore, for the last three years.”

“Kannada gothilla?”

“No sir, I don’t speak Kannada. Just Hindi.”

He looks up at me and then back to the passport and repeats the process.

“But how?”

“Well my father is Indian, I was born here, grew up here.”

“Anglo-Indian?”

“No, no. It’s complicated.” I flash a polite smile.

He scans the passport one last time, eyes lingering on the picture and the details.

“Hmm, very interesting. Not seen like this before! Okay, enjoy!”

And I’m through.

* * *

I see a group of boys in black slacks and blue and white collared tee-shirts, standing around the Grab & Fly canteen looking bored. Printed on the front of their T-shirts are the words Aus-Sri Lanka Cricket Academy and on the back their respective names and "Tour of Bangalore 2009". They’re on the same flight as me, because there are others in blue sitting at gate 15.

The group resembles most touring sports teams I’ve seen, minus the bling and excess baggage and oodles of attitude that come with fame and a few overseas tours. They’re aware of their attire and responsibilities as ambassadors for their country and don’t speak loudly, like they probably would the second they get home or when leaving practice back in Sri Lanka. They speak politely to their coach and to two elderly ladies in sarees. One of them reads a book; another one gazes out at the tarmac; two more inspect their squeakily polished shoes. There are no ipods or laptops.

I ask two of them at the counter where they played cricket while in Bangalore. Immediately they back away as if I have just sprouted green antlers. Clearly they’ve been told not to talk to strangers. I try to explain that I’m a cricket journalist and that I’m going to Sri Lanka for the last half of the New Zealand series and then the tri-series, but by this time they nervously look at each other and then smile and join the rest of the touring party.

* * *

In Colombo, the first thing I notice once I get a taxi out of the airport is the fewer army personnel manning civilian areas and the number of road checks. Last summer I was stopped twice within the first 20 minutes of leaving the airport and once more on entering Colombo. This time I wasn’t stopped once. Understandably much of this has to do with the fact that the Sri Lankan military defeated the LTTE in May this year. The driver says it has got much easier and that checks are not as frequent as before. The lady at the hotel reception says I don’t need to carry my passport with me when I step out. It’s rather unlike in 2008 when I was here. Note to self: speak to local journalists about whether things have really changed.

* * *

I dump my suitcase in my hotel room, dash off to our local office, pick up my series accreditation, local SIM card and 3G dongle, chat briefly with the nice folks there, get asked about the Indian sweets I should have brought. Then it’s straight to the SSC, where Sri Lanka’s practice has already begun. After routing fielding drills and a game of football the players move to the nets. I’m the only journalist there. This is in stark contrast to a practice session in India where the media is omnipresent and tons of security guards look on idly, even as hangers-on hustle to catch a glimpse of their heroes.

Kumar Sangakkara is having a bat. Nuwan Zoysa, the former Sri Lankan fast bowler, is looking in top shape and beats the bat twice before drawing a leading edge from the captain. Banter is shared all around. Adjacent to where Sangakkara is batting Dilhara Fernando is bowling to Tharanga Paranavitana. Fernando just jogs in from a few paces. Rangana Herath gets a couple deliveries to really grip and turn. Paul Farbrace, Sri Lanka’s assistant coach, asks one of the support staff if he has any net bowlers who can swing the ball away from left-handers. Quickly two muscular bowlers step forward. Farbrace and Tommy Simsek, the physio, hoot and cheer when Fernando bangs in a short ball to Paranavitana. The net bowlers chat freely with the international bowlers.

Suddenly at 3.25 a shower forces the Sri Lankans to the indoor nets. I try to follow them inside but I’m stopped. I flash my series pass and say I just want to watch but the guards have nothing of it. Walk around the ground freely and make my way to the media manager's office. He's not in but I meet another member of the media contingent and we chat for a while, recalling India's tour last summer.

The rain stops but the Sri Lankans have called it quits. Off they go in the team bus. Off I go to the hotel, and then to search for my first meal of the day. From tomorrow, its full time cricket.

An amazing thing happened on the way home last night. People who hadn’t been at The Oval were talking about the cricket. As they went to their parties in Hackney and the nightclubs of Camden they were asking questions of friends and strangers on the Tube. “What’s the score?” “England are winning.” “Australia will find a way to draw this.” “How could Ponting not pick a spinner?” One guy had watched it all day at home, others had relied on the radio or internet for updates.

In my experience, this sort of public transport chit-chat is usually limited to those heading home in team colours or with ticket badges hanging from their jackets. Call it fickle or joining the bandwagon, but as a long-term watcher it was great to hear the more “normal” people being interested in a Test. Maybe it will last a day, or another 466 runs, or perhaps it will help make the game a lasting favourite here, regardless of whether England win or lose in the future.

By the way, the Australians prayers for rain haven’t been answered. It’s beautifully sunny in south London and the only white marks in the sky are the trails from the planes heading in and out of Heathrow.

The Tubes heading south on the Northern Line are crammed full of excitement and there’s a queue from Oval station to the ground. There must be something exciting happening. Oh, that’s right, England are about to win the Ashes. They like cricket again here.

Still, most of the locals remain pessimistic. Excited, but horribly nervous. Adelaide 2006-07 has been mentioned a couple of times by supporters this morning. Stuart Broad was cautious talking last night and the papers haven’t claimed the win. In Australia they have reported the loss.

The reality is if England get another 100 runs today they will be safe. How the series has swung. Not the best time to be an Australian over here. Fortunately we’re off to Scotland on Wednesday.

Lord’s has a resident cat and now The Oval is home to a fox. Not Graeme ‘Foxy’ Fowler, the former England, Lancashire and Durham batsman, but a living Basil Brush who popped in to check on the field after stumps on the opening day. It’s basically impossible to get on the playing surface unless you are wearing the fluorescent green vests of the security staff - unless you’re a fox.

With the covers on, the animal trotted out to guard the square and lay down near the practice pitches. The security men spotted the animal and let him be. Apparently he visited early in the morning as well. The Oval is almost in the centre of London so spotting any animal that is not a pigeon is rare, although some quick brown foxes have somehow managed to retain a presence in the suburbs.

There were a few groans around England training today but not enough pain for them to turn into legitimate injury scares. Well, not yet, anyway. First to go down was the timid looking, tough talking Stuart Broad, who tumbled awkwardly while taking a catch during fielding practice. He was helped up with a sore side and later bowled in the nets, looking more puffed than hurt when he walked up the pavilion steps at the end of the session.

The Oval was a noisy place but even all the pre-match construction and mowing was usurped when Paul Collingwood shouted the scream either of a batsman who had got out to a truly ridiculous shot or a person in serious pain. Collingwood was taking slip catches when one clipped a sore finger on his left hand and prompted the yell. He took a couple more before calling off the drill and walking away analysing the digit, but there were no anxious group huddles like there have been before the toss in the previous two Tests. Things were much quieter in the Australian camp.

Hambledon Cricket Club “circa 1750”, according to the club signs, is a couple of miles from the rural Hampshire village and a bit tricky to find, mainly because the directions tend to come at the turn-off and we’re too busy avoiding the on-coming traffic to notice. Sadly, there’s no game on the dome-shaped field when we arrive and the clubhouse windows are boarded off, preventing a peek at any historic memorabilia from an area which has had a significant impact on the modern game. Or so I thought.

A pint at The Bat and Ball Inn was also on the to-do list but we couldn’t find it along the narrow lanes, even though everyone says it’s right beside the ground. No reason to feel suspicious: we were miles from nowhere and there was a cricket club there called Hambledon. It couldn’t be anywhere else, could it? A day after the trip I learn there are two clubs in Hambledon and we’ve picked the wrong one. (Please don’t tell my wife, the driver, about this. She didn’t even want to go to this ground.)

Back in the 18th century the original club was a mix of well-off locals and rich visitors, and its legacy was a hefty contribution to the game’s rules. A straight bat was developed here to replace the curled ones, the width of the bat was restricted to four-and-a-quarter inches and soon they were calling for a third stump to sit in the middle. What their modern team-mates don’t do is give prominent directions to their ground.

There were four of us in the car and nobody spotted the historic site, unlike the Romsey Abbey and Winchester Cathedral, stubborn and spectacular buildings which dominate their towns in beautiful parts of the county. On the way there was a morning with Thomas the Tank Engine and some of his friends. We called it a training session.

I first started looking for Albert Trott’s grave in 2001. I’d read a story about Trott, the Test player from the late 1800s, by the Age’s Peter Hanlon and learned he was buried in Willesden, a suburb just up the road from where I lived during my three years in London.

Trott interested me for a few reasons: he played for both Australia and England, hit a six over the pavilion at Lord’s, and killed himself, aged 41, due to ill health. He seemed like a pretty interesting guy, so during spare hours I went searching for him. I didn’t find him, but kept finding out about him.

David Frith wrote about Trott in his book By His Own Hand and the name comes up regularly in historical accounts of the game. His player profile contains many of his deeds, ranging from the unmatched to the freaky. He would have been incredible to watch in any team or era.

Having gone to a few gravesites in Willesden previously, I tried another venue on this trip: Paddington Cemetery in Willesden Lane, just down from where Trott died in Denbigh Street. Hanlon’s story gave the only tips. “A simple, white headstone – ‘A.E.Trott 1873-1914, a great cricketer, Australia, Middlesex, England.’” For 80 years the grave was unmarked, but the county eventually put up a reminder for their former player.

Paddington Cemetery a beautiful place to rest, there’s a slight hill, an old chapel and gravestones both modern and crumbling. For this assignment I took my daughter and an English friend for help, but none of us could spot the headstone. There were memorials for doctors and chemists and parents of big families and new babies, but not one (that we could see) for a former Test cricketer.

All of us have looked for things before and not found them, and it may not even be the correct venue for Trott-spotting. Oh well. The search, which is increasingly enjoyable, failed again. It will re-start in 2013.

Day trips are almost impossible on tour but thanks to a three-day Test it was possible to escape Leeds for a couple of hours and drive through the North York Moors on the way to Whitby, a small Yorkshire fishing and holiday village. It’s the home of Captain Cook – no, not the opener Alastair, but James, the explorer who bumped into Australia in 1770.

At primary schools in Australia Cook was a central figure in geography and history lessons, and his name and deeds live on along Australia’s east coast. In Queensland he was the first white man to discover, among many other things, the Town of 1770, the Glass House Mountains and the Endeavour River in Cooktown, north of Cairns. His childhood cottage was even relocated to Melbourne’s Fitzroy Gardens, so it was great fun being in his town.

It’s a beautiful place too, overlooked by the spectacular ruins of St Hilda’s Abbey, 199 steps above the town, and divided by a river that reaches into the sea. The summer sun made it even more inviting, although it wasn’t just the crowded carparks near the beach that prevented a swim. Cook preferred the water but the land west of the town is also impressive.

The North York Moors were covered in heather on the peaks of their rounded hills. The harsh landscape slows the tourist traffic as everyone stares out the window, wondering how the scenery changed so quickly. Halfway down the hills there are lush green fields and ideal grazing land, but the top is rough and windswept. On the drive back to Leeds there were more idyllic rural scenes, enchanting fields and a stray wasp that apparently lodged in the shirt of my driver. He over-reacted by Australian standards, but those things do sting a bit. James Anderson probably would have squealed like that as well.

My old club in West Yorkshire is having a crisis, although something always seems to be going wrong. If it isn’t someone leaving the gate open so the horse can run through the village, it is trucks dumping soil while ruining the neighbouring football pitch, or rabbits eating the grass on the wicket. It’s always fun to get updates.

On Saturday only nine guys turned up for the first team, they did well to hold the opposition to about 160 and were all out for 40. My host top scored and the tale of the game was told in two of the village’s three local pubs. It was a gloomy night until I brightened things up by telling them about my day, and how Australia were five wickets from levelling the Ashes after only two days at Headingely. That helped them brighten up after their losing streak extended to seven.

The club has changed a lot since I played a handful of games over two seasons back in 2002 and 2003. When I popped in for a visit last week I thought I was in the wrong place. The ground was flat and there were covers and a scoreboard. When I was here last the fielder at deep midwicket was unable to see the stumps due to the slope. If a catch went that way everyone else would start yelling to let the person know the ball was coming. It was a pretty safe shot.

At other times in the year the game has to be stopped for 10 minutes because the sun is in the batsman’s eyes - it’s one of the few east to west pitches. They were good times. Next year the club is getting even more on-field improvements. Now all they need to do is stop losing.

The players’ viewing balcony is right next to the press box at Headingley and it was fascinating to watch Michael Hussey’s high-energy pre-batting routine. It can’t be much fun sitting next to him because just when everything goes quiet he springs up and runs on the spot, crunching his spikes on the cement.

After a burst of callisthenics and stretching he would sit back down and watch for a while until his mind told him he had been still for long enough. Cue more jumping, body twisting and focusing, a noisy set of exercises which continued until he was called to bat. Hussey is an intense player and his adrenal glands must work overtime with the stress shooting through his body.

He has been dismissed early a couple of times in this series and his desire to be alert for the first ball was clear. When Shane Watson was out he crackled down the steps and defended his opening delivery, appearing in control until he was lbw to a Stuart Broad inswinger from around the wicket. The dressing room is on the level below the balcony and once Hussey entered it there were no more trips upstairs.

	Ricky Ponting was given 500 shares of Altrincham FC for attending the friendly © Getty Images

The Australian squad split up last night, with half the team attending a civic reception in Leeds and five of them going to watch Altrincham FC play a Manchester United XI selection in Cheshire. Ricky Ponting, Peter Siddle, Stuart Clark, Michael Hussey and Shane Watson were the biggest names at the game, which they attended because Geoff Goodwin, the Conference club’s chairman, doubles as their bus driver in England.

Ponting was given 500 shares in the club for attending the friendly, matching the allocation handed out to Jason Gillespie and Adam Gilchrist four years ago. Manchester United’s reserves won 2-0 while the first team was preparing to play Valencia on Wednesday night.

Back in Leeds, Mitchell Johnson was one of the guests of honour in a reception hosted by the lord mayor Judith Elliott. Part of the festivities included Johnson and Phil Hughes batting against a computer-generated bowler who delivered from a big screen. A bit like playing Wii. Both missed at every attempt but when the mayor, a grandmother, stepped up she blasted two sixes from three balls before retiring to cheers from the small crowd.

Leeds is just as rainy as Birmingham and would feel exactly the same if I hadn’t used the city as a second home during three years in England. Arriving here is very calming because last night I was out for dinner and for half a minute actually didn’t know where I was. Before you start emailing WADA, it happens to me once every tour, it was early in the night and I was on my second drink. Still, as I looked at the restaurant wall I wasn’t sure whether I was in Brisbane, Barbados or Budapest.

Then someone started shouting “You all live in a convict colony” and I couldn’t be anywhere else but Birmingham. That song tops the West Midlands charts this week. It’s so hypnotic the city has been on theft watch every time someone in a yellow shirt goes near a loaf of bread. Anyway, my favourite lost moment occurred to a work mate who was so disoriented on a flight he had to ask the steward where the plane was going. So mine wasn’t bad at all.

Today our train went straight to Leeds, which is comfortable and familiar, grimier in some parts and unfamiliar in others. There’s Elland Road, which once staged Champions League matches, and over there is Majestyk nightclub, where the Leeds United players would sometimes find trouble.

Eight years ago I watched the hundreds of Ricky Ponting and Damien Martyn at Headingley before escaping back to London to work on the final day, which was made famous by Mark Butcher. In between those centuries I’d debuted for a small club in West Yorkshire, doing nothing on the field, but enough off it to be invited back three or four times a year for more afternoons of fielding on molehills.

Before leaving Birmingham I spotted poor Stuart Clark, who can’t escape carrying drinks on this tour. Just before the team bus left Edgbaston he was on a coffee run. The only difference this time was his partner wasn’t Andrew McDonald or Brett Lee or Phillip Hughes, but Ponting. Surely someone will be running Clark drinks when the third Test starts on Friday.

I was starting to get lost in the city centre this morning when a couple from Stoke pointed me the right way. They were excited about seeing some play after particularly poor luck with the weather. Initially they had tickets to the first four days, but gave away their day-two seats to a friend. That was a bad choice, with seven Australian wickets going before lunch and England in charge throughout. On their other visits to Edgbaston they not only got soaked, but on the opening afternoon saw their team’s worst 30 overs of the match.

They haven’t had a lot of luck with their cricket-watching careers, which are pretty committed. A few years ago their Indian holiday took in a Mumbai Test until the dates were changed, leaving them to attend an ODI instead. Then in 2006-07 they joined thousands of England supporters flying into Melbourne for Christmas and the Boxing Day Test. The only problem on that trip was Australia had already won the first three games and the series.

They’re the sort of experiences that actually galvanises England fans. If the hosts win this series the couple will be off to Australia late next year as well.

Tired of writing and thinking about rain. Not yet weary of all the soggy costumes. Today was an incredible fancy dress day at Edgbaston, starting with a gaggle of Dame Ednas in orange dresses, clutching a gladioli in one hand and a pint cup in the other. Classy. The weather was similar to Dame Edna’s home in Melbourne’s Moonee Ponds, too. Some of the Fantatics were definitely homesick.

A royal group of Kings of Spain (or was it spin?) were hoping the rain would fall mainly on the plain, but instead it dropped heavily on the outfield, which was finally ruled until after an inspection at 2.30pm. A two-man horse and its jockey then stayed on for a long drink.

Pick-up games out the back were popular for soaked supporters. One involved a Fred Flintstone bowling to a member of the Barmy Army who seemed to have been imbibing all week, or maybe longer. Holding on to the wheelie-bin wickets with one hand, he wobbled like Phillip Hughes in the opening two Tests – and managed to stay a bit longer. Sadly, it was the most entertaining innings of the day.

The players escaped their dressing-room cards, darts and reading to have a hit in the indoor nets and a run in the gym. Brett Lee delivered a few balls, ranging between 50 and 80% of his capacity in his recovery from a rib injury. Hopefully he’s not the only one who gets a run outside on Sunday.