The final had long been won, but one England player was still on the pitch, practising her batting for fun with a group of mates. Ebony Rainford-Brent, the talented allrounder-turned-batsman, typifies the keenness of her side and the competition for places - also demonstrated in the dropping of vice-captain Nicky Shaw for the final before her fairytale reversal of fortune with four wickets and 17 not out.

The floodlights even came on to light up the winning girls’ smiles, by which time a disconsolate New Zealand team had slipped away, only to emerge brighter and ready to celebrate a good tournament at the teams’ hotel later on.

There the England girls celebrated in the piano bar where only the night before, fourth-placed Australia had bashed the keys merrily and heartily sang their woes away. It also acted as a goodbye tribute to Leonie Coleman and 23-year-old Emma Sampson, who had announced their retirement to their team only hours before.

Sampson can yet come back. Whether she will is a different story, something that I mulled over with a fringe Australia player whom I bumped into on the ferry to Manly (“Seven miles from Sydney, a thousand miles from care” according to the old advertisement) the next day. We both concluded that she was brave and wished her well on her travels.

Manly – named after the Aboriginal people encountered their by Captain Arthur Phillip in praise of their stature – was well worth the trip, with wide sandy beaches and ripping surf aplenty. It is understood to be the first place where the no-daylight-bathing rule was defied in 1902, even if the culprit William Gocher had donned a full neck-to-toe costume.

“Go to Manly and then work out a way to move there and work there,” a smitten English friend, who I had also bumped into in Sydney, told me. It is picturesque for sure and, surprisingly, much larger than Bondi, which I had also visited earlier in the day.

Bondi was unexpectedly quaint in comparison, particularly with its old, white pavilion and colonial-style buildings. As the sun beat down in the early morning, I even saw an Iceberg – one of the members of the famous swimming club which swims in all manner of cold, winter waters. The water was even chilly yesterday, despite warm sunshine, and the warm people.

On the bus there I got chatting to an artist – Alena Kennedy - who happened to be exhibiting in the Bondi gallery, so I went to view her talented work. On the way back, the driver started talking to me and turned out to be from the Barossa, where my husband’s family are from. He knew of them, but no more, but still randomly gave me a phone number to look up his mum next time I was there. He was still talking to me as his relief driver took over and had closed the doors.

And so my visit to Sydney ended as it had begun, with friendly and helpful people, plenty of sunshine – and some excellent cricket in between.

	Suzie Bates in the pool © Getty Images

The SCG is staging a press conference for the England and New Zealand captains ahead of Sunday’s final. But after a season of cricket, there is anything but the sport going on in the buzzing arena of football in the adjacent stadium, and tennis on the courts. Even the New Zealand girls are in the swimming pool – admittedly after a hard morning training.

It was at first a surprise that the women had been overlooked for having their final at New South Wales’ premier venue. A grand cauldron, if not quite the MCG, it is impressive enough with a ring of green seats sweeping round the ground.

But the reasoning was that North Sydney Oval provides a more intimate arena, with the audience closer to the action. At the conference, New Zealand captain Haidee Tiffen stated she preferred to play at a smaller ground rather than one that could potentially be “hollow”. The TV cameras are also already in position for the final at North Sydney – transferring them to the SCG would cost just too much to warrant the switch.

The ground has looked good on television already and with a crowd of a few thousand expected tomorrow, the stage is set for a thrilling final. Had Australia been in contention, the numbers may have been even larger and the local media interest – which had started off strongly – even greater.

As it is, England and New Zealand have been receiving strong support from around the globe in the most televised tournament yet for the women’s game and everyone is hoping for a tight game tomorrow. If both sides play to their potential then there is every chance that this will be a great final to remember.

	Sara McGlashan comes from a sporting family, with brother Peter playing for the Blackcaps © Getty Images

Team bonding can take many forms. New Zealand’s players even got together to design some t-shirts for their many friends and family who have made the trip to Australia. Every player is represented in some way through brothers, sisters, parents and even – in the case of Aimee Mason, Amy Satterthwaite and Nicola Browne – grandparents.

The t-shirts are black with, in white, the emblematic fern and TEAM WHANAU blazing proudly across them. Team Whanau – meaning ‘Our team of family’ – was made up internally; with their elders, they're a more sedate version of the Barmy Army – more like Calmy Army. Of course, their support is gratefully appreciated.

The parents have arrived whenever possible with work and other commitments. One mother and father in particular have a good excuse for only arriving for the Super Sixes. Their son, Peter, has been playing for New Zealand. The McGlashans caught his debut at Wellington and his unbeaten fifty at Hamilton but have had to catch his other matches on TV. They then flew to Australia to watch allrounder Sara. They are certainly clocking up the road miles and airmiles and “surfing the television channels in between times,” says Peter, smiling.

Both brother and sister played soccer, but Sara’s choice of cricket was made for her when she was injured. Peter could see he had more of a future in cricket.

Mum is Myn and dad is Peter senior. It gets more confusing – Peter senior’s dad is also Peter senior; it’s a family tradition as the middle one explains. “It’s always been Peter senior or Peter junior, or in Pete’s case PD, because he’s Peter Donald. Whenever my wife calls me I say ‘Your mother wants you.’”

A sporting family, Myn played tennis and hockey, while this Peter is a PE teacher and his school, Napier Boys’ High – which produced Jesse Ryder and several notable rugby players – have been accommodating in giving him time off.

For their trip to England for the World Twenty20, he is managing to combine some work over there with a study award for English education. The World Twenty20 promises to be useful in combining the men and women on the same stage – and could be particularly handy for the well-travelled McGlashans should they both got the nod. Sara has more chance, realistically – Peter hasn’t played a Twenty20 since 2006. Still, this Peter can dream of the final at Lord’s. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have the Blackcaps and the White Ferns playing there on the same day?”

The Pakistan team has not been without its support – and their surprise wins have won new fans and deserved praise. Several parents have flown over, while the women have been boosted by a thick band of local, drum-beating followers, many of whom are over here to study.

The supporters have been to every Pakistan match so far – some skipping university lessons – and sing songs when their team are doing well, and even when they’re not. At the end of Pakistan’s surprise win over West Indies, the team even came up the boundary fence to be serenaded by their national anthem.

“They really appreciate it,” explains Zainub. “They’ve come up in the games and personally thanked us. We even asked them ‘does the drum annoy you?’ They say no, it pumps us up. They get little support and we’re here to make them feel they’re so important. They work really hard. The amount of training and facilities they have, it’s nothing as compared to England or Australia.”

Urooj Mumtaz’s Cricinfo blog has drawn such sentiments as “Sana Mir for president” from commenters back home and, more poignantly, “Your team is our silver lining.” Her young charges have played joyful cricket, encompassing the intended spirit of the tournament, and have even got their new fans confident that they will be up there in the next World Cup, in India in 2013. “Urooj’s name means ‘At the top’” says Zainub, before decisively adding: “She’s the captain and we say she is lifting her team to the top.”

Ian Healy is on the ticketing gate at Drummoyne Oval today – or at least, for a split second, it appeared so. In fact, it’s his brother Greg, chairman of the club.

The other Ian and Greg may the more well-known Australian brothers, but cricket is a rite of passage for the Healy clan – Ian’s famously so, while Greg made the Queensland squad and their other brother Ken had two games for the state. The family’s legacy is now being carried forward by Greg’s daughter Alyssa Healy, a member of the Shooting Stars.

Having lived in New South Wales for the last 14 years, Greg’s eight-year involvement in Drummoyne came when Alyssa moved to the club to take advantage of learning from such international players as Michelle Gosko and Leonie Coleman. The stellar roll call of former players includes Julie Hayes, Lisa Keightley and Belinda Clark.

And, unlike some women’s grade clubs, who rarely get to play on the top square, the women play on the beautiful ground every Sunday and, should other men’s matches arise, they still take priority.

Healy is a staunch supporter of the women’s game and delighted for five matches to be held here, for which the club re-laid the turf and replaced the sightscreens. During games, he has been gateman, general manager and on the groundstaff.

For his part, Ian, a genuine fan, promotes the game where he can. “He’s an ambassador for women’s cricket,” says Greg Healy. “He lives in Brisbane so he’s flying down on Sunday off his own back to see the final.

“He’s a real supporter of it, as are the guys like Michael Slater, Mark Taylor, they promote it on Channel Nine through the commentary team. Quite regularly through the [lunchtime] Cricket Show they have snippets of women’s cricket so it’s growing, we just need to make sure it continues to grow at the grassroots, at the schools.”

Which is where Greg Healy comes in. He has been overwhelmed by the media attention the game’s had: “It’s actually in the mainstream newspapers too, with photos. Normally women’s cricket seems to post everything on websites, this is actually really good.” He would have loved a televised game for Drummoyne, too. But his main focus will come after the World Cup, with the next generation.

To this end, the local children have been invited, and representatives from the club have gone to schools as personal ambassadors. Though there are none here today, when Australia played here there were around 700 schoolchildren, with some volunteering for scoreboard duties in exchange for a donation from the club.

Initiatives such as CrickHit, for whom Alyssa is ambassador, help no end. The scheme gives children a free taste of the game and indeed it was where she began. Competing sports could claim here – she has state junior colours in five sports – but, unsurprisingly, cricket has her heart.

But her father is keen to accentuate all the talented girls in her grade side. He gives a hot tip, to look out for young legspinner Angela Reakes, who came down from northern New South Wales to nearby UTS university which has links with the Drummoyne club. Australia's campaign may have faltered, but it's not so for enthusiasm at the grassroots.

The past week or so has shown that women’s cricket is in good hands in Sydney, with host clubs enthusiastically embracing the opportunity to stage World Cup matches. Though Drummoyne only has one more game here – the 5th-place play-off on Saturday – having world-class players on their ground has already helped to attract tomorrow’s stars.

As a Brit, I’m not alone in wanting to see the Sydney Opera House. It’s as cliched as kangaroos and corked hats back at home, but also as iconic.

Like a haughty emperor, the building itself defies you to ask for its attention, hidden away from most optical assaults from the city by a cluster of jealously sheltering skyscrapers. Boat-goers and North Sydney dwellers can take their fill.

It nestles at the eastern point of the cradle of Circular Quay, where the best view in all of Sydney is to be had, as your eyes can sweep from House to Harbour Bridge in a breathtaking instant.

And there it is, at last, the bright sun clinging mutedly to its already golden cream sails. Though looking totally modern, its concrete base - reminiscent of London’s National Film Theatre - betrays its age like the wrinkled hands of a well made-up older lady. Walking up towards the building, the arches of the sails stand like several rowing boats cut in half and up-ended.

As well as its almost secret location from the city, the beginnings of the Opera House are almost smothered from memory. Sydney-siders would hesitate to whisper it, but the building in its recognisable and much-loved form almost never came to be.

It was 1947 and Sydney Symphony Orchestra’s new conductor Eugene Goossens had called for a fitting theatre for opera. Recently arrived from England, he noticed the city’s dire need and in time a global competition was announced, attracting more than 200 entries and plenty
of media attention.

The State’s premier Joe Cahill announced that the opera house “should not be a ‘shadygaff’ place but an edifice that will be a credit to the State not only today but also for hundreds of years.”

You might expect that when Danish architect Jorn Utzon’s idea for the iconic cream sails floated in, the rest would be history. It almost wasn’t. Three of the judging panel had placed his design on the scrapheap, only for its precious metal to be rescued by a fourth, upon
arriving late.

Although the judges expected plenty of controversy from choosing such an original design, they handed the prize to Utzon, who had never even been to Australia before. In the place where an eye-sore of a tramshed had once stood on Bennelong Point, construction soon began on the
theatre which now sings out to the world. More than a million roof tiles were required; surprisingly square, they are cream, brown and white and it’s a thrill to touch them today.

Though the public loved their new building, controversy did follow – of an unexpected kind. For the third phase of construction, Utzon’s request for plywood mock-ups was turned down, leading him to withdraw from the project in 1966. The theatre opened in 1973 – with a production of Profokiev’s War and Peace – and Utzon won many honours including the Keys to the City of Sydney in 1998.

But it was only the following year, more than two decades after his withdrawal, that he was re-engaged with the Opera House, having been asked to come up with a set of design principles.

It was a warm reunion for Utzon, who wrote: “My renewed contact with Sydney […] has felt like a wonderful welcome back to Australia, a hand extended in the spirit of reconciliation, a hand I shake with warmth and gratitude.” He died In November last year aged 90, but his masterpiece lives on, looking as modern as it did nearly 40 years ago.

Moving on to something even more ultra-modern, I also took the chance to venture to the Archibald Prize exhibition, housed in the stately Art Gallery of New South Wales in the Botanical Gardens a short walk south.

This year’s winner was Guy Maestri, with his portrait of the blind Aboriginal singer Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu, whose singing brings grown men to tears. Maestri, I felt, had perfectly captured the singer’s quiet, but statuesque, strength with his bold painting.

The People’s Award is still up for grabs and the hot tip is for Vincent Fantauzzo’s portrait of Brandon Walters, who was described by our guide Janet as the child star of Baz Luhrmann’s Australia. I would go further and say that Walters, as Nullah, was the star full stop.

These are just some of the attractions in Sydney and, of course, the main event for the women's World Cup is yet to come.

	Grassy banks all around the Drummoyne Oval © Getty Images

By Jenny Roesler

“Happy St Patrick’s Day,” said a South African man while I was waiting for the bus. He saw my clover green top – must have been a subconscious thing – and noted that I was on my way to Drummoyne, where a large contingent will gather in the appropriately Irish-sounding PJ Gallagher’s pub for the celebrations.

If I was heading to the pub, it was a little bit early for Guinness at 8am. And my destination involved England and West Indies teams though Ireland could have been here had they taken fifth place at the last World Cup instead of West Indies. As it was, they were surprisingly way off the pace, without a single win in the tournament, and missed out on a spot this time through losing to Pakistan in the qualifiers.

Lying several kilometres west of Sydney’s Central Business District, Drummoyne - meaning flat-topped ridge - was settled not by an Irishman, however, but a Scotsman, the merchant whaler and sealer William Wright. With a largely industrial background, Drummoyne has some stunning Georgian buildings – and an even better location for the picturesque oval, constructed in 1931 as a Depression project. Sadness is the last thing on anyone’s minds today under the gentle sun and a relaxed, though competitive, vibe. One man even backed England to pound 300 against West Indies. He may bask in the sun but not quite the glory – a flurry of wickets made sure the bookies were kept happy.

The oval is surrounded by grassy banks which slope gently down to the Parramatta River where a motley fleet of white yachts stand proudly ready for service. Some larger venues may be surrendering their grass verges for bucket seats but there is no such danger here, with slopes running right round the ground, broken only by the pavilion and the temporary media cabin to its left. It is the Balmain club’s home ground and also houses Drummoyne Rugby Club and some AFL matches.

On the short trip to the ground, I caught my first glimpse of the Harbour Bridge and paused to reflect on its magnificent, yet foreboding, history.

A bridge was first proposed back in 1815 but it was another 85 years until a competition was launched. All entries were rejected but the next year a formal proposal was finally accepted. The formidable bridge would weigh 52,800 tonnes, with six lanes of traffic, two railway tracks and two footpaths. The parts were made from 1923 in sheds where Luna Park is now situated, and it was only six years later that building began on the actual site.

Like Drummoyne Oval, its construction helped create jobs in the Depression and for that reason it was known as the Iron Lung. But it came at a price - $10million, the destruction of 800 houses and 16 workers’ lives.

More quirkily, along the 2.4-kilometre-long Bradfield Highway which runs across the bridge and is named after its designer John Bradfield, between midnight and dawn it is permissible to herd livestock after giving notice. The right has not been invoked for half a century and, like Andrew Flintoff’s Freedom of Preston which permits him to drive sheep through the city, is likely to stay that way under the weight of today’s traffic and the expected lack of need. Flintoff, however, may still be tempted to make good use of his right to a free pint in every pub whenever he visits his home town from his Cheshire pad.

The bridge was finally opened in 1932, more than a century after the original idea – but the ceremony was to be remembered for the wrong reasons. The state’s premier, Jack Lang, was asked to cut the ribbon but his thunder was stolen by a horse-rider who trotted up and did the honours himself, declaring the bridge open in the name of the people of New South Wales. The stranger was unmasked as Francis de Groot, a member of a right-wing parliamentary group who believed the Governor General, Sir Isaac Isaacs should have taken the honour. All manner of attempts to nail de Groot legally fell apart, but he was fined £5 for trespassing, while the ribbon had been quickly restored.

Jenny Roesler

I felt a good vibe about Sydney from the moment I stepped off the red-eye flight from sun-scorched Adelaide this morning. I hopped on a purring train, (reminiscent of the double-deckers in Paris) and smoothed slowly out to the south-west towards Padstow where I was to change for a bus to Bankstown.

The first thing that struck me as the train whispered along is that the rolling, house-lined hills of Sydney are green, very green and quite open; a complete contrast to the clunky Tube ride from Heathrow into cluttered London.

The next point of note was that few outside the ground had any knowledge that the World Cup was going on in their area. At the newsagent to buy some dictaphone batteries, no clue. On the bus, the driver didn’t even know which stop for Bankstown Oval. “Cricket?” he spat, disgusted. Then again, he didn’t know much at all – he was new to the job and unfamiliar with the roads. The passengers who tried to help also had no idea where the ground was, nor that the World Cup was on.

There is more media coverage than ever for the game, but as Rachael Heyhoe-Flint lamented on Cricinfo recently, more is needed. There are no posters near the venue, no obvious signs at any stations that the women’s premier tournament is live and kicking.

Coming over from South Australia, I had been hopeful. There, a club team-mate of mine headed into the post office in Port Adelaide with her Australia supporter shirt on. “Ah, the women’s World Cup. Karen Rolton and Emma Sampson from the Port are playing,” said the assistant, most encouragingly, before adding: “Are you in the team?” She wasn’t. At least players’ names are getting recognised, if not so much their faces.

Still looking for the ground, I arrived at an oval, but it was for AFL. A nice man took pity on me and my suitcase and offered to drive me round to the cricket ground, which was adjacent. He introduced himself as Lindsay as we walked to his car. Now kids, you should never accept lifts from strangers, but I have to say I trusted Lindsay and his steed.

I tried to convince him and his sons to come to the cricket, but they were not to be swayed; perhaps on Monday when Australia are here. “The boys only really watch Foxtel, though,” Lindsay said. “No problem,” I replied. “All North Sydney Oval matches are on Foxtel.” “Ah, then that’s OK,” he smiled, and dropped me off.

Bankstown is as pretty as promised, with a cream picket fence dotted with official sponsors’ boards, and plenty of grassy banks to choose from. Most preferred the covered grandstand named after Kevin McCormick from which to barrack for their side, although they were stationed square of the wicket.

The press were also side on, in the Stephen and Mark Waugh stand. If Bowral is Bradman’s Oval, then Bankstown is the Waughs’, their home ground and also that of Jeff Thomson.

Before the game, the insipid song – Here We Go – which is the theme of the World Cup rang out around the ground. The later music was more vibrant and uplifting – including Blame it on the Boogie, Celebrate – and, rather more bizarrely, the Birdie Song. But the sides didn’t need music to uplift them. Besides which, there was plenty of loud support for both teams, with a pleasing variety of old and young, men and women, all soaking up the atmosphere of an entertaining Saturday.