God's Game

HOW very special it is to be an Englishman on the cusp of another summer and in particular, another cricket season.

The finest time of the year - if only the weather plays ball - coincides with the finest sport ever devised by man beginning its life-affirming ritual and annual cycle.

The cricket lovers among you won't need telling of that indefinable tingle on the morning of a Test match. A spring in the step, a lightening of the heart.

And for cigar lovers, cricket is also, for the most part, a most generous host. For many years I've enjoyed memorable days of sport in some of our finest cricket grounds, nearly all of which offer at least a bolt hole where one can squeeze the pleasures of a fine cigar into the smorgasboard of delights a day at the cricket holds.

Trent Bridge, the finest Test ground bar none in my opinion, offers the casual decking of the Larwood and Voce pub where many a rained off session or lunch has been spent in friendly conversation along with a smoke and a pint of ale from the bar. Lords offers a lovely little undercover spot beneath the Compton Stand where one can stand to watch play. It's not normally too busy either, so it's no problem to light up something mild and thoughtful to enjoy with your sport.

Long gone are the days when you could enjoy an after lunch Upmann with your Champagne in the terraces; my last such cigar moment is poignantly captured in a still photo on my kitchen wall, which was taken from the final moments of Channel Four's superb TV coverage of 'those' Ashes of 2005. As England finally hammered the last nails into the Australian coffin at the Oval, I fired up a Monte 2 in my seat - and unwittingly became a shot for the nearest cameraman.

But in many county grounds around the UK, the open stands are still places where a peaceful pipe or cigar can be enjoyed.

Cigars and cricket are two of my great loves and I'm lucky enough to be able to combine them regularly during the glorious English summer. I live just across the road from the village recreation ground and so can stroll across on a summer's afternoon or evening with something refreshing, commandeer a park bench, and smoke a fragrant cigar while the gentle sounds of leather on willow permeate.

God is in his firmament and all is well with the world. Cricket is back.

Happy Herfing.

M.

When a cigar is just a cigar...

WE'RE all guilty, I would suspect, of over egging the pudding once in a while.

When it comes to cigars and you're as passionate as we are, it's easy to get carried away.

We enthuse about the wrapper, extoll the virtues of the aroma, test the pre-light and seek colourful and original explanations of the tastes we're enjoying.

Dangerous game to play, imho. Nothing says 'steer clear' to me more than someone playing the expert.

There aren't many of them around, believe me, and those that experts are not the ones crowing about it!

I'm certainly no expert and although I like to think I'm learning about this fascinating subject all the time, I doubt I ever will be.

I try and relay my experiences vicariously through my keyboard because that's what I'm good at - words. It doesn't make me an expert on cigars any more than commentating on the Cup Final makes John Motson a great striker.

Of course, everyone has the right to an opinion and the right to express it however they like, within the bounds of decency. I'm just very wary of straying over the line and treading on the toes of those who really do know what they are talking about.

Which leads me to a cigar I enjoyed last night. Instead of striving for flavours or trying to find an angle to write about, I simply enjoyed a smoke from the bottom of my humidor. It was a non-Cuban, nothing to write home about, but it made me realise (again) why I love cigars so.

After a taxing time of late, when I sat in my armchair and lit up the stick, it was as if my subconscious finally had permission to switch off. I read a book, chilled out and enjoyed the simple flavours of the cigar.

I find its sometimes all too easy to strive for something from a cigar and forget the simple pleasure of just enjoying one.

Sit back, take the weight off and let the stick do the talking.

Happy Herfing.

M.