There was a big, high wall there that tried to stop me
A sign was painted said “Private Property”
But on the backside, it didn’t say nothing
This land was made for you and me

Woody Guthrie

Walking past a folly near Arundel castle, we came across a locked fence. I haven’t yet found a “private” sign I hadn’t wished to disobey immediately, and yesterday I had time on my side.

I climbed over to find a beautiful example of that storied engine of exclusion and enclosure, the cricket field. [2]

From what I could see through the trees, a match was on. There was someone eating an ice cream. It was time to investigate further.

We walked around the fence until we found the “proper” entrance, festooned with signs further explaining that this is private property.

These are not friendly signs. It is thoroughly made clear that one can only enter when a match is taking place, and even then you have to report immediately to the cricket office (a shed near the bar) and pay your non-member’s fee. [3]

As we walked up the curved, well-manicured drive, I reflected on my tribe-hopping dress. Walking shoes. Mismatched socks. Skinny jeans. Pro-trans rights, anti-golf T-shirt. A cowboy shirt. And a keffiyeh, a gift from Ash and the Bristol Palestine museum.

Topping it all off was a white trilby, borrowed from my Dad.

And the trilby is the high-vis jacket of the cricket world. It gets you in anywhere, even if the Duke of Norfolk is umpiring.

This was Arundel Castle Cricket Ground, outground for Sussex CC and regularly voted one of the most beautiful cricket grounds in the country. It is a decent spot, despite the glances and the vibes that imply this isn’t really for you.

As we walked past the dugouts (gazebos), the tannoy announced a change of bowler. “Coming on, Father Abin-Matthew”… hang on, are these priests?

They were. As the lady at the tea kiosk explained, we had stumbled on a tour by the Vatican Cricket Club, made up of trainee priests and monks over from Rome.

“And the Duke came down from the castle earlier”.

They were taking on St Mary’s Twickenham, a university with a heavy bent towards theology.

I bought a beer from the pristine clubhouse and circulated to find out more. There were a good number of priests gadding about, most of whom seemed to be Irish.

I was eventually directed to the manager of the team. He had a yellow cricket blazer over his cassock, and was also Irish.

He explained to me that they had been going for ten years, and these uber-Catholic willow wielders had been set up “to encourage inter-faith dialogue”, especially with Commonwealth countries. Today’s team was largely made up of Keralites originally from India – trainee priests and monks.

“They’ll spend 3-5 years in Rome, before returning to their dioceses”, he said.

“Does that make it difficult in terms of consistency of selection?”

But at this point the priest was losing interest in our conversation, as his team were under the pump in this 20 over match.

“Don’t worry,” I said to him and the rest of the dugout. “There’s no way they’ll chase this, they already need nine and over. You’ve got this.”

“I rather doubt that”, said the important, sporting man of the cloth.

He should have had more faith. The Pope’s XI, as they are colloquially known, won by five runs in an exciting finish. [4]

[1] “Arabs” is a really offensive name for a team founded by a Telegraph journalist and made of up public school boys. Will be writing to Arundel to ask why they’re hosting them.

[2] For more on cricket and the fencing off of common land, Mike Marqusee’ “Anyone But England” is a good place to start.

[3] We did not do this.

[4] I later learned that this was the Pope’s XI’s 2024 tour of England. They also played matches at Windsor Castle and Westminster Abbey, against the King’s XI, made up of royal servants.