Dearest Emily…
The following morning, with the moist dew of a million blades of grass silently evaporating into the early rays of sparkling sunlight, we were up early to hit the road again. Today we would reach the zenith of our odyssey, the very lure behind this entire venture. Today, we would reach the tournament.
However, we still had some extensive travel to get through. We would wander into new and unfamiliar historical surroundings. The location of our first port of call was the medieval Flemish city of Ghent. I did not know an awful lot about the town before my visit, but what a place!
Common understanding of the place name Ghent suggests it derived from the Celtic word Ganda, which means confluence. Archaeological evidence indicates occupation in the confluence of the Scheldt and Lys rivers throughout the prehistoric and Roman period, despite no written evidence of the latter. The Franks invaded the Roman territories in the 4th century and it is believed that in 630AD, St Amandus chose the confluence to construct an impressive Abbey. Ghent became one of the most important cities in Europe, ruled by powerful rich merchant families until 1302 and second only to Paris in size.
To my sadly blinkered and limited understandings of this corner of the globe, it always seemed Ghent was in the shadow of its famous desirable neighbour of Bruges. As far as I could see, in reality it equals Bruges in almost every aspect. Incredible architecture, stunningly pretty canals, traditional restaurants and busy bars, fabulous museums and a great joyous atmosphere fills the old town and marketplace. Ghent is a bustling ancient town with a fantastic example of a 10th century medieval castle, Gravensteen, at its heart. We wandered the streets and enjoyed the medieval marvels and decadent delights for a few hours, which breezed past in the blink of an eye. Following a delicious white beer in a little outdoor terrace, t Verschil, overlooking boat trips of the canal, I decided to explore alone for a little while and loose myself in the vibrant streets. Reconvening outside one of the many majestic churches and cathedrals, our team got back on the road. Next stop, Longliers and the Wincklemann Cup.
Although fairly flat, the Belgic landscape has its own unique beauty. Whilst perhaps a little cliché in our instant stereotype subconscious, the old wooden windmills and sprawling farmsteads look so rustic it is difficult not to fall in love with their traditional topography. Driving across the country was pleasant and dreamlike, a soft and subtle ramble through warm fuzzy landscapes. My focus remained on the challenges ahead, but I basked in the delightful scenic wonders happily, as we approached our reckoning.
In nearby Neufchateau, a Neolithic megalith from about 2000BC and a Celtic necropolis were discovered, illustrating a rich prehistory along the lush river valley. The discovery of a Roman Villa indicated continued agricultural and sophisticated settlement activity in the area.
Longliers is a tiny town. The tournament, in which we had journeyed so far to compete, was to be held in a stylish sports complex just outside of the little town, nestled upon a wooded hill amidst the colourful Belgium countryside. We were surrounded on all sides by rows of straight and sturdy trees, stretching tirelessly into the eternal heavens above. Fields of golden corn and luscious grass rippled with the light breeze like an ocean swell. It was a perfect tranquil haven… suddenly occupied by a raucous army of European archaeologists!
The fresh summer fields were covered in a tapestry of tents, huge canopies of communal activity and smaller intimate spaces for sleeping quarters covered the majority of the grassy hillside. Lines of trees bordered the site of the impressive arena. A ferocious tournament of anticipated action would be battled out on this very spot. Clashes of tribal brutality and skilful athleticism would be required to lay claim to the ultimate prize. Excited and inebriated archaeologists from around the globe buzzed around, drinks in hand and smiles on faces. We settled ourselves into the foray, and enjoyed the music and frolics of the evening, mentally preparing ourselves for the challenges ahead!
The Wincklemann Cup is essentially the Champions League of archaeological football tournaments. Made up of around 60 teams from every corner of Europe, archaeology units and academic departments fiercely battle it out on the pitch to reign supreme and take home the immortal accolade of European Championship glory. My old employers had kindly allowed me to return for the action, and I relished the opportunity to keep up my fitness and aim for spectacular glory on the field.
The tournament is not just about football of course, an international community of archaeologists and academics converge on a selected host nation to share in elated celebration of our trade and interests. It is a festival, a fayre, a spectacle and a kinship, all neatly wrapped up in the pleasing and passionate package of a football tournament… it is a world of fun!
The first evening was a celebration; the sky painted blood red amid Deep Ocean blue and black. Tribal chants and a community of shared fever. Beer flowed, stories told, games played. As in every age leading to this one, the tension of warriors on the eve of battle was only eased by the sense of belonging and comradery only this kind of event could induce. As each individual took to their temporary homes for a final moment of rest, the beast of competition grew in the shadows, ready for an early dawn awakening.
The tournament began! Our first two games were difficult, up against some of the best German opposition in the tournament. We were sadly outrun and out classed, falling to successive 3-0 (v Bembel Barbaren Frankfurt) and 4-0 (v Los Homos Heidelbergensos) defeats. The second game had been close until a poor refereeing decision led to a penalty against us. Our heads were down. It was demoralising and difficult and in the extreme heat affecting all of Europe on this particular weekend, our weary team were feeling the strain. Our next game was a far closer affair and I was determined to help steer us to some kind of result. I had fallen out with my newly purchased childhood dream boots. Puma Kings were the footwear of football royalty when I was growing up, I had mused on scoring winning goals in such a divine creation. I found a pair on a vintage site and revelled in the chance of finally living my dream. As is often the case with such fantasies, the reality fell sadly short. I reverted to my tried and trusted Adidas Samba, and it made a big difference. We were up against French outfit Spartak La Courneuve and battled hard, but fell behind to a comedy-of-errors goal. It was a devastating blow but we pushed on, determined for more. A goalkeeper who seemed to be having the game of his life thwarted shot after shot, wave of attack after wave of attack! I hit the post with a late shot, but it was not to be. The final whistle went, we had been defeated again but at least there was hope.
We began our following game with a renewed sense of purpose and the confidence seemed to pay off. Facing off against yet another German team, Schwarzer Stern Gottingen, the team began to gel. Putting in a strong performance we went two goals up, dominating the first half. Perhaps fitness was our downfall, the opposition managed to reduce the deficit and then equalise late in the second half to rob us of a deserved victory. The team were momentarily crestfallen, having come so close to the glory of victory that we could taste it, but it was our first goals on the board and our first point of the tournament. The fear of finishing without a result was gladly gone. We had come close, but still, we craved victory.
The next game would be our finest moment. I was full of energy and desire to win. That coupled with the several beers I had cheerfully consumed throughout the day meant this was to be our time to shine. There seemed to be a distinct correlation between the amount of beer I consumed and the increased success of my performance on the field.
Lining up against Swiss warriors DresselBandE, we battled hard. I was in the zone, I sped down the line and attempted a cross which was blocked, but with a last ditch lunge I was able to connect with the loose ball and steer it into the net! We were ahead, and soon we were up by two after another classy move and clinical finish. We held on, battling for everything, eager for every 50/50 ball, and after the referee had dragged out some unknown injury time, the final whistle blew. We had been victorious.
Our final game of the day came against a strong Berlin team, Tachymeter Treptow. We were exhausted from the day of competition and had no strength left to carve out a result. We fought as hard as we could manage, but fatigue and the excruciating heat left us utterly sapped and we fell to a lamentable defeat, but our spirits remained upbeat, the previous performances had been encouraging.
We were all on a high as the first day of competition came to a close and the inevitable mid tournament celebrations began. Live music, flowing beer, party games and vivacious singing ensued. It was a real festival atmosphere. I enjoyed these festivities with copious amounts of Belgic beer and a variety of hot foods supplied by the industrious catering companies at this carnival of curious culture. As my muscles began to feel the strain of the day, and my head danced in dizzy enjoyment of over indulgence, I retired for the evening. Despite what I perceived to be the late hour, I did so earlier than the majority of excitable youth enjoying the tournament, as the music and revelry continued long into the night. In fact, as I awoke ready for the next day’s action, there were still some finishing their evening frivolities.
The new day’s battle commenced. I began with a breakfast beer and was eager to retain some of yesterday’s momentum and perform to the peak of my ability on the pitch. Despite the tournament hosting squads from no less than ten nations across Europe, we seemed to face a distorted selection of German opposition. Today was the knockout and placement rounds, and we were up against La Tene Lovers, a team we had previously met in highly contested competition. Both teams were greatly improved from previous meetings, it would be an even match, anything could happen!
The showdown warmed up with a ritual sharing of liquor… then the action began. I was feeling good, fresh, ready. I started well, immediately getting a lot of the ball and moving it around confidently. It appeared to frustrate their defence somewhat and I was given a playful warning shove during a corner, it was not to be my last message.
I picked up the ball and took it deftly around one of their players. Just behind, the frustrated defender awaited. I nipped the ball past him but he had already committed himself and with a purposeful lunge, took me out completely. Before I could get my arms out to protect myself, the full force of my body came crashing down upon my shoulder. A lightning bolt of shock and pain shot through me. It instantly felt severely damaged, something was not right, but I tried to battle on. I took the resulting free kick and played a perfectly weighted through ball between two defenders to our onrushing winger, but as I moved my arm, another crack indicated it was not to be my day. As the adrenaline wore off slightly and the throbbing agony began, with absolute crushing melancholy I had to come off the pitch and was helped straight to the medical staff, my part in the tournament was over.
It was a devastating moment; I genuinely felt I was getting into a flow. The usually exemplary medical staff on hand at the competition believed that I had suffered only bruising from the collision, however later X rays would reveal a dislocated Acromioclavicular joint, severely displaced. I commiserated myself by propping up the bar and enjoyed the rest of the tournament from the side-lines. In a hard fought match, we went on to win in that most nerve wracking of fashions, penalties. Sadly, as I continued to observe from the side-lines, beer in hand, we were beaten in the final game of the tournament, again a closely fought match with penalties required to decided things. The result gave us an overall mid table position, not as great as we had perhaps hoped for, but certainly far from disgracing ourselves.
I saw out the rest of the day in a substantial amount of pain, numbed only by frequent delicious Belgian beers, occasional painkillers and enjoyment of the tournament as it approached the ultimate climax and my teammates and I became contented spectators. The atmosphere became an absolute frenzy as the final began. It was a hard fought and suitably skilled game where each team could have clinched it. Again, such a close match had to be decided by penalties. The German outfit, Berliner KarpeiKen/BFK Spatakus came out as final victors, clinching that ultimate prize and immortality through the epilogues of the archaeological football empire.
A cacophonous awards ceremony followed with final choruses and chanting galore. There were continued celebrations of joy for the ultimate victors as they hoisted the spoils of war in riotous fashion.
Then, as the battle cries of tribal troubadours faded to a low murmur of approving companionship, it was finally time to return to our odyssey. However, not before our old rivals, Oxford Bierbarians bravely stood forward, a band of weary Vates determined to carry the tales of ancestral greatness forward and host next year’s tournament.
With the final throes of our much-spent stamina, we packed up camp and bid a fond farewell to this glorious hillside stadium. It had been the immense spectacle expected, but our adventure was far from over. There were more tantalising trials to tackle before the eventual voyage homewards.
To be continued…