Headingley in high spirits

The spirit of the Caribbean lives on in Yorkshire. Or so it would seem from the blast of conch shells that pierced the Headingley gloom, as a party of slightly flaky but recently bronzed fans snaked towards the turnstiles. Their loud shirts and sombreros were somewhat at odds with the general mizzle of an incredibly dank Leeds morning, but nothing - not even the prospect of a washout - was going to interrupt their enjoyment.

"I see CMJ's had a pop at the weather," groused one of the Yorkshire faithful as he scoured the morning's edition of The Times. "Typical southerner. It was sunny up here all through the Lord's Test, but all it takes is one day of rain ..." But it was a very good-natured moan. Regardless of the weather, Headingley was in high spirits, and looking every inch the international stadium with its shiny new East Stand, officially opened by Bob Appleyard that very morning.

No-one typified the mood more perfectly than the dayglo stewards (and stewardesses) who had been plucked from the local high school to cover every entrance. "Y'arright?" they would chorus whenever anyone approached, and though none of them had the foggiest where the press box was, they were all ever so nice about it.

Two laps of the stadium later, I found my destination, buried deep behind the bowler's arm at the Rugby Stand end. It was apparently only accessible by wandering into the rugby ground itself, past the row of parked cars on the touchline, and yomping up the steep tiers into the depths of the pavilion complex. It soon turned out to be a predictably long-winded route.

One of the ground's few remaining building sites lay along the way - a soon-to-be-completed first-aid centre, positioned to service both the cricket and rugby sides of the ground. Ironically enough, the contractors shared the surname of one of Headingley's better-known demolitions experts. But if he happened to be looking on during Somerset's match at Swansea, Andrew Caddick's mood would have been as black as the heavens, as Martin Saggers celebrated his late inclusion with a dramatic first-ball wicket.

With no cricket at all before lunch, the press had time to reflect on more important matters. One eminent broadsheet writer was embroiled in a vigorous debate as to the importance of salt on one's chips; another was busy composing the most succinct put-down imaginable to a particularly flowery piece of feedback.

There was even an opportunity for two cub reporters from the ECB's lion-centric youth club, The Pride Side, to come into the press box to glean some pearls of wisdom. "The most important thing," intoned one of the sages in between mouthfuls of grilled chicken, "is that even if you get everything else completely wrong, make sure you spell their names right."

When the rains returned, the crowd took shelter under the yawning awning of the Western Terrace - a posse of superheroes here, a toga party there - all sampling the hog-roasts and the local ales, while flicking through the second-hand bookstalls. It was hardly the day out they might have envisaged, but no-one was about to whinge about it.