Tour Diary

In the weeks since Duncan Fletcher's autobiography hit the bookshelves, every pundit and his dog has taken the chance to dissect the revelations within and, in turn, assess his impact on English cricket over the past seven years. But few publications have summed up the debate as pithily as the one which appeared in the stands of the Asgiriya stadium this afternoon. "Duncan Fletcher," splashed the headline on The Corridor of Uncertainty, the official unofficial England cricket fanzine. "Genius or T***?"

As it happens, the latter opinion came out on top in a ruthlessly scientific study, by 31 points to 20, but you'll have to pop over to Kandy and buy your own copy to examine the working. They are readily available, at 400 rupees each, from the blond bloke with the ethnic man-bag and the faded England Test shirt, as once owned by Matthew Hoggard. He is Andy Clark, the mag's founder, editor and publisher, and a fixture of the England touring contingent for nigh on a decade.

It's fair to say I hadn't a clue where I was when I awoke on Friday morning. I knew the name of my hotel, but that's about it, having arrived under the cover of darkness following a busy day of pre-match build-up at both the ground and the team hotel. I vaguely remembered a long, winding, never-ending journey from Kandy town centre to what felt like the highest peak in the land, but that was about it.

I've since discovered I really was in the middle of nowhere, which goes some way towards explaining my disorientation. You see, living and working in Kandy is a bit like living and working on an upturned octopus. Most of the action takes place right in the middle in the town itself, a bustling focal-point with a welcome air of tranquility thanks to that glorious lake at the base of innumerable hills and hummocks. Most of the sleeping, on the other hand, takes place up, up, up and away.

It makes perfect sense. The cool mountainous air, the stunning panoramas, the karmic seclusion. It's what every human being in their right minds would want at the end of a hard day's chiselling at the workplace. And hence the only hotels worth frequenting are as far removed from each other as is humanly possible.

Going down is the easy bit. Your tuk-tuk arrives at 8.30am, and off you go, freewheeling recklessly through the hamlets and roadworks and the inevitable dozing dogs. The bumps and jolts are part of the ride, as you whizz towards your workplace with fragments of scenery popping into view at every hairpin corner. It's exhilarating to tell the truth, although not without its perils - one colleague told me yesterday how a similar journey in India had resulted in an emergency operation after the boneshaking dislodged a previously unnoticed kidney stone.

	Marcus Trescothick poses among a collection of Buddha statues during the 2003 tour © Getty Images

By rights, the Asgiriya Stadium in Kandy ought to be the most tranquil setting for a cricket match anywhere in the world. It's not just the natural beauty of the sight - a delightful, atmospheric park of a ground carved directly out of the neighbouring hill-side - it is the spiritual well-being of the venue as well. A vast white statue of Buddha peers down from the heights above, and the monks of the nearby research institute seem to confer their benign blessings as they sneak glimpses of the action between chores.

And yet, how contrary the experience often turns out to be. England have been to Asgiriya twice before, in 2000-01 and 2003-04, and on each occasion their karmic brownie points have been drained as efficiently as the city's famous Temple of the Tooth is said to top them up. Both matches were coloured by some of the filthiest bouts of temper on a cricket field this decade, all of which is enough to make a monk blush.

The first fixture, in 2000-01, was indisputably the worst. Sanath Jayasuriya was given out caught at slip after hammering the ball into the ground, and hurled his helmet into the boundary boards in frustration. Kumar Sangakkara used his lawyerly logic to get so far under the skin of England's intellectual opener, Mike Atherton, that a bout of irate finger-jabbing ensued. And fines were flung around like confetti by the authoritarian match referee, Hanumant Singh, a man after whom Duncan Fletcher later named his souvenir of the trip - a giant wooden elephant.

The only man who felt any karmic blessings in that game was England's captain, Nasser Hussain. He was in the middle of a shocking run of form, interspersed with some outrageous umpiring decisions, and had managed a solitary fifty in 21 innings since the start of 2000. Now he was twice caught at bat-pad and twice given not out by the less-than-hawk-eyed local umpire, BC Cooray, en route to the century that set England up for a memorable and rancorous win.

You get used to strange tooting noises when you're out and about in Colombo. The city is a constant cacophony of klaxons and horns, and if enough of them sound in sequence, it can sometimes seem musical.

It's a little bit more confusing, however, when designated musicians end up sounding like a fleet of frustrated tuk-tuk drivers. For the last two days of England's warm-up, a strangulated brassy din has been wafting across the breeze from the car-park of the SSC, where the Sri Lankan military band have been practising their scales ahead of their gala performance during the second Test.

I jumped in my tuk-tuk this morning and asked the driver to take me to "Nondescripts Cricket Club", the venue for England's second warm-up match. I might as well have asked him to take me to Grace Road, because he looked decidedly nonplussed. I tried again, a little more phonetically - still no joy, and the clock was ticking. So I changed tack. "NCC?" I enquired. He roared with laughter, pumped his engine into life, and hurtled off at a canter.

Such is the power of the acronym. In England, only one such club could get away with being known by its initials, and even then most taxi-drivers would need you to specify "Lord's" if you wanted to get there. In Colombo, there are three lined up on the same signpost, as you turn off the main thoroughfare and head for the tranquil environs of Cinnamon Gardens.

Two books caught my eye as I was perusing the gift shop at the team hotel this morning, killing time before England's training session began. In among the postcards, guidebooks and polka-dotted bikinis were a pair of weighty publications, "Fractured Paradise" and "A Divided Isle", that told the tale of the traumas that have undermined Sri Lanka's standing on the world stage.

By rights, Sri Lanka should be one of the world's most alluring tourist hotspots. It has it all - ancient civilisations, stunning beaches, friendly people and an appealing night-life, to name but a few of its ticks in the box. None other than Marco Polo rated it as "the finest island of its size" that he ever encountered, and he saw a fair bit in his time.

Who says that journalistic standards are slipping? Not the members of the media lined up at the Colombo Cricket Club, that's for sure. Four years ago, on England's last visit, we were housed in the bleak but undeniably functional whitewashed press box next to the scoreboard at the far end of the ground. The view of the pitch was excellent, although the creaky wooden trestle tables, intermittent power supplies and tandoori oven atmosphere were less so. Also, the vantage-point came with a certain sense of detachment, as all the action seemed to take place in and around the grand colonial pavilion at the opposite end of the ground.

Things are much more civilised this time around. Now the press are lined up on the pavilion verandah, beneath a bank of pankahs, with easy access to the fridge, the internet, the bar (post-play only, of course), and not least, the players. Quite what the players themselves make of the new arrangements is a matter of debate, however. They've been shunted down the steps and onto the grass beneath us, where they've spent the last three days lounging beneath a blue boxing-ring sized marquee - which is not the most comfortable place to be when Colombo's daily deluge arrives …

Normally when lunch is called on a baking hot day in the subcontinent, a cricketer's first instinct is to leg it for the pavilion to hide in the shade and take on board several gallons of liquid. Not so on the first day of England's tour match in Colombo. The cool of the players' marquee may have been beckoning them, but as soon as the umpires released them from their duties, eight of the team instantly sprinted in the opposite direction.

Very soon they had set a trend - within minutes half the media, most of the spectators and several pointy-stick wielding groundstaff were all gathered around a rubble-strewn wall, peering down onto what, to judge by the excited chatter, was a very, very big visitor.

The Wanderers is buzzing well before the start of play. With more than two hours for the game to begin, there is a crowd lining the street outside the stadium. They are the unlucky ones who don't yet have a ticket to the game - the match is officially sold out - obviously - but there is still the hope that an influential friend or a generous organiser can sneak a few in.

The more fortunate ones are already inside the stadium, or secure in the knowledge that they will be soon. The beer token counters are already seeing long queues, which isn't surprising considering it's a hot day. The flags, T-shirts, caps and various other items at the souvenir shops are all in huge demand, and people are willing to pay - the flags have already been marked up to R 120 [US$ 17], 20 more than the semi-final price.

Not that the people mind that, though. For an India-Pakistan match - and a final at that - it's a small price to pay. For Sadiq, an Indian originally from Gujarat but who is now based in Johannesburg, the final has been an exorbitant one: his wife and two children are also here, and he paid R 500 [US$ 72] for each ticket which should have cost R 160 [US$ 23]. He is one of many Indian supporters in a crowd which is dominated by the tri-colour, and by the end of the day, the money would have seemed very well spent.

In what seemed like a uniform sea of Indian supporters, Brian and his family were a brave lot. Wearing a Qantas T-shirt and carrying a huge Australian flag, there was no question about which team they were here to support. Was it daunting to be holding an Aussie flag when it was obvious they were so heavily outnumbered?

“It doesn’t really matter to us,” says Brian. “We [the Aussie supporters] might be just 1% of the total crowd today, but we’ll be the 1% who will be happy after the match.” Brian is from Durban, but has family in Australia, which is why he supports Australia whenever his home team isn’t playing.