Cock of the Somerset walk
David Foot holds a host of West Country characters in high affection but first among equals is Arthur Wellard of the mighty sixes, delivery leap and strolling sophistication
David Foot
14-Apr-2007
David Foot holds a host of West Country characters in high affection but first among
equals is Arthur Wellard of the mighty sixes, delivery leap and strolling sophistication
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To someone embedded so
incorrigibly in the ways,
wonders and human oddities of
West Country cricket over the
decades the choice was one of
wavering loyalties. It could have
been Harold Gimblett for those
instinctive, understated skills,
Horace 'Nutty' Hazell for his
jovial demeanour and evocative
portly waistline, Reg Sinfield for
his Tommy Trinder chin and
battered boxer's nose or Bill
Andrews, so often my confidant,
who gave me gossip without a
trace of malice. My affection was
unbounded. But in the end I
went for Arthur Wellard.
The earliest impressions never
go away. I still see him strolling
off the field at my hometown
ground Yeovil in the late 1930s
when Lancashire were the
visitors. Winston Place and Eddie
Paynter, names vaguely familiar
to me, were playing but I did
not notice them. It was Wellard
I wanted to see up close. I ran
across to the modest pavilion
at the close of play. He was tall,
manly, his dark hair greased
back around the centre parting,
thick, bronzed arms around the
neck of a team-mate half his
size. What a cricketer, I decided.
I already knew he hit sixes and
took wickets for a living.
That was my first sight of
him. The second, again at a
Yeovil ground, was at a Sunday
benefit match. In the tea interval
I anonymously patrolled the
surrounds, in the hope of a
fleeting moment of doting
proximity. Then suddenly here
he was, approaching me. No
one else about. If only he would
say: "Hello son, enjoying the
cricket?" Anything, in fact. What
he did say was: "Hey son, where's
the bogs round hure?"
It was not the most romantic
of conversational gambits. I
stammered a response and
pointed in the right direction. He
thanked me and was on his way,
no doubt to dispose of a little of
the pre-match cheer. The voice, I
discovered, carried the suggestion
of regional vowels, acquired over
the past 10 years or so after Kent
had been tardy about signing him
and Somerset found him digs in
Weston-super-Mare.
Wellard was one of Somerset's
greatest bowlers and only
Farmer White took more wickets
for them. He played in two
Tests and would have gone to
India in 1939 but for the war.
My schoolboy contemporaries,
like me, loved to ape his leap
in the delivery stride. We
collected the action pictures
and chuckled over the way he
seemed occasionally to tuck his
left arm behind him at the same
time as if scratching his back.
In fact the action was orthodox.
He consistently swung the ball
away from the right-handers;
his break-backs were renowned.
Many of his wickets came
when he clean-bowled startled
batsmen - just as well perhaps;
too many catches went down
ritualistically in the slips from
the county's successive clutches
of transitory amateurs.
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When, after the war, the
limbs ached more, he turned
to off-spin. There was still
native cunning: after he
had surreptitiously brought
in another slip he would
unexpectedly let go an oldstyle
seamer. His fielding, full
of sang-froid, was at times as
comical as it was intrepid. On
hot days he took out his teeth
when stationed at silly midoff.
It changed his appearance
considerably and, according
to several of the pros, his
improvised dentistry bordered
on gamesmanship.
One of the county scorers
worked out that a quarter of
Wellard's runs came from sixes.
He dispensed entertainment and
there were groans when he was
quickly out, not just from West
Country crowds. His routine
was to play back the first half a
dozen deliveries with mannered
coaching-school correctness.
After that, whether the bowling
was fast or slow, he aimed for the
clouds. A succession of coaches
encouraged him to hit straighter.
Mostly they let him get on with it.
That meant denting the Taunton
tombstones or re-arranging
groundsman Cecil Buttle's
runner beans beside the car park.
Arthur, one felt, should have
been a jokey extrovert. In fact,
he was surprisingly laconic. The
voice, when not inclining to
Taunton and the Blackdowns, was
more cockney than Man of Kent.
"Come in a bit at cover, cock," he
would say. Everyone was "cock".
He got animated only when he
went racing. That was something
he did, perhaps a little too often
on a Somerset pro's frugal salary.
Andrews idolised him "even
though he always bowled with
the wind behind him and I
suffered at the other end". When
the newcomer arrived from Kent,
Bill was in awe of his appearance:
his gaudy ties, check sports
coats and pointed shoes. Not
that Wellard was flashy but he
carried an aura of self-contained
sophistication. Yet he was
basically an uncomplicated man.
When it rained, he produced a
pack of cards. He left the majority
of the professionals, fledglings
when it came to poker - or, more
often, brag - out of pocket. Bill
used to say: "He could remember
the position of every card in the
pack - he was out of our class."
So he was in most cases when
it came to cricket. In his first
season for the county he took 131
wickets. Three times he did the
double. Twice at Wells he belted
five sixes in an over, scattering
the dreamy young theological
students seated at long-on.
Oldies claim he could hit the ball
farther than Guy Earle and even
Viv Richards. Those who saw his
hundreds at The Oval and Old
Trafford would agree.
Everyone liked Arthur. That
included Harold Pinter who
wrote affectionately about him
and probably considered it a
coup when Wellard agreed to
play on occasions for the
playwright's Xl. Like most of my
fellow Somerset friends I was
outraged when Somerset chose
in 1950 not to re-engage him.
David Foot has followed Somerset for more than 50 years and writes on cricket for The Guardian