Boules rules!

A friendly game of boules after work, a few pints of real ale and a supper of sausage and chips. There are few sports that are more suited to the quintessentially rosy view of English life than this.

I went to my first game of boules last week, and it lived up to all expectations. The game was a league match between the Blue Lion at Hardwick and the Lamb and Fleece at Horningsea. The home pub, the Lamb and Fleece, was quaint, local and friendly. The competitors were quirky and from a range of backgrounds, and the competition itself was hard fought, with just a hint of steel around the edges.

For those new to the game here is a quick fire summary of the rules.

Two teams of six compete. The team is divided in two for the first round, so three people from each team compete, throwing two boules each. The first team to accrue 13 points wins that round. The cochonnet, or cloche in local dialiect, is thrown a distance of between 6 to 10 metres from the throwing circle. The teams then try to get their boules as close to the cloche as possible. Whoever throws the closest holds the initiative and the other team have to try to get a boule closer. When all the boules are thrown, points are added up. A point for the team with the boule closest, but if the next nearest boule belongs to the opposition then only the one point is scored. If one team has a number of boules closest to the cloche with no boule from the opposition then the leading team gets points corresponding to the boules near the cloche (I hope that makes sense!)

The second round of the game involves the teams splitting into three pairs. They follow the same process but throw three boules each. The final score is tallied in sets won, with five sets played in total.

So, the rules firmly established, let me describe the evening.

As people turn up at the pub there is a laconic air about the early arrivals. No-one wants to appear too keen. Drinks are ordered and the teams carefully eye the opposition up. On this occasion Phil was skipper of the visiting team, a duty he was clearly taking very seriously. One of his team was making her debut so Phil took her through the rules, emphasising that 'the cloche can not be thrown out of the area – that will mean the game is dead.' The debutante, who was clearly more than capable of keeping the cloche in the area humoured her skipper and nodded sagely.

By now one or two members of both teams were rather sheepishly making their way out of the pub to grab a quick practice throw. This was laughed off, because no-one could be seen to be taking this seriously. As more people made their way out, the practice became more serious, until, unable to resist, one of the team members gave a coaching tip. That was it – the match had tipped into competitiveness.

Dave, one of the visiting team had still not thrown a practice boule. This was clearly worrying skipper Phil, who followed him around the pub garden with a boule in his hand. Finally Dave gave in and threw a practice boule. All was okay, Phil visibly relaxed and Dave smiled ruefully, his cool cover disintegrating.

The home team had a worry. Baz was drunk. The youngest team member had been out for a day of drinking with his mate, Jeff. The pair were clearly in their team's bad books and Michelle, five months pregnant thrust the cloche into Baz's hand with a look that clearly defied him to throw erratically. Luckily for Baz, his cloche landed with unerring accuracy and his first boule followed, landing just centimetres from its target.

As the dusk fell, the sun at the back of the pub went down in a blaze of red. The Cambridgeshire skies were a picture and a fabulous backdrop to this most English of evenings. It is ironic that boules is a french import, but it is one, along with brie and garlic, that we have adopted enthusiastically.

The match took three hours and it was past 11 when the final scores were marked and both teams shook hands. The home team had won convincingly, which didn't please Phil, but his newest team member had thrown well, his oldest player had enjoyed six points of ale and was in full flow with stories about the local postman, Dave had played well despite his reluctance to practice and the plates of sausage and chips were beckoning.

Roll on the next match