​In Search of Real Football

We've grown up in the Premier League era and it's getting tiresome. We spend our summers endlessly refreshing Twitter for transfer gossip, pre-ordering the latest strips, and trying really hard to enjoy tennis. As the season draws closer we treat friendlies like cup finals, desperately trying to work out how the new signing's 15 minute run out will translate into league form. We endure exhausting days at work because we stayed up until four in the morning watching clumpy streams of our team playing in commercial tours of the States or Asia. The opening weekend trickles into view and we make daily changes to our fantasy football teams, trying to shoehorn Andre Ayew into our lineup because he was decent on Football Manager. Then the first Saturday comes, accumulators are placed, and we all gather in front of TVs impatient for the start of another nine months of football.

Like an excited bride or groom I'd looked at that date in my diary for weeks, each morning bringing me closer, but as the big day loomed I had begun to have doubts. I was dreading the over-analysis, expensive match tickets, lukewarm pies, the imminent return of Arsenal Fan TV and the continued transition from BBC Sport in BBC Sporf. Like many others I was already getting bored of the Premier League and it's increasingly bleached, commercial product. I decided to make a change, jettison the memes and Match of the Day sofa and connect again with my first love: the football.

I discussed my disillusionment with a Man City-supporting friend and we soon came up with a plan: we'd celebrate the new season by taking in a game somewhere a little different; somewhere totally free of the glossy shine of the professional game and Premier League money; somewhere we wouldn't find the goals endlessly replayed on Vine or have to read Richard Keys' tweets on the major talking points.

We settled on watching a game in the Scottish League Two, the fourth tier of the game in Scotland, whose teams I only vaguely recognised from the Soccer Saturday vidiprinter. We decided that due to my friends' distant relatives we'd support Montrose when they played away at Berwick Rangers, the only English team in the Scottish leagues. We found some cheap trains to Edinburgh on the Thursday beforehand, and took in a few days at the Fringe Festival before making the short journey back across the border to Berwick.

Saturday came. The train journey was only 40 minutes, but the carriage was full to bursting point. We were beginning to forget football as the train took us through lush green hills, before passing the scenic coastline with its ragged cliff edges and turquoise sea glowing in the light of an unusually sunny Scotland.

But we snapped back into reality when the tannoy informed us we'd reached our destination, Berwick-upon-Tweed. With our minds set firmly on the beautiful game we set off in search of a pub, finding ourselves in The Brewers Arms just as the early kick-off between Manchester United and Spurs begun. Looking around, we noticed a lack of Berwick or Montrose fans, with everyone jumping with disappointment as United missed chances. When the half-time whistle blew we'd not found anything different to anywhere in England, so we left for pastures new and hopefully some fellow fans.

As we walked through Berwick we noticed a traditional English market town at odds with itself. The butchers shops, stalls and idyllic church conflicting with the garish Bedrocks nightclub and bookmakers. The dialect is also indicative of this conflict, a unique combination of Scottish and Northumbrian, due to the proximity of both Edinburgh and Newcastle, and their two very different cultures.

Though it looked like a Wild West saloon outside, we opened the doors of the Brown Bear to find a traditional English boozer: a rough wood interior, dartboard, football on the box and of course the ubiquitous man with a dog.

Then we found what we wanted: away fans. Well, two of them anyway, both in their 70s and wearing club colours. After getting a drink we sat down and talked to them; they were staggered that we'd travelled so far to watch the game, and joked that we may have doubled the amount of away fans. They told us of the recent struggles of the team and how different it was from the halcyon days of the mid-70s when they were in the second flight. Last season they narrowly avoided relegation after a play-off against the Highland Football League champions Brora Rangers. Fortunately "half the town came out" and cheered the Mo' to a historic win. The old pair knew all the Berwick fans in the pub, a result of over 50 years following their team around the lower echelons of the Scottish game, and were assuring them that Berwick would get off to a winning start in the league, because the Mo' would lose "at least" 7-0. They finished off their pints as the barwoman barked that their cab was outside and invited us to join them.

Arriving at the ground, we found that the car park is a field, the stadium doubled as a speedway track, and there was a wedding reception in the club bar. The Premier League it certainly isn't. But the first thing you notice when pulling up at Shielfield Park are the gigantic metal cylinders that appear from nowhere. This huge industrial complex behind the ground is part of the Simpsons malting plant, which produces around a quarter of a million tonnes of malt annually. Admittedly it's an eyesore, but the spectacle of the plant looming over the two stands at Shielfield Park is oddly comforting, despite making Bournemouth's Dean Court look like the Maracanã. It's still better than the stalls flogging half-and-half scarves outside Old Trafford and the Emirates.

We still had time for a pint, so we headed with our new friends to The Black and Gold, named after Berwick's colours, and continued to talk about the Mo' and their chances of a win. The pair explained that they only manage to get across the country watching games because of an OAP railcard and a career working for National Rail; it's clear that even the cheaper–than-Premier League prices are still an obstacle to attendances.

Everyone was starting to head to the stadium while one of our new friends finished telling us how much he hated Arbroath. "We've got time for a quick one" we hear, as four glasses of scotch are placed in front of us. We finish up and arrive with the game already underway; "we'll be four down at half time".

The opening of the game passes me by as I take in my surroundings. The speedway dirt track is vaguely reminiscent of the running track pitches you see in the Europa League, except stacks of tyres line the corners instead of a stand full of people. The two stands they do have are sat parallel to one another on the touchline and are sparsely populated with the majority of the 479-person crowd. Montrose went one down early but levelled shortly after, delighting the travelling fans, who were pleased to have at least seen their team get a goal.

When Berwick scored their second it was clear the game was over as a contest. Montrose struggled to get their foot on the ball and when they did it was inevitably just pumped long. One of the 14 away fans sat together got up and yelled "you couldn't win to save yourselves" before walking off and declaring he was headed home. When the final whistle eventually came and the players walked off, they spoke to fans on the way down the tunnel. It was quite unlike anything you'll see in the Premier League this season. As the stand began to empty further we headed back to a near-empty club bar before a taxi to the station.

As we discussed the match it became apparent that we'd not found real football on the pitch – the game was poor and a far cry from the standard we've grown accustomed to from our sofas. I had come hoping to find beautiful football again, but neither Berwick or Montrose had given me the uplifting, almost spiritual feeling I've had when watching Barcelona or Germany play over the last decade, or the thrill I used to have watching Wenger's Invincibles or Fergie's 1999 midfield.

However, I realised it wasn't game on the pitch that made the football beautiful, it was the experience: spending time with mates, laughing, eating and drinking, with the match itself as a sideshow. The ground may need a lick of paint, the food van may need to remove sultanas from their curry sauce, and Montrose certainly need to learn how to play the ball on the deck, but it was something I hadn't had for a while. It was real football, and it was glorious.

@FarleyWrites