A Hard Rain's A Gonna Fall

ROCHDALE 11   VALE OF LUNE 8

As The Major eased his car-it’s only a Vauxhall- through the solid suburbs of Rochdale in what used to be his old stomping ground, and out towards the hills, the occupants, four Alies, chewed the fat over the defeat at Moorgate Avenue and the news that Northwich had won at home against Stockport. 

The rugged scenery which was bathed in the late warming afternoon sunshine, a real treat after more than four hours on continuous rain that was driven across Bamford by a near gale force wind, hardly merited a second glance as the Signum wound its way through small hamlets, past wind ruffled reservoirs, stoic sheep and inviting hostelries that would have catered for the needs of weary travellers who were going through an emotional mangle, on its way to the M65.

With the digital radio spitting out a depressing commentary from Murrayfield, a general air of gloom underlined the conversation. What did the future now hold for the Vale of Lune? Was there enough time remaining for a miracle to be achieved? Could anyone name the clubs in the North Lancashire and Cumbria or the Euromanx South Lancashire and Cheshire One leagues? Where were the arrows of desire, the chariots of fire, or bows of burning gold, when you needed them?

It would be unfair to heap all the blame on the players the conditions were awful, it was always going to be something of a lottery; a wayward kick, misplaced pass, a dropped ball could spell the difference between defeat and victory, and so it proved to be in the end, the margins were so tight.

For long periods in the second half the Vale chomped in and around Rochdale’s twenty two like a squadron of excited JCB’s but even when four wheel drive was engaged and the differential’s locked there was little traction and the furrows became deeper, as they did across their supporter’s increasingly worried brows huddled against the elements.

Vale trailed 11-3 at half time; Adam Armstrong had kicked a penalty goal and ten minutes into the second forty Carl Lamb mud larked his way over for a try. This was the perfect opening for the visitors and for long periods they rattled around Rochdale’s twenty two and battered away at a door that had given them a tantalising glimpse of victory.

Unfortunately it was never wrenched from its hinges but more importantly the Rochdale defenders snapped the bolts securely shut at the merest hint of danger, to leave the Vale frantically banging away at the woodwork. Certainly the visitors hammered hard, but every joint held, every cat flap was barricaded and apart from building a Trojan Horse there was no way that the Vale were going to smuggle out the spoils of victory, or as events turned out elsewhere, a share that would have been acceptable. 

On the way to Rochdale’s ground and its imposing clubhouse coach driver Carl faced a vast array of yellow diversion signs as he exited at J20 off a windswept M62. He calmly followed the signs, in addition to keeping a beady eye on the sat nav, and with the minimum fuss picked up the B6222, past the “Cemetery Hotel”- no omens there then- and the signs to Spotland and the Gracie Fields Theatre before swinging into Moorgate Avenue.

The driver successfully navigated his way to the ground using all the information he was presented with, he trusted his skills, while his training and experience ensured he saw the job through. Similarly the Vale did all that was expected of them but lacked that edge of precision to nail down a result that could have illuminated a dark soggy afternoon.  

With three North Two West games remaining and the future in the melting pot, another memorable Bob Dylan line comes to mind “Senor, senor, do you know where we’re heading?”