There’s something hauntingly romantic about the idea of a revolution beginning in a small village hotel, over gin and prosecco. Colwall, a sleepy hamlet in Herefordshire, isn’t just a footnote in cricket history—it’s the birthplace of organized women’s cricket, a fact that feels almost scandalous in a world where the sport’s gender dynamics are still being rewritten. Imagine it: 1926, a group of women hockey players, tired of being sidelined by societal norms, gather in a hotel owned by one of their own. They debate, they muse, and they decide to create a space where women could play cricket without fear of ridicule. This isn’t just a story about sport; it’s a microcosm of the broader struggle for women’s autonomy in male-dominated spheres. What makes this particularly fascinating is how a single decision in a hotel room set the stage for a century of progress—and yet, the echoes of that moment still resonate today.
Colwall’s Cricket Week isn’t just a nostalgic throwback. It’s a living testament to the resilience of a community that refused to let tradition die. But here’s the thing: this isn’t just about preserving history. It’s about asking whether such traditions have a place in an era where women’s cricket is increasingly professionalized, globalized, and, frankly, more competitive than ever. I’ve spent time at Colwall, walking the same paths as Marjorie Pollard and her contemporaries, and I can tell you—it’s a place where the past isn’t just remembered; it’s felt. The air smells of old grass, vintage cars, and the faintest hint of rebellion. Yet, as I watched Enid Bakewell, 85 and still dancing the Charleston, I couldn’t help but wonder: how many of today’s players would even know the name of the Women’s Cricket Association, let alone its founding year?
The irony isn’t lost on me. Colwall’s clubhouse, once a shrine to male cricketing glory, now proudly displays portraits of pioneers like Betty Snowball and Frances Heron-Maxwell. But this isn’t just about correcting a historical oversight. It’s about redefining what ‘belonging’ means in a sport that’s still grappling with its identity. Gemma Nurser, Colwall CC’s communications lead, put it best when she said, ‘We wanted to show that female presence.’ That’s not just a statement—it’s a declaration of war against the erasure of women’s contributions. Yet, as much as this feels like a victory, it also highlights a deeper problem: how many other clubs across the country still treat women’s cricket as an afterthought? The fact that Colwall is now 37% female isn’t a triumph; it’s a reminder of how far we have to go.
And then there’s the question of sustainability. Cricket Week, once a gathering of England’s elite, now struggles to fill four teams. Carole Cumino, a veteran attendee, recalls days when 16 teams—each captained by an England player—would descend on Colwall. Today, the event feels more like a festival than a competition, a place where friendships are forged over Fancy Dress Fridays and inflatable Mr. Blobbys. Is that a bad thing? Or is it proof that the event has evolved beyond its original purpose? Personally, I think it’s both. The decline in competitive quality is undeniable, but the rise of a ‘cricket family’ dynamic suggests something more enduring. If the future of women’s cricket lies in professional leagues and international tournaments, what happens to the people who love the game for its own sake? Where do they go when they’re no longer ‘good enough’ for the top tiers? Colwall, it seems, is trying to answer that question—but the answer isn’t clear yet.
Let’s not forget the human element here. Jon Lewis’s recent comments about coaching women’s cricket—his admission that he ‘was trying to stretch [the women’s game] too fast’—reveal a crucial truth: the differences between coaching men and women aren’t just about empathy or communication. They’re about understanding the unique pressures women face in a sport that’s still fighting for legitimacy. Lewis’s evolution from a ‘gender-agnostic’ coach to someone who now recognizes the need for tailored approaches is both refreshing and overdue. It’s a reminder that even the most well-intentioned outsiders can learn, if they’re willing to listen.
But the most telling moment in the Colwall story isn’t the 1926 meeting or the 100th anniversary party. It’s the quiet realization that this tradition might be the last of its kind. As the world becomes more interconnected, more commercialized, and more focused on metrics and outcomes, events like Cricket Week risk becoming relics. Yet, there’s something profoundly human about them—a reminder that sport is more than statistics. It’s about community, memory, and the simple joy of playing. Whether Colwall’s Cricket Week survives the next century depends on whether we can balance progress with preservation. And that, I think, is the real challenge: not just to keep the game alive, but to keep its soul intact.
