Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover

Dover (A) - FA Trophy Quater Final - 14th March 1998

With time, memories fade, rusting away to postcard snapshots. 

I was 19 years old when we were drawn away to Dover in the FA Trophy quarter final. We didn't know it at the time, but we were rapidly approaching the end of the Vau**an era. He was getting his collar felt by Customs and Excise and temporarily falling on his sword, stepping down as chairman. The first ruptures that something wasn't quite right. But at the time there was still goodwill, optimism and a bloody good team on the pitch. We were only eight years post Wembley and the FA Trophy held a fond place in our hearts.

I was living in Preston, my first year in the Halls of Residence. If you were posh, you were carrying one of those new fangled Mobile phones. If you weren't, you had a Pager on your hip. Me and my friends were carrying Pagers, thinking we were in Boyz in the Hood. At 19 years old, you allow your life to be dictated by football. When the draw was made, I knew I had to make the long trip to the Crabble. Dover were in the Conference and although we didn't know it at the time, we were in a promotion season back to that level.

I'd somehow convinced a new friend to accompany me. A quiet lad from Durham. He certainly wasn't a Barrow fan and wasn't really interested in football. The suggestion of making the long journey, even from our somewhat closer starting point of Preston, to watch a non-league team you don't support in a game you don't particularly care for was met with a shrug and a "yeah, why not." Oh to be young again.

First things first: train tickets. The only option was to head to the station, go to the ticket office and say "two returns to Dover, please." You had no idea what it was going to cost, no idea what time the trains departed. You just put your faith in the clerk behind the glass and said "I need to be there by three." We bought our tickets around two weeks in advance, around £80, I think. Match tickets in advance? Not a chance. Just walk up to the turnstile and hand over your cash.

The night before the game, I dialled the One2One customer service line at the Pager company. "What's the number you're paging and what's the message please?" "09-something, and the message is: the train is at half past nine." Just a little reminder that this meant considerably more to me than it did to him. Somewhere in Avenham, a pager vibrated. Satisfied he'd got the message, I put my head down for what passed as sleep, that restless, Christmas Eve excitement of a kid who can't quite switch his brain off.

Saturday morning. The Alarm Clock Radio boomed out like an air raid siren at half seven, shocking me clean out of bed with a noise loud enough to rouse a coma patient. In the nineties, we didn't sleep in. I pulled on some jeans and a clean, crisp Barrow shirt. Warm enough for no jacket when you're young and Northern. I wanted everyone to see who I supported as I travelled across London. A bit of Barrow pride, worn literally on the chest.

I strode out towards Preston station for a rendezvous on platform four. I arrived in plenty of time for the relatively freshly privatised Virgin Express to Euston, full of Blair optimism. My friend lived about five minutes away and would come across the walkbridge from Fishergate. I looked and waited. Waited and looked. No sign. The train pulled in. I looked and waited. Waited and looked. Where the hell was the usually punctual bastard? About a minute to departure, I figured he wasn't going to make it. I wasn't missing the game, so I jumped onboard and travelled alone.

I did a quick scan of the carriage for Barrow shirts. Nothing. We were travelling in numbers for the game, official and unofficial coaches were running, but my hopes of conversation for the three-plus hours were dashed. I made do with eavesdropping on a couple of old gents in the seats ahead, talking about growing beetroot on their respective allotments. Funny how things stick in your mind. Various shirts boarded and departed at stations along the way. A group of Tottenham fans were making a bit of a racket. For the first time in my life supporting Barrow, I felt part of something bigger, the wider football community, all of us moving through the same sunny Saturday morning. I wanted someone to ask about my shirt. Nobody did.

Alighting at Euston, I had to navigate the tube to St Pancras, Patron Saint of Diabetes. A daunting prospect, I seem to remember. The days before smartphones: all paper tickets, turnstiles and people walking at pace with absolute determination. A bit of a culture shock for a small town boy. It went without incident, and I was on the train to Dover in a beat.

I entered the carriage and there they were, four Barrow shirts. Fucking yes! A small cheer of recognition, a brief burst of "Barrow, Barrow." Small and insignificant to the outside world, but things like that mean everything when you're a long way from home in a Barrow shirt. I took a seat and got down to some proper Barrow chat that made the journey fly. "There's the cliffs," someone announced, with the reverence of spotting the Hoad on the horizon. No idea if they were the famous ones, but they were white and cliffy, and that was good enough for us.

We arrived in Dover and I bid farewell to my new-found companions and headed into town. I had no idea where the ground was beyond a vague description: up a hill. I asked a bemused-looking local and got a point in the general direction. Started walking. A car pulled over. A Barrow fan. "Hey mate, do you know where the ground is?" Sensing an opportunity: "Yes, if you give me a lift, I'll give you directions." "Yeah, sure." "It's up this way," I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. Thankfully, it was.

I could already hear the Barrow fans before I even got through the gate. Making a tremendous noise. Something about the distance travelled, the occasion, the underdog status, Dover were on the up at the time, throwing a bit of money around, it had all the makings of a great day. I spotted another mate almost immediately. He'd travelled down on the Oxley bus and was already steaming. He'd headed to the back of the stand to relieve himself. Not in the toilets. Directly onto the terracing. Barrow were well and truly in town.

The memory of the match itself has largely smudged and eroded away now. What remains are fragments. The magnificent goalkeeper Steve Farrelly pulling a hammy early doors and just playing on regardless, because that's what you did. And that goal. Scored at the opposite end to the Barrow fans, but I can still see it clear as day, Marc Coates rising like a salmon, making perfect contact with an overhead kick, and sending the assembled travelling faithful into absolute delirium. It wasn't to be in the end. Even with Dover down to ten men, Liburd Henry nicked an equaliser in the second half. Disappointing, yes, but it still felt like we'd go on and win the replay. We didn't, of course,  losing on penalties in front of a sell-out crowd, some fans locked out. But we didn't know that yet, and so I left the ground in good spirits.

I started the long walk back down the hill. And then, coming the other way, towards the ground, my mate from Preston. "What the f**k are you doing?" "I slept in, so just got the next train." "You've missed the game." "Doesn't matter. We'll just have some beers and stop over."

And that we did. We tried to find a hotel, knocked on the doors of a few bed and breakfasts with no luck. Ended up in the Youth Hostel. The lounge was thick with cigarette smoke. The telly had all its buttons missing and was operated using matchsticks. I shared a dorm with six perfect strangers and fell asleep fearing for my life.

I wouldn't change a thing.

Do you have memories of the game or the replay? Comment below, we'd love to hear them.

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