A white picket fence encircles Point Lonsdale Oval, lending the ground an idyllic English geometry. It’s Saturday afternoon and, lured by a cricket match, I drive in and park by the mid-wicket boundary. Snatching ten minutes to take in a genteel encounter — any venue and contest will do. The trend for picket fences is heartening; simple wooden slats bring an elegance to our increasingly coarse world. They also suggest quiet expectations of courteous behaviour for both players and spectators.

I love country cricket but understand many find it incomprehensible. As a sporting contest it is often ritualised rather than wild battle. To the uninitiated, nothing appears to be happening on the field, but in truth everything is transpiring with absorbing compulsion. It’s a psychological feast of anticipation and patience, punctuated by staccato bursts of movement — then lengthy, enigmatic lulls.

Bowling and fielding, characterised by a cheerful mellowness, suggest this is a B- or C-grade fixture, a suspicion confirmed by the participants — grey-haired and slower of limb. Of course, the chubbiest chap keeps wicket, and he’s unexpectedly spritely, crouching behind the stumps before bouncing in to scoop up the return throws. His nickname is surely Nugget.

The scrubby surrounds are unmistakably coastal Australia, and the scene reminds me of the one time I played cricket by the sea. This was at Elliston, after a Friday night at the Port Kenny pub with my Wudinna CC teammates. The next morning, a tinny putted out into the bay and we went fishing — Stink, Ning, Jock, Snook, Chess and me, crowded onto the tiny deck — during which the bird’s nest I made of my line earned me a new nickname: Tangles, in honour of the beloved Max Walker. Winning late in the day, I recall hearing the crashing surf in sonic contrast to the dusty breezes and magpie warbles of landlocked Kapunda.

Gazing again at those sharing the patchy grass and leisurely privilege, I think of the joyous belonging cricket clubs can gift their members. It’s only partly about what happens on the field; the spirited and forgettable exchanges at training and in the clubrooms matter just as much. Bumping into your teammate — the mechanic — outside the post office on a Tuesday lunch confirms this bond.

On Point Lonsdale Oval, the placid medium-pacer saunters in and overpitches just enough on a decent line. Seagulls dance on the salty air as the batsman steps into an off drive, but it rambles over the rough turf straight to a fielder and I hear the shout of, ‘No!’ This is representative of the even contest during my stay: no wickets or chances, but no boundaries either — just a handful of modest scoring shots. Was it dull? No. Utterly engrossing and healthily diverting.

Claire is shortly due on stage at the Queenscliff Music Festival, so after half a dozen overs I turn the key in the ignition. This brief cricket excursion has returned me, happily, to the languid Saturdays of my youth.