In 1976 Andy and I got married.
Soon after we moved away from Bristol to live in Birmingham, then Gloucester and then we moved to Cranleigh (and have been here ever since).
In the early days we often thought we would move back to our home city of Bristol (actually City and County of Bristol – not a lot of people know that!) but we never did.
38 years later and I still have a strong connection with one aspect of Bristol life (two if you include my accent).
The first football result I always look for is for my team, Bristol Rovers.
Bristol Rovers, or “The Gas” as they are known to their fans (their old ground at Eastville Stadium was surrounded by gas containers that used to leak on rainy November evenings thus intoxicating the supporters and players alike), are the poor footballing relatives in Bristol falling out of the football league into the Conference for the first time in their history last season, whilst Bristol City FC seem to enjoy better success on a fairly regular basis; they have more money.
Moving to Cranleigh in 1985 one of the first people we met was Val, our daughter’s primary school teacher.
On hearing our surname, Bamford, Val was able to name the whole of a 1950’s Rovers team which she had been taught to do by her older brother.
The side, including a relative of mine (my father Francis’ cousin), Harry Bamford, a well known and sporting footballer who sadly died in a motorbike accident in 1958.
In his memory the Harry Bamford Trophy was created to be awarded each year to Bristolian footballers for fair play and sportsmanship.
This morning Val dropped into the office a recent copy of the Bristol Post with a full page article describing the Harry Bamford Trophy and the players to whom it had been awarded.
Sadly the trophy went missing following a fire at Eastville Stadium in 1980 but has recently been found and restored.
The trophy has started to be awarded again. There has been a bit of catching up to do since 1980.
Regardless of where you end up living and raising a family there will always be something things that links you back to your childhood home.
Goodnight Irene.
