As I stroll along the banks of the river from the railway station the sense of anticipation is building inside me, hearing cheers from the final throes of the ladies match only intensifies my mood. I meet up with Iain and we cross the grass from the car park together neither of us having attended this event previously – though both having a good knowledge of shinty – we don’t quite know what to expect other than an interesting battle between two sports and two nations with a common cultural bond – gaelic.

Seeing the scoreboard for the ladies match does not inspire us, 8-0 to the Irish visitors but the old wooden stand at Bught Park is filling quite quickly. Our timing is about right as we find ourselves a good vantage point to view the match before all the best seats are taken. It’s also a chance to do a bit of people watching, I spot Phil Cunningham arriving just after us, he sits a few rows down and is armed with a camera fitted with an enormous telephoto lens. Then Duncan Chisholm appears along with his young family and as I notice him I also spot an elderly gent in tartan trews and jacket standing in front of the barrier with a full head of silver hair, I can’t see his face but I somehow think it’s Ronnie Brown though he’s not as stout as once was.

As we await the start of the game the commentator displays his bilingual skills in announcing the names of the ladies as they come up into the stand to collect their medals. I belatedly note that there are television cameras at various points around the pitch. The two teams emerge from the tunnel to great cheers and the Provost steps out onto the pitch to offer a dutiful handshake to the gathered competitors and officials. Then my suspicions are confirmed as Ronnie Brown marches up to the microphone and, accompanied by the pipe band, bursts into a fantastic rendition of “Flower of Scotland” famously written by his former Corries’ partner, Roy Williamson. Come the chorus we all join in with gusto and likewise the remaining verses – real stirring stuff!

As the pitch is cleared of microphones, team managers and civic dignitaries there’s a real sense of anticipation as although the odds are stacked against the home team (it is said there are a hundred hurling players in Ireland for every one shinty player in the Highlands) Scotland have won on the last four occasions.

Before we know it the game is underway, the curious hybrid of shinty-hurling enthralls me with it’s pace and the differing skills of the two sports, pitched together for this annual international tussle. I am curious to see all the Irish lads sporting helmets and faceguards with only one Scottish defender choosing to wear protective headgear – are they brave or foolish or maybe it’s a psychological move. Despite the obvious variations in stick design and usage the teams seem well matched in their respective abilities – the hurlers with dominance when the ball is in the air, the shinty players more in command when the ball is on the ground. The amazing shinty flicks from the caman propelling the ball considerable distances down the pitch and the sight of Irish forwards running at full tilt whilst tapping the ball on the flat of the hurley, catching it on the volley and then smashing it towards the goal mouth captivates me.
This stunning display of man with stick and ball results in a many bone-crunching clashes, a few hurleys come a cropper in the process, by half-time Scotland are leading 8-5 and the crowd are bouyant as the pipe band do a couple of laps of the field keeping spirits up until play resumes. Our compere carries out a prize draw and once more demonstrates his command of the gaelic language, announcing prizes, winners and sponsors in both tongues, which does the trick of extending the time required to complete the task.

Ireland take a firmer grip of the second half with a number of rapid-fire, between the posts goals edging the score up point by point until the the latter half of the game the teams are level with 11 points each. The crowd are right behind Scotland now, every time they get possession the stand erupts into a loud rumble as we all stomp hard on the wooden planking beneath our feet, the whole place reverberates – it’s like a heavy goods train is passing by. The ball travels from one end of the pitch to the other at great speed (only slightly slower than tennis despite the extra distance!) and in one magnificent breakaway the Irish put one in the net taking them to 14 points. Another couple of hurleys lie smashed at the side of the pitch no match for the stronger, laminated caman, there’s also a busted nose that a face guard did little to prevent. Both sides make substitutions and Scotland valiantly fight back but their efforts are thwarted by a first-class defence, a penalty denied in the final moments of the game removing their last opportunity for victory.

Whilst much of the crowd seem slightly deflated and start to drift away those of us remaining stand and clap both teams as they collect their respective medals from the Provost. As shirts and sticks are swapped, the press take photos – the jubilant Irish waving the trophy aloft, some stunned Scots staring at the ground in disbelief, either way memories are being made. Myself I savour the fact that I have witnessed a thrilling match played in true sporting fashion – hard but fair, between two countries whose passion for their sport is rooted in a common and ancient history.

“And for every fighting Highland man – stand by your brother, die for the clan. But when the whistle blows and the battle’s done. These shinty boys shine like the sun – we don’t play for fame, we don’t play for cash – we just play for the glory and the clash of the ash.” From the Runrig song “Clash of the Ash”