Living here in Derbyshire as an exiled Boro’ supporter, I only really get to see the away games at Burton, York and Mansfield and it does have its benefits, methinks after what had been a poor start to the season. However I decided to take in a trip with my son to Barrow to see if Boro could get their first win of the season. Before Barrow we had just 2 points on the board and were playing dire football just about to face a team making a solid start back in the big time. What had I let myself in for?

Well against my better judgement at 10.45 that Saturday morning I found myself driving down the A38, through Derby, over to Stoke on Trent and then onto the dreaded M6. 2 hours 50 minutes later we pull into the Asda next to the ground to replenish the fuel tank for the return journey and find sanctuary in the “Far Post Social Club.” On ordering an overdue pint I meet a Barrow supporter wearing the new ‘all white’ home shirt. Is it me or is there something wrong with over 70s wearing football shirts?

After that we walked into Holker Street. We found our way to the turnstiles, paid our admission fee and walked into the paddock area next to the tunnel and behind one goal. It is quite an old fashioned ground with a mixture of steel crash barriers on crumbling concrete terracing which are a clear legacy of bygone and heady days of the 70′s when professional football was displayed in the same arena. I watched as the players arrived on the pitch for their pre match warm up routine. The Boro’ players disappeared up the other end whilst we were entertained nearside by our hosts.

I obtained a programme in the club shop located at the top of the terracing in one corner where everything from sweets, drinks, old programmes and even worse old Barrow shirts were sold. ”Our beloved leader” then arrived onto the pitch as the players warmed up and seemed relaxed, unaware of the pressure that must have been building up on his shoulders. He then came over to talk with the dedicated Stevenage supporters who had made a considerably longer journey than myself before going back to overlook his players warming up.

The ground started to fill and the atmosphere built up to a crescendo. Well maybe not quite like that but it was quite noisy, especially when the team entered the playing surface for the game. Within 8 minutes the atmosphere had reached fever pitch with Boro’ conceding a penalty. From the resulting spot kick Barrow took the lead and Boro were again behind in their own customary fashion. I must confess, even at this early stage I felt that the 186 mile journey up here was going feel “a hell of a lot longer” going back.

Within 5 minutes though my feelings had changed though as instead of capitulating Boro were actually galvanised and started to string passes together that put some pressure on our hosts. One particular player that wasn’t coping well with the Boro threat was Barrow’s grey haired, aging Captain, Paul Jones. I noticed his mature looks as he met the ref and Ronnie Henry for the coin toss and now he was sticking out like a sore thumb as a distinct weak link.

Morison hit a post that agonisingly rolled along the line and away to safety before finally the pressure paid off with Willock finishing off a good move to allow Boro ro deservedly draw level. Boro were now in the ascendancy and within the 2 minutes of injury time, Scott Laird scored a “30 yard screamer” that looked a picture as the net bulged from where I was standing. 2-1 up at half-time and well deserved so far. As the players walked past us into the changing room I called out to John Dreyer and suggested that this game was there for the taking providing we pressurise their ancient skipper. He agreed, but added that he wasn’t the only one!!

At the half-time interval we refreshed yourselves sampling the local beef burger before being offered the opportunity to switch ends in the old fashioned way that I used to know and have fond memories of at grounds such as Yeading, Marlow, Bromley from the Diadora days. (those were the days!!)

The players returned and the game started again long before we had completed our trek to the other end. Barrow started the brighter at the restart and for a while I feared they may cancel out Boro’s advantage. The estimated 36 brave soles who had ventured North now found themselves being “out sung” by the local “thickset northern souls”. What was required at this stage was a bit of fortune and it arrived in the most comical way. The Barrow keeper Deasy, who had a fairly sound afternoon otherwise, decided to not release the ball before being tackled by Wilson who couldn’t believe his luck and took full advantage by running the ball into an empty net. We did laugh, much to the annoyance of our hosts who started returning the compliment with typical industrial language. Their ancient skipper was then wheeled off and replaced, but quite frankly it was too late.

Suddenly the 186 miles now seemed just around the corner and as the game petered out, one wondered what all the fuss had been in the weeks building up to this lovely afternoon. We left the ground, proud as punch and drove through the lower Lake District onto the M6 and home hoping this will be the start of better things to come.