The High Rocky Road

On Saturday 1st February, I was supposed to be going to Stranraer v Spartans with Shelley, courtesy of Big Gary the Chauffeur. Sadly it has been postponed until Saturday 3rd May when Stranraer will host Bonnyrigg Rose. On Saturday 1st February, North Ferriby host Sheffield FC, when issue #25 of View from the Allotment End will be published, which includes this piece about my trip to St Johnstone versus Hibernian on Thursday 2nd January -:

Slowly but surely, I’m getting close to completing visits to all 42 Scottish league grounds. On New Year’s Day 2025, I had 8 left and on January 2nd, there were only 7, as I ticked off the last remaining ground accessible via a single day round trip on the train from Newcastle. A fresh, freezing Thursday saw me heading to Perth to take in St Johnstone v Hibs, with a 3pm kick off. They do things differently in Scotland and January 2nd is a Bank Holiday, as Hogmanay still holds greater sway than Christmas for celebrations, which is why so many of the shops I saw in Perth city centre advertised they were closed until Monday 6th January. Incidentally, St Johnstone are so titled as the former name of Perth was St John's Toun, until the 1600s. Perth is a pretty, orderly and almost prim place to visit. I’d guess it is one of the safest places in Scotland, which is just as well as I unintentionally got to see rather more of it than I intended.  

Geographically, Perth is further south than places I’ve recently visited such as Arbroath, Dundee and Montrose but, unlike the others I’ve mentioned which are all coastal settlements, inland Perth feels like it is the very end of urban Scotland. Seeing road signs for Crieff, Crianlarich and Aviemore, even if they are all a decent journey away by road, makes you aware this small city is the gateway to the Highlands.  

Regular readers of my Scottish adventures will know that my legendary inability to follow directions or read maps means getting lost is all part and parcel of the day out. The big problem with Perth is that McDiarmid Park, built on land donated to the club by local farmer Bruce McDiarmid to replace the decrepit Muirton Park, torn down to make way for an ASDA superstore in 1989, is more than 2 miles out of the city centre. Now, if you’re able to use Sat Nav on your phone or even decipher the Stagecoach app, that potential schlepp isn’t a problem, but it was for me. The further I walked from the station, from the closed shops, offices and public buildings of the city centre, through compact streets of tenement flats and on wide roads of detached mansions, the longer the distance to the ground became, according to my phone. In freezing temperatures, with no shops or pubs to call in at for help, I was trudged for over an hour and the distance to the ground had grown from 44 to 56 minutes. 

I tried to take remedial measures by cutting across a park and ended up at North Inch municipal golf course on the edge of the city. I attempted to retrace my steps and found myself at St Johnstone Social Club. This was no relief as the building had nothing to do with the football team, was nowhere near the ground and was shut anyway. Having spent almost 90 minutes aimlessly wandering, I tried to get an Uber. They don’t operate in Perth. Things were getting desperate.

On the verge of a panic attack, I phoned my partner Shelley, who was prepared to demand the Highlands Mountain Rescue helicopter was scrambled to find me. Luckily, a taxi drove by as we talked. I flagged him down and explained my plight. He said that ordinarily he couldn’t pick up without a pre-booking but figured from my anxious state, this was an emergency, or it would do until a real one arrived. He took me to the ground, through parts of Perth I’d obviously never seen before, and I tipped him generously for his troubles. Thank you Neil Bremner of Ace Taxis; you got me there just in time. 

Seconds after he dropped me off, a friendly PC from Perth plod, alerted by Shelley, called to inquire of my whereabouts. I reassured them that the panic was over and I was walking towards the turnstiles, then reflected on the fact that at my age and in the depths of winter, solo trips like this are perhaps pushing things a bit far in terms of adventure time. After I’ve ticked off Stranraer, which Big Gary is driving to and Shelley is accompanying us, I think I’ll need to do some hard thinking about planning my final 6 trips to Aberdeen, Cove, Elgin, Inverness, Peterhead and Ross County…

Unlike so many of my other Scottish trips, since visiting Airdrieonians at their former home of Broadwood Stadium in Cumbernauld to see Darren Jackson notch all 4 goals for the Hibees in a decisive away win back in May 1997, I was not visiting McDiarmid Park as a neutral observer. I was in Perth to support my team, Hibernian FC, in the first game of their 150th anniversary year, which is possibly why I did not take in as much about the actual design and ambience of the stadium as I have become accustomed to. That said, McDiarmid Park is both lovely and functional; it is a shame that it seems destined to host Championship football next season, rather than Tynecastle.

I’d bought my ticket in the Hibs section of the Main Stand from St Johnstone itself, when the Hibees were on a dismal run. However, a series of superb wins, including a Boxing Day triumph in the Derby at Tynecastle, saw the away following swell to an impressive 2,850. As well as the Main Stand, visiting fans, specifically the voluble and impressive Hibs Ultras, filled the North Stand. A great turnout, but it meant that the queue for hot drinks and pies was so consequently lengthy I had to abort my mission just before kick-off and half time was a no-go either, mainly because the kiosks were sold out of everything bar sweets and pop, which wasn’t what I needed in that climate. The reported attendance was 6,400, with the home fans in half the Main Stand and all the opposite East Stand. Sadly, the Willie Ormond Stand at the south end remained closed. Apparently it is only open when Celtic or Rangers come to town. Even then, it only accommodates visiting fans. 

Other than the endless chanting by the Hibs Ultras and a bit of a din created by the fresh-faced, high-pitched home zealots, the Fair City United Brigade, the game was watched in a very orderly fashion. In some ways this disappointed me as I’m a true connoisseur of intemperate, oath-edged talk from dyspeptic middle-aged Scotsmen, over such important matters as throw-ins or the speed at which substitutions are made. However, things did perk up in the indignation stakes when former Hearts man Jason Holt was shown a red card for a stamp on 38 minutes, though sadly Hibs did not capitalise on this dismissal. Instead, disaster showed its head. The enigmatic Rocky Bushiri, who veers between the brilliant (last second equalisers against Aberdeen at Rangers at Easter Road) and catastrophic (a ludicrous slice of an own goal at Tynecastle on Boxing Day), showed the latter, less stylish side of his game by performing an utterly unnecessary judo throw on Saints’ Nicky Clark at a corner, two minutes into injury time. The same player stuck the spot kick away, leaving Hibs a goal down at the break.

Without seeming biased, Hibs ought to have already won this game at a canter by the time I didn’t get a half time cuppa. They’d had one shot, from the spot, while we’d had 2 cleared off the line, missed a couple of good chances and hit the bar. Frustration intensified when Martin Boyle crashed in a superb equaliser on 55 minutes, only to be flagged offside. Thankfully, there was a saviour, in the shape of former Newcastle player Dwight Gayle who, fresh from notching the winner at Tynecastle, steered in a calm finish to rescue a point on 78 minutes. There were several late half chances for the Hibees as the Saints stuck everyone behind the ball and cleared their lines with gusto rather than finesse, but the game ended level. 

At full time, I walked stiff legged and starving to get a bus back into Perth. If I couldn’t navigate the place in daylight, I sure as hell wasn’t going to do so in the pitch black. Traffic was terrible and, unable to see through condensation smeared windows, I remained impervious to the delights outside, as it took us until almost 6pm to get back to the train station. With no shops open, I had to haul my grumbling guts onto the 18.14 back to Waverley without sustenance. Suffice to say, the Greggs I grabbed from Princes Street shopping mall, just as it was closing at 20.00, was the finest food I’d tasted in a long time. The 21.00 train was on time, and I gratefully stumbled into the house just before 11. Needless to say, Shelley had words to say about my adventures that day and I doubt I’ll be having many more Highland Flings before the clocks go forward.