Hatherleigh, a small town in a particularly squishy and rural part of Devon, is remarkable for nothing very much except that it has an abattoir. Apparently itis a very good abattoir. A farmer chum of mine put his ram to death there last year because it was annoying him and he swears by the place.

Now, where I come from, cricketingly speaking, even to attempt a warm-up at all is risky. You might pull an eyebrow muscle, or slip a lovehandle. As I arrived therefore I was impressed to see the Hatherleigh players sprinting about before the match, shying at plastic stumps from 40 yards, doing star jumps and backflips. Very organised.

And there were other signs of work. The pitch was new and true; the tea was home-baked and delicious. The Caribbean-style whitewashed terraced seating area added an incongruous flavour, but most alien of all were the advertising hoardings. “British Chicken,” announced one of the hoardings, unequivocally. “Tuck-in to roast lamb,” said another, and I began to detect a theme. “Buy British Meat,” commanded the one next to it. I looked forlornly at my lunch: a tomato and cress sandwich.

The Exeter innings was surprisingly patient for a side comprising so many students. Bowling from the Abattoir End, Joshie took a brilliant catch to dimiss Browner, but Exeter’s innings advanced in an orderly fashion, with the occasional brutal slog on to the roof of the builders’ merchants by skipper Richie, to 224 for eight after their 50 overs.

Hatherleigh’s reply had less order about it. Piggy and Disco Dave did damage with the new ball, and at 11 for three Hatherleigh heads were low. But a fine if occasionally lucky partnership between Pikey and Sticky’s brother, John, hauled them to 150 for four with 12 overs to go. The outfield crowd, which comprised six venerable old codgers in two groups of three on opposite sides of the ground, began to believe the home side could win against the formbook.

But Sticky’s brother and Pikey were out within moments of each other, both to the spin of Milney bowling from the Sewage Treatment Plant End. The last six wickets went for just 24 runs, and when Red Rock, the last man, skied to point, everyone felt that the underdogs had rather robbed themselves.

So that night I ate chicken. British Chicken.

As the Ashes battle grabs the nation’s attention, Magnus Macintyre will bring you his reports on the grass-roots game over the next three weeks.