Football in the river: Bank holiday barging at Bourton-on-the-Water

Words: Tom Reed

Images: Tom Reed

Back in 1720, the men began to kick around an inflated bladder of the local Cotswold sheep, in the River Windrush at Bourton-on-the-Water, England.

The Great Plague lingered and the men saw the early football match in the low lying stream as a cleansing process.

Of course, this is all nonsense and no-one really knows why they play football in the water every August bank holiday at Bourton-on-the-Water.

Because it is there maybe? Because you can play football in the river which is not too deep but not shallow enough and therefore you should.

The truth is they’ve played football in the river at Bourton-on-the-Water for over a hundred years uninterrupted, through at least one World War.

During Covid, they came down at six in the morning to make sure the century streak of matches wasn’t broken, social distancing when they weren’t splashing.

©Tom Reed. Bourton-on-the-Water. England.

Some of the players from Bourton Rovers FC are there early on, grimacing as they step into the cool August water which hadn’t quite caught up with the air temperature.

A man dressed as a penguin came to officiate, as you do, and a few of the lads were in the river, removing large rocks to prevent the participants from braining themselves. The rest were in the pub.

“There are no rules really, I’m just here to make sure the game flows” said El Pinguino with no hint of irony as the water babbled and curious tourists began to pitch up on the riverbank.

The smart ones would sit a couple of feet back because it would become apparent that the footballers make more splash than Free Willy in his tank.

The casual observer in his three-quarter-length short was about to get soaked.

Although the rules were sketchy, the role of football in the river began to emerge in the build-up to kick-off. A little boy was being teed up for volleys at one of the goals that had been placed in the river, because hitting the ball when it is out of the water is one of the tricks of the trade.

©Tom Reed/ Terrace Edition. Removing the rocks from the River Windrush. Bourton-on-the-Water.

The boy rubbed his bare-feet after each shot, signifying the pain that was about to come for the older lads. “At least they don’t two-foot each other like they used to” said El Penguino, hinting that the match isn’t as quaint as the surroundings.

The game is a grudge match between the young tyros of the Bourton Rovers first team and the Bourton veterans over-35’s who have the experience in the locker but suffer the jibes of the young ‘uns for months beforehand.

This is a tussle passed down through generations and one day it will be the young boy’s turn to engage in this particular version of English “mob football” when he could be at home on a nice dry sofa.

Football in the river at Bourton-on-the-Water provides a sense of place in this picture-book Disney village of local stone and happy tourists from the Indian sub-continent, who throng the place from early on and disappear with the last coach departure in the evening.

In a village where the property prices take the breath away as much as the cold water of the Windrush, the football in the river, provides a sense of priceless community. Entry is free and you can nip over to the Budgens for a can of Carling or a bottle of champagne depending on your budget.

Access to the prize spots on the bridges comes only by getting your arse their early but the smart ones will have secured a table at the Kingsbridge Inn, with its umbrellas coming as something of a bonus.

Collection buckets go around for Bourton Rovers FC, who maintain three senior sides as well as a thriving youth section and like most grassroots outfits, need every penny they can get.

As kick-off approaches, the young first-teamers in blue go through their preparations, which consist of kicking water at the crowd and playing a slippery version of head tennis. One lad lies face down in the river, acclimatising his body to to the tepid temperature of water.

A couple of players on the veteran’s team in orange are wearing arm bands, useful buoyancy aids but also protection from the barging that is about to commence.

They all clatter at each other from the off as the crowd whoops and the 50 foot stretch of the river turns into a wet charge of the Light Brigade.

“It’s just a fight in a river isn’t it?” suggests one observer, salty that his Superdry t-shirt didn’t live up to the brand name.

There’s a call for a penalty for the young team, disputed naturally with poor penguin getting a face full of water kicked at him by the disgruntled penalised player.

During the break in proceedings, a veteran takes a sip of a pint handed to him by a mate on the Kingsbridge side and sure enough, the spot kick is one of slow motion farce as the kicker in blue doesn’t scoop the ball up high enough for a volley, allowing the goalie to charge it down.

A couple of goals go in as the observers dive for cover and shake off wet iPhones but the score seems somewhat second to the good natured carnage.

Throw-ins are taken from the riverbank, meaning the gathered throngs get even more damp and you can imagine Kurtan, from the Cotswold’s TV comedy “This Country” shying away from the action while mumbling about Luke Norris.

At the death, there’s a rapid breakaway for the blues who move quickly through the water to bear down on the lone orange keeper for the win.

There’s a hint of the dark arts at play as the keeper has the ball in his hands one second and not the next, as two or three blue players have forced the ball in the net.

One might say cheating had occurred but the Penguin seemed unperturbed and the blue players were already half-way down the watery pitch, hollering, hoofing the river at the tourists and making Mr Superdry considering investing in a North Face.

After thirty minutes play, the full-time whistle was full of water so barely whistled, the players steamed like Red Rum after the National. There were various flesh wounds and headaches from knees to heads but then again these lads didn’t start with too much sense.

They’ll be there next year, with wet through Adidas Sambas and dreams of scoring a Gabriel Batistuta scissor kick in Bourton-on-the-Water.