Lighting up The Ladywell
A couple of night ago I became mesmerised by a thirty-five minute long YouTube video on the official channel of West of Scotland Conference side Maybole proudly showing off the arrival of their new floodlights. With the generic Cafe Del Mar rhythm accompaniment, the parochial surroundings and the jeopardy as to whether everything will go to plan it made for a surprisingly hypnotic watch.
For those that don’t know, I suspect many won’t, Maybole’s Ladywell Stadium is one of Ayrshire’s most southernly footballing outposts. I have ventured there once before, in 2014, aboard a Pollok supporters bus that wheezes and creaks as much as some of its more elderly patrons do to this day.
The preceding season Pollok, the side of my father and grandfather and one of Scottish non-league football’s most successful, had taken the inevitable dive into the second tier of the West Region Juniors — a grade of football not awash with youngsters as the name suggests but a football micro-climate all of its own which had developed particularly strong roots in the west of Scotland — bringing an end to a three year run of near misses from relegation for the Glasgow club. On that late spring evening when Glenafton Athletic came back from 2–0 down to defeat the ‘Lok 3–2, finally sealing Pollok’s fate, I felt a wash of relief that the torture was finally over.
A new manager had arrived by then. Too late to halt the decline, but having stamped his mark on the team an immediate return to the top tier, a feat that no club had achieved since the Central and West Regions of the grade had merged in 2002, already seemed as inevitable as the relegation that had come before. A win was expected by the black and white faithful who had once again turned out in large numbers despite the unfamiliar territory and it duly came. The 5–2 victory would suggest that goals should be the cornerstone of my memories of that day but in reality I was more taken by the fousty lounge bar where more than a usual number of pre-match pints were consumed.
Searching for the least salubrious drinking spots possible was an important part of the Saturday away day routine. Starting with a quick pint in The Quaich — Pollok’s unofficial supporter home since the the wonderful old social club was sold off to make way for a new restaurant and bar where many an old boy will tell you how much it costs for a pint (the answer is too much)— the convener then huckles a motley crew of all ages and genders on board before the driver sends pulses racing as he hurtles across the A roads of Scotland, the aim; to arrive an hour early and to take in the local sites, or more specifically the local watering holes.
Living in Glasgow I’m now well used to the gentrification of the city’s more well-weathered hostelries, proper grime replaced by shiny metals and wood that wasn’t aged but has been made to look that way anyway. I enjoy a beer that comes in thirds as much as the next newly enlightened thirtysomething but on a Saturday afternoon the mustier the smell and the more world weary the bar staff the happier I seem to be.
Maybole’s offering, the name of which I can’t remember to this day was beautiful. There was a fabric trimmed chandelier, golden threads dangling from a 60’s yellow lampshade that offered up the dimmest of lights. Net curtains hazed what little sun braved to peek through the dust stained lattices and there was a collection of ornaments that were so chintzy I had wondered if we should call the police to report a massive wave of thefts from the local elderly. Alcohol only came in the most rudimentary of forms; lager, heavy and spirits. Want a cocktail? Here’s a can of coke. If you’re lucky there might be a bottle of wine kicking about.
It was an exciting trip. I had never been to the Ladywell before and given Maybole’s modest success, an Ayrshire District League triumph in 2004, another in 2012 and a smattering of low key regional competiton triumphs being as ostentatious as the honours board would get, it would be unlikely that Pollok and The Bole’s paths would cross regularly again in the future.
In fact Maybole’s most notable claim to fame is that Norris McWhirter who, along with his twin brother Ross founded the Guinness Book of World Records, was born in the South Ayrshire town. I assume McWhirter formulated his record-keeping plans without his local junior side in mind, the Maybole entry in the world’s most recognisable statistical tome reserved solely in memoriam to the book’s creator who passed away in 2004.
The football club’s Wikipedia page is just a few lines and the 582 accounts who currently follow their Twitter page, a near necessity for any modern football club, number five times as many as what you would see on a normal Saturday afternoon at the bottom of Dailly Road. Now though they are installing floodlights and bolting white bucket seats to the terraces of one of two squat little stands that straddle either side of halfway. When I was there it was the black cows in the adjoining fields that would be afforded the primest views but they were more interested on ruminating on their grassy buffet than on whatever decision the referee had just made.
If you had asked me seven years ago as to whether I thought Maybole would be installing floodlights I probably would have laughed in your face but the times are a-changing for non-league sides in Scotland.
A year earlier, in 2013, the SFA and SPFL opened up the pyramid, giving non-league sides the opportunity to become league sides, with the Highland and newly formed Lowland Leagues the main tributaries to this shimmering new lake of opportunity. Then in 2015 the East of Scotland and South of Scotland League’s formed a step below before finally in 2020, the junior heartlands in the west joined the party. The not-so-small matter of a pandemic may have halted progress in terms of promotion and relegation but it hasn’t stopped clubs from getting busy.
The construction of the pyramid led to a renewed focus on the attainment of the SFA Club Licence, an award that comes with the chance to go on a potentially lucrative run in the Scottish Cup such as the ones experienced by Auchinleck Talbot, Irvine Meadow XI and Bonnyrigg Rose Athletic in recent seasons. This year more than a dozen sides made their competition debuts with dozens more looking to repeat that feat next season, hopefully in the presence of their fans. The greatest cup competition in the world is about to get even greater.
For a club like Maybole, who may never reach the promised land of the SPFL this licence means that they can dream of one day hosting a Rangers, Celtic or Hearts in the Scottish Cup. Away from the never-ending chaos that surrounds the current situation around promotion and relegation from the professional leagues (although nearly half of the clubs involved are part-time) the opening of the pyramid has encouraged new ambition of Scottish non-league sides from the top to the very bottom.
I was so enthused by what I saw Maybole striving to achieve that I spent the following Saturday morning at one of my local sides Maryhill lifting bricks, shifting rubble and hacking away at trees. The thorn lined branches plucked at my ankles leaving them looking like the chin of an adolescent who had just attempted their first wet shave.
As I sat on my couch come the afternoon, watching Partick Thistle defeat Airdrieonians 1–0 to put them four points clear at the top of League One, I found myself sporting the same little half-smile that breaks across the face of Andy Dufresne when he scores beers for the boys whilst tarring the prison roof.
Those that had turned up at Lochburn Park weren’t convicts, although the construction of a new women’s prisons over the barbed wire fence behind the main building was no doubt a catalyst for that last analogy, but were volunteers. Some there for the love of a club others just for the love of the game but all leaving a few hours later satisfied with a morning’s hard graft.
That feeling of satisfaction must have been amplified exponentially for those involved with Maybole when they made the decision to fire up the drone to welcome the beacons. Along with an extended view of an unmarked park you see the lorry as it descends down the single track road to unburden its load. A little green digger buzzes about clearing the way before an extended shot of the satellite shaped bulbs holds the screen for a few moments as the task of manoeuvring these game changing metal cabers into position begins. Once again a little half-smile appeared.
Will this pursuit of progress mean that some grounds will lose some of their ramshackle charm? I fear it will, but for me a new adventure begins, one of transformation. The sky’s the limit, reaching far beyond the height of any pylon, but there are still some clouds to be burnt along the way.