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There's something oddly satisfying about watching sport on your own. I'm not sure what, or why, it is but there are times whilst at The Oval, Craven Cottage or at a cricket ground somewhere glorious when I wonder whether it's possible to be more at peace with oneself, the world and life in general. It's sometimes wise not to scrutinise the why's and whereforths of this. Who wants to delve into the root of life's pleasures or dissect the bare bones of enjoyment too much? You might not like what you find i.e. that you're actually a sad bastard who needs to get a life or a cheaper pastime.

Yesterday was one of those days. With the Barbados Test drifting towards a draw and the League Cup final on the TV I found myself all alone at the cricket. Not alone in that I was the only one there. Far from it. After a worrying lack of home support for the first two days of the game the stadium had really come to life over the weekend with a huge presence of local fans cheering on the exploits of Ramneresh Sarwan and the Windies batting line up. But by batting so well they ruled out any chance of an England win. Which meant the lure of the beach and League Cup action was too great for Mark and the Bristol contingent that we've been hanging around with for the past week.

I can understand why they stayed away yesterday and after glancing at the scorecard they felt they made the right decision. England failed to take a wicket until just before tea, Sarwan failed to reach 300 and the Windies batted themselves from a position of safety to one where they could almost dream of winning the match. I think most people would take a day on a Barbadian beach over that. But not me.

I spent the day working hard. Really hard. My T-Shirt tan is a bit of a problem and I needed to spend some serious time with my top off facing the sun. So after dropping my computer gear off at the press centre I walked round the ground to the Worrell Weekes and Walcott Stand with some suntan cream, a bottle of water, a copy of 'The Damned United' and my camera. A couple of the lads were actually present for the first half an hour or so. But by the time I returned after lunch (with yet another portion of chicken, rice and peas in my stomach) they were nowhere to be seen.

And thus began a truly memorable day. A chilled out day. A day where I was able to take in and appreciate all that surrounded me. The West Indian spectators constant banter. Poking fun at the English spectators and team alike. The sun beating down out of the sky. It's rays pouring onto the English while the locals took shield further back in the shade of the stands. The calm, regular almost clockwork batting throughout. Sarwan ticking off the runs. The crowd getting anxious as Ramdin approached his maiden Test century then loudly chastising him, screaming out in frustration at his recklessness as he almost loses his wicket with a rash swipe before unfurling banners and flags, the noise deafening as he reaches the milestone.

Later in the day, after the disappointment that Sarwan didn't reach the first triple century I've ever seen, there are explosions from the bat of Jerome Taylor, and from the mouth of Graeme Swann as Ryan Sidebottom completes a desperate display by making a hash of a regulation catch. It's the only point in the day when tempers flare.

As I leave the ground at just before six, with the sun fast dipping towards the horizon, I briefly walk alongside perhaps the only West Indian glad that Sarwan departed when he did. Brian Charles Lara, the only member of the 400 club, walks casually along the street with a smile for those who cheer, wave and bow in his direction.

The following morning. On the way back to the ground. Accompanied by Mark and Martini we stop for refreshment. Idly I flick through a discarded newspaper on the counter. The Barbados Advocate, no less. I turn to the back pages and see two familar faces. The first Ramneresh Sarwan. The second, mine!