The newly relegated Minstermen are struggling to acclimatise – not just to Conference football, but to the diabolical weather: it's grim up north London, as Taylor Parkes reports
Barnet might be seen as a London club, but apart from the red double-deckers that roll past the ground, there’s nothing metropolitan about the place. Where London fades into Hertfordshire, it’s an odd mix of capital and Home County, Burberry and grime. And High Barnet station isn’t just called that for a laugh – perched way above London, it’s the first place round here to know when it’s raining, and my God is it raining. The wide open space between the station and the ground has become a car wash; the usually pleasant walk downhill is like strolling through a phalanx of water cannons. There’s a bussed-in party of kids with free seats at Underhill today, but they’re at the south end of the ground, in the tiny, uncovered stand. They cower beneath parental umbrellas. Settling into my unfamiliar place in the grandstand (not really very grand, but impressively dry), I watch these kids’ love of football begin to be literally washed away. This is a day that could test your patience with life, never mind semi-professional football. By a quarter to five, I’m just hoping to God they haven’t been bussed in from York. Me, I have a wonderful afternoon.
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