There’s something undeniably magical about the idea of a place where history and tradition converge, where the past isn’t just remembered but lived. Colwall, a quiet village in Herefordshire, isn’t just a footnote in the annals of cricket—it’s a living monument to the audacity of women who dared to play a game once deemed unsuitable for them. A century ago, a group of women hockey players gathered in a hotel, talked about the absurdity of playing cricket ‘half afraid of ridicule,’ and decided to create something lasting. The Women’s Cricket Association was born, and with it, the seeds of a movement that would reshape the sport. But here’s what fascinates me: this isn’t just a story about cricket. It’s a story about defiance, about carving out space in a world that didn’t expect you to take up room. These women weren’t just playing a game; they were rewriting the rules of who gets to belong.
When I visited Colwall last weekend, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of that history pressing down on me. The Park Hotel, where the founders of the WCA once debated the future of their sport, now serves a cocktail named after the year they made history. It’s a clever touch, but it also says something deeper: that the past isn’t just a relic—it’s a conversation we’re still having. The club’s new heritage display, featuring photos of pioneers like Betty Snowball and Frances Heron-Maxwell, is more than a nod to tradition. It’s a declaration that women’s cricket wasn’t an accident. It was a deliberate act of rebellion against the idea that sport was a man’s domain.
Yet here’s the rub: as the women’s game becomes increasingly professionalized, what happens to festivals like Cricket Week? This annual gathering, which has drawn players from across the globe for a century, is now struggling to maintain its former prestige. Teams that once numbered in the double digits now hover around four. The reason? Professional county teams have their own agendas, and the allure of a festival where you can dress up as the Spice Girls and bowl in a cardboard bus pales next to the grind of training for a paycheck. But let’s not mistake nostalgia for irrelevance. Cricket Week isn’t just about the quality of play—it’s about the sense of belonging. As one attendee put it, it’s a ‘safe, supportive bubble’ where women of all ages and abilities can come together without the pressure of competition. In an era where women’s cricket is increasingly dominated by elite players and corporate sponsors, that kind of inclusivity feels like a rare treasure.
And then there’s the question of legacy. The WCA, which ran English women’s cricket for decades, is now a footnote in the history books. But its influence lingers. Take Jon Lewis, the head coach of the London Spirit Women, who recently admitted that his approach to coaching women’s cricket has evolved over time. He’s learned that empathy and communication matter more than they did when he was coaching men. That’s not just a personal revelation—it’s a sign of how the game is changing. Women’s cricket isn’t just growing; it’s maturing, and with that comes a reckoning with the past. The question is whether the institutions that built the foundations of the game are ready to adapt.
But let’s not romanticize the struggle. Cricket Week’s decline is a symptom of a larger issue: the tension between grassroots passion and professional ambition. When players are paid to perform, the lines blur between hobby and career. Some might argue that this is inevitable—that the game must evolve to survive. But what’s lost in that evolution? The camaraderie, the spontaneity, the joy of playing for the love of the game rather than the pressure of a contract. As Carole Cumino, a longtime attendee, pointed out, Cricket Week is no longer the pinnacle of the sport. It’s become something else: a festival, a reunion, a way to keep the flame alive for those who can’t afford to play full-time. And that, in itself, is a kind of victory. Because if the game is to remain inclusive, it needs spaces like Colwall—places where the past isn’t forgotten, but celebrated.
So what does this mean for the future? I suspect that Cricket Week will endure, not because it’s the most competitive event on the calendar, but because it’s the most human. It’s a reminder that sport isn’t just about winning or losing—it’s about connection, about creating a community where people can feel seen. And in that sense, Colwall isn’t just a village. It’s a symbol of what women’s cricket can be: not just a sport, but a movement.
