All are asleep except Munge, steering, and myself, gazing into the deep distance where the horizon is lost in the dark blue of the sea and the darker blue of the night.

We are a little behind schedule.

After leaving Frinton we sailed for a while with Munge at the helm and made good progress. Some hours passed then we spotted some land.

"I believe that is Brittany, sir," announced Munge. And he steered us ashore so that we could stretch our legs and perhaps take on board supplies.

While we were taking in the air on the beach a chap came up. "Excusez moi, monsieur," said Dilys (she has a bit of French from finishing school), "Pouvez vous nous dire ou nous pouvons acheter des poulets?"

The chap looked us up and down. He didn't seemed to understand - I thought perhaps he was simple. But then he spoke.

"Och aye the noo," he said.

It was at that point that I noticed he was wearing a kilt and tam o'shanter and had a set of bagpipes slung under one arm. It transpired that we had come in just south of Arbroath.

Munge was very apologetic. Rusty, he said.

So that costs us a few hours. We set off again, heading south this time, and passed Frinton once more a few hours later. I took the opportunity to collect a newspaper and read that the MCC tour party is on the way too. We can't wait to see old Sep Kinneir and Johnny "Won't Hit Today" Douglas grinding the Orstralians into the dirt.

What a squad there is on board that boat. Warwickshire's finest - Foster, Smith and Kinneir. Then there's Woolley, Hearne, Barnes, Hobbs to name just a few.

The Ashes are as good as ours again. And we shall be there to see them claimed back.

We are making spiffing time now and achieving plenty of, as I believe they say in the seafaring business, knots.

It is all very exciting, though one must admit to a little nervousness.

It is a calm day and 'The Champion' is bobbing gently beside the greensward at Frinton-upon-Sea ready to take us to Australia. The urchins have loaded us up. We are taking plenty of coal in case it turns chilly and lots of potatoes and biscuits. Sintard is just carrying his Wisdens on now (he won't trust the urchins with them). We will spend the long days and nights ahead above the waves under the stars plucking all manner of jewels from those glorious tomes and talking, breathing, eating and sleeping cricket. Dilys has already suggested we try to pick our all-time World XI before we reach Morocco.

Not sure where Morocco is but I am fairly sure it's the other side of Clacton.

We are ready.

Light breeze blowing. A sou-westerly, I think. Or perhaps a nor-easterly.

Munge will take first turn at navigating. He cuts a distinguished figure up there in his black-and-white hooped shirt. The eye-patch suits him also, though I hope that parrot on his shoulder behaves itself.

Dilys is casting off the rope. I step aboard. Frinton and England begin to recede into the distance.

Ahead of us the open sea, Australia, and The Ashes...

We are going to support Frank, Septimus, 'S.F' and the rest of England's chaps through every over of the Ashes conflict ahead.

The document that Dilys was waving so excitedly as she came up the drive the other day was not a boat-ticket - the agents all said it's too late to get a sailing to Australia in time - but the receipt for a boat. We're going to jolly well sail to Australia ourselves.

We have never actually done any sailing before but it looks a fairly straightforward business. Our boat, a rather impressive sixty-foot vessel which we have named 'The Champion' in honour of Warwickshire CCC, is moored at Frinton-upon-Sea and we have inspected a globe and the route from there looks simple. Turn right towards Clacton, go past Spain, take a left at the end of Africa then head straight on for a week or two. Peesy.

We should be in Adelaide well in time for the the first match against South Australia on November 10. And then we will stick with our brave boys right through to the last Test at Sydney in late February.

It's quite a long journey so we have no time to lose. But we're taking Munge (he was in the Navy and also, he tells us, was at one time a mercenary for the Argentines and fought heroically in the Battle of Vuelta de Obligado in 1845), Sintard, half-a-dozen urchins and plenty of sandwiches.

It all sounds rather a wheeze. Australia Ahoy. We set sail the day after tomorrow.

The drought which gripped our nation this summer seems a century ago. The glory of Warwickshire's championship triumph does not fade but still it is difficult to keep the spirits up when all around is grey and wet. Wet and grey. Grey, grey and wet. Grey. Wet, wet, wet (you know, that might make a natty name for a musical combination).

Dilys and I have made our minds up. My dearest treasure is down at the travel agent now making enquiries. We are going to Australia to follow Mr Foster and Mr Kinneir as they help England win the Ashes.

I have told Young Algernon that the business is in his hands for the winter. D and I intend to be in Adelaide by November 10 for the MCC's first match against South Australia. The boat trip will be good preparation for our second honeymoon (we have first-class tickets for the Titanic sailing to America in April).

Ah, here comes Dilys now, hurrying up the drive, Munge striding beside her with the umbrella. She is wet through but waving something in her hand...

So there the season goes. Wonderful times we had. And I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed that it was 100 years into the future and Warwickshire were playing at a strange field in Southampton overlooked by great big iron columns and a scoreboard which was operated by electricity and that all the players had numbers and names on their shirts (I must stop eating that cheese) and the mighty Bears beat Hampshire to win the championship again.

Strange. Glorious.

Cheese.

Hobbs scored 97, Mead 101 and Hearne 52. When Santall hit Hearne's middle-stump the score was 396 for four and it was an obvious time to declare. Instead, Warner and Fry indulged in some meaningless practice against an exhausted attack which was simply, like the man in the sewer, going through the motions.

Some of the more basic element amongst Surrey's followers enjoyed the spectacle but Dilys, myself and a goodly number of other Bears followers bailed out before tea. Since then we have indulged in a spot of sight-seeing: the Hanover Arms, the Bell, the Old Fourpenny Shop, the Lavender, the Mint, the Antelope, the Balcombe Street Tavern, The Fentiman Arms, The Thistle, the Disspated Kipper, the Crown, the Gilbo Gilbo, the Royal Court, the Zetland Arms and, our current location, the Mattock and Spade.

And much enjoyment has there been. Let 'The Establishment' have their meaningless fun at The Oval. We are the champions.

No-one likes us, as those uncouth football-types from Bermondsey way like to claim, but we do not, in truth, care two figs.

Kinneir was indisposed - he does not drink so that is a genuine injury - but apart from him the team Warwickshire put in the field was that which won the championship. But their efforts were as feeble as they were in that very first game here four months ago.

They have an excuse this time though, a jolly good one, and we cared not a jot (lots of us were enjoying the late summer sun at the Harleyford Road End) as wickets tumbled. The celebrations of this year's magnificent achievement have only just begun while this 'Champions v The Rest' fixture is an silly, anti-climactic affair only played at the behest of Surrey to raise a few guineas. As the erudite Charlie from Rhombus 19 put it, it is about as relevant and interesting as the Full Members Cup (whatever that is).

The first sign of Warwickshire's cavalier intentions came when Tiger Smith went in first and tried to get off the mark by hitting the ball over the gasometers. He failed. Charlesworth and Baker made 25 apiece but Harry Dean and Jack Hearne seemed to want to put the Midlands upstarts in their place. They shared nine wickets and only the addition of three rather stylish leg-byes lifted our total over 127.

Then Hobbs got to work on the greensward he knows so well (these turves were originally brought over from Tooting Common, a loss-adjuster called Claude informed me in the Long Room during lunch) and stroked a weary attack to all parts. He is 85 not out with Mead on 57 but they couldn't do it when it mattered could they?

Most of us were in the Greyhound a while before stumps were drawn - then the Hanover Arms, the Lavender, the Antelope The Fentiman Arms and The Thistle.

And then after we'd warmed up...

Champ-i-ons, Champ-i-ons, Champ-i-ons...

That match saw Warwickshire reach the lowest of the low. Now we return as champions to face the Rest of England in a four-day game starting tomorrow.

Emotions ran high last night when we checked out of the Gardeners. There were many handshakes and embraces and some tears. What a celebration. What a place. We will return.

Now then Warwickshire, let's finish off the season in style. The Rest include England's best - Hobbs, Hearne and the like - but we'll whop 'em.

Furnished by Sintard with the full batting and bowling averages for the season, we drank in the details as enthusiastically as we have been taking in the divine Kislingbury bitter which our landlord keeps so well. And dear old Lawrence Harrison-Bartholemew (or Larry Harry-Barry as we call him) piped up with an interesting question: Are Frank Foster and Frank Field a better pair of bowlers than Jack Shilton and Knack Pallett were in their prime?

The former got the nod principally, I think, because their glory is fresh in the mind but Frobisher made an interesting point. He observed that Shilton and Pallett were devastating on helpful wickets but sometimes struggled when conditions were not in their favour. Foster and Field could make the ball bump off a carpet.

A large majority was in favour of the resolution that, if one had to survive two overs to avert the wholesale slaughter of one's family and friends, one would rather face Shilton and Pallett than Foster and Field.

The 1911 averages show a remarkable degree of symmetry in the exploits of our two great bowlers as they led us to the title. Foster took 116 wickets and Field 112 at averages of 19.15 and 19.48 respectively. Foster bowled 143 maidens and Field 144. And each man took five or more wickets in an innings eight times and ten in a match three times.

Mightily did they perform. And we fully expect them to blow the Rest of England's batting to smithereens in the three-day Champions v the Rest fixture which will begin at The Oval on the 11th.

They are making a few bob out of it of course - here comes Sir William Q with another round now - but it's jolly nice of them to join in with the spirit of this historic week.

Champ-i-ons, Champ-i-ons, Champ-i-ons!

It is a smashing little hostelry, just off the main thoroughfare between the cricket ground and Northampton station. It's a real hub of the community. All sorts of fine people meet here. One of the regulars is a debonair young chap called Colin Summerton who is one of the most formidable cribbage players I have ever encountered. This morning it was Northampton Pig Club who held their monthly meeting over beer and bacon sandwiches. Apparently a lot of them are allotment-holders and have received a letter warning them they will be thrown off if they don't reduce the "offensive smells" generated by their pig-sties.

They are understandably angered by this missive, their logic being, quite rightly, that if a person wants to place him or herself in the environs of pleasant aromas it is not very wise of them to be walking in the vicinity of allotments where pigs are - and have long been - quite correctly kept.

A delightful group of men, these, trying to eke out a living in hard times. I offered them a cheque to pay for a legal challenge to their threat from the corporation but they politely declined in favour of a different approach. They have had dealings with the relevant official before and are going round to his office on Monday to deposit six barrels of pigswill on his desk.

Ah, happy days. Champions. New friends. Dilys and I looking forward to our second honeymoon on the swanky Titanic next spring. And tonight Sintard is getting the train over with with all the averages for the season and we're all going to sit down and relive the great adventure. All those wickets for Sir Frank and Big Frank.

Have telegraphed Algernon junior to tell him to keep business affairs in order. We may be at the Gardener's for some time yet...

Two daysh now and about shixteen of us shrill going shtrong. Think this is what thoshe lovely people from rhombush 17 call a "bit of a bender"

Musht get shomething to east shoon. Are there any sheafood shtalls in Northmpton?

Yooooouuu Beeeaarrrrrss. Hic...

They will still be talking about this day 100 years from now.

Warwickshire are the county champions.

Top of the tree. Above the big six.

And rightly so. Kent - you can stuff your grumbling about the points system up your chimneys.

Champions, fair and square. Frank Foster and company, we salute you.

All our worries about the weather amounted to nought, though that was principally because Warwickshire made such short work of Northamptonshire. Charlesworth's delightful century on a difficult pitch gave his team a lead of 208 then Field and Foster, having shared nine wickets in the first innings to dismiss the home team for 73, got busy again. Northamptonshire resumed today on 137 for 7 and all our two great paceman needed was for the grey clouds to stay away.

Stay away they did. And Foster, despite looking a little hollow-eyed (Sintard informs me that the captain was up all night 'relaxing') quickly bowled Walden and Ryan and had the younger Denton lbw.

And, not long after, it rained! Mother Nature wears a Bear and Ragged Staff upon her breast!

Many hundreds of Warwickshire followers came to Northampton to witness the conclusion of this great achievement and, after cheering their team mightily from the field and demanding an encore from each and every individual from the balcony, they embarked upon some serious celebration. It is a fair walk from Northampton cricket ground back to the station and contains numerous public houses and each is filled with celebrating Bears. Dilys and I have found a quiet spot - or as quiet as one can find on this momentous day for Warwickshire and Birmingham - in the Gardeners Arms. The Old Particular is going down rather well.

What a season. What a triumph.

What a journey. From a humiliating innings defeat at The Oval to top, as those common types from Rhombus 19 would put it, banana.

Warwickshire are the champions. And this, I am certain, is only the beginning. The year 1911 will prove to be just the start of a wonderful era for Warwickshire cricket. Foster and Kinneir will head to Australia this winter to help England win the Ashes and, beyond that, the Bears will, I believe, dominate county cricket for years to come.

I do feel that we are amidst what you might call a 'Golden Age' of cricket with so many great players around. And Warwickshire are top in the Golden Age! The future for Warwickshire, for all their supporters and all the young men who each week fill the cricket fields of the county with their energy and skill and love looks very bright indeed. God bless cricket. God bless Warwickshire.

And so is concern about that damned weather forecast.

The barometer peg sits halfway between 'rain' and heavy rain, the meteorological office is promulgating grave predictions of precipitation over Northamptonshire and Dilys's Auntie Lil's knee is stiff as a billards-cue.

It would be a travesty, nay a tragedy, if Warwickshire are denied the championship - or at least the chance to push for it - by inclement weather.

Our tickets for next Spring's cruise on the swanky new vessel the 'Titanic' came in the post this morning. Wonderful news, Dilys is so looking forward it.

It was a lovely surprise which arrived as we buttered our crumpets at the table, though there was a small accident before they actually arrived in our hands. Munge, who knows how much we are looking forward to the trip, was dashing excitedly over with the envelope on a silver tray when he collided with an ice-bucket and went down like a sack of spuds.

He suffered a jarred knee, bruised shin and twisted ankle, poor old thing.

Fortunately, he still manged to limp down to New Street to purchase our tickets to Northampton for the 26th. And we also have manged to acquire tickets for Harry Slalom and the Cavaliers at the Old Crown tomorrow.

Now where are those dancing shoes...?

Steady.

Let's not put the cart before the horse, jump the gun or count any chickens. Our boys still have to finish the job at Northampton.

They surely would, given a fair wind, but the forecast for next week suggests some rain. And Dilys's Auntie Lil's knee is stiff as a board which is, she insists, always a presage of bad weather.

Many fingers round Birmingham way will be crossed 'tween now and then though perhaps Sir Frank can even control the weather. It has been a blazing hot summer so far and today Mr Foster led his team to another blazing victory. Leicestershire were all out for 164 and 147 and fell in two large heaps once Shipman, having scored his maiden 50 with great pluck, sent a cut at Field to Quaife at cover. Wood plugged on and batted through the first innings for 54 but they collapsed from 145 for 5 to 164 all out and had to go in again 201 behind.

Second time round, Field made short work of Wood when Phillips, the old hamster apothecary, clung on to one at slip, and our two redoubtable Franks and Cec Hands took three wickets apiece to have victory stitched up (in the knitting town - do you see what i did there!!!?) shortly after luncheon.

Only Northampton stand in our way now. Failure to beat them would hand the title to Kent but a win will bring the championship to Edgbaston. Some "experts", in fact quite a lot around the shires, say that Kent deserve to win it because they have played and won so many more matches than the Bears. But Warwickshire's points average is superior and they did not make the rules at the start of the season (it was Somerset's idea) and anyway they wanted to play Middlesex and Nottinghamshire only to have fixtures turned down because those illustrious counties deemed little Warwick "too uninteresting" to play.

Too uninteresting? Ha.

As Dilys's Auntie Lil's put it to me over the telephone last evening: "When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one and a lily with the other."

I wasn't quite sure what that had to do with it but I have great respect for Lil. She was at Trent Bridge when J.Ernest Hill scored his famous century.