October 5, 1911.

We are about to set sail.

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...