HAD the ancients played cricket in the Feversham League, they would never have supposed that the earth were flat and Columbus would have been just another middle aged matelot.

The Feversham League has more ups and downs than the British yo-yo championships, more bumps than a fairground dodgem, more contours than an ordnance surveyor's assistant.

It's sport on the level for all that, and cricket at its grass roots greatest.

Until the 2001 foot and mouth outbreak reduced the league to just three teams, a Feversham foray had become a Backtrack hardy annual, eagerly anticipated and affectionately embraced.

There was the unique ground at Spout House, south of Stokesley, where the pitch slopes like a Grenadier guardsman and the ball becomes not so much lost in the extreme outfield as seamlessly subsumed by it.

There was the glorious setting of High Farndale, daffodil country, where finding an even 22 yards to pitch wickets may rank as a major topographical triumph, though things fall away dramatically thereafter.

There was Rievaulx Abbey, historic backdrop to the village cricket field, the gentler pastures of Gillamoor and the eternal climb to Bransdale where if the altitude sickness didn't get you the shire horse flies would.

In those parts they're called cleggs. "T'bloody cleggs, " someone memorably observed, "are like midges on marijuana." Foot and mouth at an end, the Feversham resumed with just four teams, playing (more or less) by MCC rules but little more than a distant country cousin to the cricket leagues which bite and bicker and snarl and swear and where the umpire's word isn't so much final as the first round of arbitration.

This season there are five, Slingsby having returned after a year's absence. After a slightly longer delay it was to Slingsby, and felicitously to the Feversham, that we returned on Wednesday evening.

The village is between Malton and Helmsley in North Yorkshire, alongside the old Roman road known simply as The Street. It's a delightful spot, said in the little guide book to have a "rural timelessness" and with flower bedecked homes with names like Yew Tree Cottage, Hollyhock Cottage and Keeper's Cottage (not necessarily inhabited by the wickey. ) There is also a rather fine building called Dossers House, though a dosser may not be the same thing in Slingsby as it is, say, on the Thames embankment.

There is no shop, though houses sell jam and eggs and fresh vegetables and leave them, unguarded, on the garden wall. A mile to the north is a farm called Dixieland, to the south Swiss Cottage and, beyond that, Ray Wood (which may or may not have anything to do with the former Darlington and Manchester United goalkeeper. ) The cricket team folded for want of interest. John Hatfield, 49 years old but said by his wife to have been kept fit by chasing pigs for 30 years, was chiefly responsible for resurrecting it.

"I got lumbered, " he says.

"I hope the rest enjoy it as much as I do." John's originally from East Cleveland, where on August 12, 1957 his father Eric took 10-6 for Skelton Castle against "Peases Cricket Club" ? presumably Peases West, then a Durham County League side near Crook ? and was presented with the mounted ball as token of that remarkable feat.

"It's regarded as a true family heirloom, " says Linda Hatfield.

"The children already discuss who's going to have it when John dies." The Northern Echo, alas, failed to record the achievement the following morning, though we were able to report that 16,000 boxing fans packed West Hartlepool greyhound stadium to watch local lad Brian London earn a crack at the British Empire heavyweight title, that W H H Sutcliffe had resigned "for business reasons" as captain of Yorkshire and that at Stockton greyhounds, the dogs had caught up with the hare.

The crowd jeered, the seventh race was declared void, the management blamed "teething troubles." John Hatfield's long since best was 4-8, including a hat trick. "It should have been four in an over, " he gently recalls. "The chap was walking off, caught behind, when the umpire called him back." Several of the Slingsby team had never previously held a bat, most are youngsters of early learning enthusiasm. "They come knocking on our door asking of John's coming out to play, " says Linda.

The ground is part of the village sports complex, Lottery funded, that also includes tennis and bowls.

The cricket pitch covers part of the football field. It's flat, flattish, as Paul Gascoigne was fat, fattish.

Behind the bowler's arm stands the 19th century church where a Victorian rector is said to have rebuked a woman parishioner for complaining about the jackdaw which pecked at his sermon notes.

"They probably have jackdaws in heaven, " he said.

Behind the little pavilion are the remains of Slingsby castle, a Yorkist stronghold when Pickering ? ten miles up the road ? was held by the Lancastrians. Wath beck ambles past on the other side and, behind it, the track bed of the Thirsk to Malton railway, closed 40 years ago next month.

It's pretty, picturesque, perfect. If Rupert Brooke had happened by he would have wondered if there were honey still for tea, though the clock stands at half past six, not ten to three, when the match with Harome begins.

Harome, pronounced Scare 'em, had reached the National Village Cup final at Lord's in 1991 though few first teamers play midweek in the Feversham.

Slingsby have won just one all season, an extraordinary effort at High Farndale where the home team were 5-9 before staggering to 12 all out, Richard Hindby and Mark Foster both claiming 4-6.

"I thought the score card was a forgery, I had to hold it up to the light, " says league official Charles Allenby.

Harome bat first, skipper Jon Pickard so greatly skying the first delivery that the outfield watches, entranced and unmoving, as if it were an eclipse of the sun.

A bowler is changed after one over. "He's like a brocken winded hoss, " says a teammate.

The lads are all in washday whites; the press ganged umpires wear white coat as Harold Steptoe wore a rain coat, fast and louche and without regard to buttons. Lindsey Hatfield, 12, is scoring; her sister Emma works the board.

Pickard, reprieved, makes 56 out of 137-5 in 20 overs of what the Americans might call friendly fire. Phil Marwood, twelfth man at Lord's, contributes five before being stumped off John Hatfield.

"It's a lovely, friendly league, " says Jon Pickard, "a chance for people to see what cricket is all about, and to discover that they enjoy it." The hilly grounds, he adds, are just part of North Yorkshire's nature.

The total's so lofty and so daunting it could have been bowled by Joel Garner. "Win or lose, we'll still be smiling, " insists John Hatfield.

Slingsby make haste slowly, a little stand between Paul Daniels (known inevitably as Magic) and Damian Palmer-Bunting alone oiling the wheels.

The skipper bags a duck, in an out with a grin, discovers his soft drink's missing. "I've had me pint pinched before, " he says, "but never me blooming Ribena." The emergency last man is Jim Harrison, 50, who swings, connects, advances to the other end in the manner of a superannuated seal and is comfortably run out without scoring.

"He was too busy watching his shot, " someone says.

Slingsby reach the 20th over but total just 57. The teams applaud one another off, laughing all the way up the bank.

When the league season ends on July 31, the top four will go into a play-off competition. Slingsby, fifth, have arranged some friendlies ? as if things weren't so wonderfully companionable to start with.

John Hatfield says they'll definitely be back next summer. "The place is buzzing with enthusiasm, the spirit of the league is incredible and we're learning as we go. There really is nothing like village cricket."

Published: 23/07/2004