A first article from our new OpEd writer, Martin Strachan.

Upon my travels across the home of curling, I have come to learn one undeniable fact. Despite what culinary curling experts may tell you, there are only so many chips a man can eat.  

The sport’s reliance on the fried Russet, Yukon or King Edward was fully brought home upon my first visit to Dewars Centre, where all three of the day’s dishes were paired with the good old fried spud. Now call me a snob or a food savant all you want, but I don’t think anyone could have expected a Caesar salad to come with a side of fries. 

But that is what makes curling in the UK so mesmerising. There’s something intoxicating about the randomness of a genuine conversation between ice rink manager and curler (in this instance, moi) where we analysed the likelihood of my playing around a red bucket slapped on the t-line to catch the water dripping through a hole in the roof.

Yes, you could have closed the sheet, but where’s your sense of adventure? If you can dodge a bucket and all that…

Adventures of the British curling world start as soon as you arrive at your venue of choice. Sometimes sooner in fact, when you realise the google maps location has been diverting you towards a loch that marked the site of the 1924 outdoor grand match and has been listed as the official address of the Royal Club affiliate you’re headed for ever since. 

Car parks are often an adventure of their own.  Rumour has it that the legends of Chamonix 24’ are still trying to get the open top bus out of the pothole at Kirkcaldy. But once you’ve got the motor stopped and you can get the brush out the boot, you’re ready to get inside and get curling!

Now hear me out. Some ice rinks are colder than others. They aren’t all COLD. Some are pleasant. The gentle breeze from the air con a vital requirement to prevent the two o’clock slot from becoming a group nap session. 

However, the cold ones are baltic. Akin to stepping out in to the Antarctic night sky or going to Tesco and asking if you can have half an hour in the freezers. And as anyone with a semi-regular, unimpressive BMI knows, a snood is the ultimate accessary in making you look like your head and torso are one all encompassing blob.

Anyway, you power on to that ice and you feign conversation with the opposition you’ve never met. You sweep and you slide and you play the peel and you try the spinner you saw on the telly and watch your rock projectile itself across the two sheets to your direct left, like an out of control cruise missile heading straight towards your old pal Doris who’s already unsure on you ever since you told her you don’t really like the lentil soup they had on offer last week.

And in most cases, you get utterly horsed by the group of pensioners who you watched struggle to get their grippers on a mere hour previously, who have now morphed in to prime Edin in front of your very eyes. 

But none of this matters. You couldn’t care less. Because that’s not why you love this sport. 

You go back in to the café and you order the lentil soup you don’t like. You peel your snood off and let your chins breathe. The group you played buy you a beer and tell you you’ll be brilliant with a bit more practice and you all laugh about the insignificant memories and moments you had to be there for, because they know exactly what you mean.

That’s what makes the sport magic. That’s what makes the greats want to be the greats. And that’s the story we need to tell. Curling is magic. And here in its home, there’s so much more to it than rocks.

There’s chips. And I love chips.