Sometimes in these still lands, it is hard to imagine a ball being kicked. It seems too strenuous, too disruptive. The Borders are Scotland’s gentlest quarters, serene towns and villages of folk that listen first and talk second. The countryside is polite and cushioning, a lie-in instead of an early start.
Here until not so long ago, days jolted along to the clunking noises of textile mills. You can see some of them now in the valley that holds Galashiels in its palm. In bold stone and slate, a number are repurposed. A few are derelict, the forgotten mansions of industrial clout.
Today, the Gala Water which once powered them sloshes onwards as if searching for something to do. It looks like it has taken a wrong turning, or misremembered its course; have you seen the mill, I’m sure it used to be here… It rattles away next to us as we walk to the ground, its utterings not unlike those of a crowd in the distance.
To see the football in these parts, one must look beyond the rugby. So it is walking this way to Netherdale, where the pebbledash of Gala RFC comes before the Brutalist majesty of Galashiels Fairydean Rovers FC. Beyond the turnstiles, the players of Gala and Keith do their hopscotch warm-ups and steam rises from the tea hatch. The hatch and cafe area are new additions, a series of fairy doors for child’s play behind the goals too. In every increment it can afford, here is a club devoted to widening its appeal.
