From Windy Hill to Sincil Bank.

Sport has always been part of my life, though the shape of that connection has changed over time.

As a kid, my uncle played for our local soccer team. He even helped coach, I think. I’d tag along to matches when I could, soaking in the atmosphere from the sidelines. For a while, I trained with one of the junior teams, but circumstances beyond my control meant I couldn’t continue. Slowly, my interest in soccer faded.

But football - Aussie Rules - was different. I fell in love with it around the age of five. I chose Essendon, the Bombers - my uncle and aunt’s team - as my own, and sometimes he’d take me to matches. Those outings were pure joy, and they’ve stayed with me. Years later, when life allowed, I bought a season membership and went to every home game for a few seasons. It was a ritual, a rhythm, a way of being.

Eventually, though, commitments piled up. AFL games are long, and the travel to and from the stadium made each match a five-hour affair. It became harder to justify, even though the love never left.

I visited Lincoln once, a few years before I moved here, and went to a local derby. It was cold and damp, and about 1,500 people turned up to watch a draw. I enjoyed it, but the mood was subdued - the kind of grey afternoon that leaves its mark long after the final whistle.

After relocating to the UK, I started following Lincoln City more seriously. I read match reports, kept up with club news, and went to a few games. It turned out to be a good time to get involved — new managers arrived, the club reconnected with the city, and results began to improve. The energy shifted. Attendance grew. Optimism returned.

I didn’t have anyone to go with, but I started going anyway. At first occasionally, then more regularly. Last season I went to quite a few matches. This year, I splurged and bought a season ticket.

Lincoln is a small city, tucked among farmland and often overlooked. Getting here isn’t always straightforward, though the new direct trains to London help. It’s not a place people pass through — you come here on purpose. But that’s part of its charm — it’s a place with its own pace, its own pride. That distance also fosters a kind of fierce local pride. The football club is more than just a team; it’s a symbol of the city’s identity. The fans don’t just support Lincoln City — they defend it. There’s a territorial edge to the loyalty, a feeling that the club belongs to the people in a way that’s deeply personal.

Match day has its rituals. A sausage in a bun. A quiet ale. A chat with fellow fans. And then, inside the ground, something shifts. I become part of something larger. The chants, the songs, the shared celebrations - and, as I said, football here is deeply tribal. It's us against them, the home fans against the visiting fans. It’s not just about the game; it’s also about belonging.

There’s something else, too — something oddly poetic. Lincolnshire is known as Bomber County, a legacy of the many RAF bomber squadrons based here during the Second World War. Lincoln itself is closely tied to that history, especially the legendary 617 Squadron - the Dambusters. On match day, that legacy comes alive. When Lincoln score, fans stretch out their arms like Lancaster bombers and sing the Dambusters theme. For corners, they wind up an air raid siren. The ultras call themselves the 617, and the stand bears a mural of bombers in flight, along with the slogan “After me, the deluge” - in both English and French.

It’s tribal, yes — but it’s also mythic.

And strangely, it echoes my other footballing love. Back in Melbourne, my Essendon Bombers also play the sound of aircraft engines and an air raid siren before matches. It’s theatrical, stirring, and deeply rooted in identity. Two cities, two sports, two teams - half a world apart, both shaped by aviation history, both rallying behind teams associated with Bombers. It’s a coincidence, but one that feels meaningful — like a thread running through my sporting life, tying together past and present, Australia and England, memory and belonging.

I still love my AFL, my beloved Essendon Bombers. That will never change. I stream as many Essendon matches as I can. But there’s something irreplaceable about live sport - about watching two teams battle it out, surrounded by people who care just as much as you do. It’s a connection to the city, to the crowd, to something bigger than yourself — and to the person you’ve always been, shaped by sport, place, and the people who shared it with you.

The Ferry, the Frames, and the Flavours

Last weekend, we took the ferry from Hull to Rotterdam, and then a bus on to Amsterdam. 

There’s something quietly calming about travelling by sea - no airport queues, no anxious crowding, just the slow churn of water. We arrived in Amsterdam with minimal plans, just a shared sense that we’d walk, look, listen, and eat well.

We visited the Van Gogh Museum. I’ve always enjoyed Van Gogh – at least the bits I’ve seen. But too often, his art disappears behind the myth - the tortured genius, the ear, the sunflowers. But standing in front of his work, you see his efforts to hold his world together with brushstrokes. The colours vibrate. The skies swirl. It’s not all madness - it’s effort.

MoCo was a surprise. Banksy, Basquiat, and Robbie Williams – now that was one I didn’t expect. I’m not a fan of the person, but I loved his artwork. A small museum with a large impact. A sense that art doesn’t need to whisper to be profound.

We visited the Anne Frank House. It’s hard to write about that experience without sounding trite or overly solemn. The space is small, but the silence inside is vast. You feel it in your chest. The creak of the floorboards, the pencilled growth chart on the wall, the photos of movie stars Anne admired - it’s all heartbreakingly ordinary. And that’s the point. An incredibly emotional experience.

I went vinyl hunting, of course. Amsterdam’s record shops are tucked into corners like secrets. I found a few gems—some Stones, some Beatles, and a Dutch pressing of a Dutch band.

And then there was the food. Indonesian at Blauw. Rich, fragrant, layered. The kind of meal that makes you pause mid-bite just to appreciate how all the flavours are talking to each other. We didn’t rush, and neither did they. We let the evening stretch.

It was a short trip, but it felt full. Not just of places and things, but of moments. The kind you don’t photograph because they’re too quiet, too personal. A glance across the table. A shared laugh in a museum gift shop. The ferry ride home was smooth. We watched the sea and said very little.

Sometimes, that's the best kind of travel.