Thank goodness for the two Toms. Without the wonder of satellite navigation, I would without doubt be writing this from the middle of Farmer Barleymow’s field.

City’s current spell in Essex has opened up a whole new world to me; places I’ve never heard of nor will again.

Touring the highways and byways of Peter Taylor’s manor, you encounter names that sound like incident scenes on Midsomer Murders or far-flung outlets that usually only feature on old episodes of Location, Location, Location.

The 40-odd miles from my tour base to Great Stambridge, home of the previously unknown Stambridge United, was an eye-opening route.

Barring a ten-minute respite on the dual carriageway, it was all winding country lanes, narrow bridges, weak bridges, barely there bridges and sharp, unmarked turns that the Tour de France would have sniffed at.

It felt more like a rally than a trip to the football – and the team coach, also coming from the north of the county like me, had to do exactly the same.

But at least they were guaranteed a parking space at the ground. The rest of us were shepherded into a ploughed field.

And that’s exactly what it was; an enormous flattened hayfield which kicked up all sorts of everything as cars cautiously picked their way through, praying not to locate a deep hole along the way.

Having not wound my window up in time, the inside of the car resembled the aftermath of a Shredded Wheat orgy by the time I’d tucked in by the far hedge (yep, the steward on the gate still made you park up at the furthest point).

I don’t know what was the bigger shock at Stambridge – actually locating the ground itself or then finding half-a-dozen City fans when I eventually got there!

One of them had spent the summer in South Africa watching the World Cup with his mates. Now he was trying to convince his girlfriend that a few days away in Essex watching friendlies was reasonable pay back!

Some people have this misconception that the press think they are above roughing it. If we don’t have a shiny workspace, plenty of tea and biscuits and at least a socket or six, then we throw a hissy fit.

Maybe they’ve got a point. But I wonder if any reporter has ever covered a match perched on the edge of a climbing frame?

I’m exaggerating a bit. There was one bench – facing the wrong direction – where it was possible to sit on the end, providing you had no aversion to the local bird population using it as a convenience.

And it was positioned slap bang behind one of the lamppost/floodlights, totally blocking the view of one of the goals!

So while I tapped away on the laptop, young children swung, jumped and screamed all around me. One even told me to get out of the way so they could get on the rope ladder.

I bet the Manchester United correspondent has not been operating in these conditions on their tour of America.

But for all the petty grumbles, it had been a fun way to open the week. The village will be talking about it for months.

I won’t forget it for a while either. Not while I’m still picking out random strands of hay from the back seat.

I’m not sure the missus buys my explanation...