The nearest I had ever been to Shrovetide before was the time my mum and I innocently decided to go shopping in Ashbourne and couldn’t work out why the shops were shut and the windows boarded up, writes Sarah Newton.
It took an embarrassingly long moment to realise we hadn’t stumbled into a post-apocalyptic drill, but Ashbourne Royal Shrovetide Football.
We made a swift, dignified retreat – the sort where you don’t technically run, but you do walk unnaturally fast and avoid eye contact – and until Tuesday I had managed to keep Shrovetide firmly in the category of “local traditions I admire from a safe distance”.
What is Ashbourne Royal Shrovetide Football?
For the uninitiated, Shrovetide is less “sporting fixture” and more “historical re-enactment meets polite riot.”
Two teams – the Up’ards and the Down’ards – attempt to move a ball across town to goals three miles apart.
The match lasts eight hours and takes place over two days. The “pitch” is the entire town.
Shops board up their windows. Spectators stand on benches. There is mud. There is shouting.
There is a surprising amount of tweed.
A tradition that takes over the town
The atmosphere reminded me of Sadler Gate in the 1990s – the streets were lined with people holding pints instead of phones, greeting familiar faces like long-lost cousins, cheeks flushed with the cold and alcohol, and that warm buzz of everyone being exactly where they wanted to be.
There is no police presence and no trouble. Just a shared, unspoken rule that it’s every man for himself. Yet it largely felt safe in the way only genuinely happy crowds do and the mood is carried by good humour rather than authority.
Like most people, we watched the ball being ‘turned up’ from a stone plinth in Shaw Croft car park, made a vague attempt to sing along to Auld Lang Syne and the National Anthem and then headed to the nearest pub reasonably assuming we would be unlikely to see the ball again.
But a couple of pints later – and fuelled by misplaced bravado – Simon and I decided to stop playing it safe and go in search of it, despite me being dressed in a cream coat and equally impractical trainers.
As we sauntered the streets in search of play the atmosphere veered from something between a festival and a Viking siege.
The only way to identify exactly where the ball is – from a distance – is to spot the heat waves rising, a flicker in the air that gives the game away.
It feels a little bit like the entire town is surging in one direction and while we certainly didn’t surge, we were gently but firmly absorbed.
If you’ve never seen the “hug,” imagine a dense, shifting sea of people which looks slow and balletic from a distance.
But up close, it’s rather more intense – the lampposts wobble, the players leap over any and every obstruction and spectators hang out of windows partly to check their property isn’t about to be flattened and partly to watch the game.
The excitement of the ball appearing above the crowd is met with cheers and barrage of hands in the air, cameras poised as spectators jostle for the perfect shot, hoping to capture the fleeting moment before it disappears again.
We hadn’t expected to see the ball at all, so when it suddenly rolled past our feet it felt like the universe had misfired.
For one reckless, suspended second, we considered it -pick it up? Nudge it back? Claim accidental glory? The thought barely had time to form before the ball vanished again, whisked away by fate (and several seriously scary-looking players).
Thank goodness.
Why Shrovetide still matters today
After our near-death experience, we retreated to the pub again where getting served was like a competitive sport on its own.
But there’s something infectious about an event that has been happening for centuries. No sponsorship banners. No VIP lanyards. No health and safety briefings. Just tradition, community and a very sturdy ball.
Here’s what I learned.
You cannot “optimise” Shrovetide. There is no fast lane. There is no premium viewing package. The ball goes where it goes, and you go where the crowd takes you.
This isn’t a show put on for visitors. It’s a living, breathing event owned by the town. You’re not the audience – you’re temporarily part of it.
Wear sturdy shoes. Self-explanatory.
By the end of the day, we had not touched the ball. We had not fully understood the rules. But we had absolutely loved it.
Would we go again?
Absolutely.
But next time, my dry-clean-only coat and cream trainers are staying at home.
