Saturday had seen a handicap competition, described to me by one of six female competitors as 'serious but light-harted'. This had been won by Hurlingham Club member Robert Pennant Jones [2], who beat Saturday's finalist Lionel Tibble, from Northhampton. Good player, and the competition organiger, Kevin Carter [3] took third place.

Sunday's matches were played at advanced level, and attracted some of the best players in the country, six of the 16 competitors being scratch or better. (The handicap system is almost the exact reverse of polo, the best players being -2) It was a knock-out competition, the best of three games, and an early casualty was the Dutch national champion Rutger Beijderwellen [4], who was unlucky enough to meet Fulford in the second round. Beijderwellen, in his first year reading engineering at the University of Brighton and the youngest in the competition, will no doubt be getting as much competitive croquet as he can find this summer, and is a player to watch.

The two lawns were playing fast - surprisingly so in view of the wet season - but they are old tennis courts laid on chalk and drain quickly, and the hoops were set very solid, reduced for Sunday to 1/16th in clearance (how long will this illegal form of measurement be allowed, one wonders?). Even the best players found the conditions challenging, and there was a great deal of 'blobbing' of easy looking hoops, and many wry grins from the experts. 'These hoops reject shots that are not bang-on.' I heard one player comment.

The semi-final, in which Fulford met the third seed Roger Jenkins, beating him eventually by two games to one, focussed attention on the world champion. He plays with deceptive nonchalance, apparent casualness masking formidable concentration, and an unconventional technique belying faultless execution. 'I wish he would hold his mallet straight', and, 'it is, incredible how twisted that mallet is - how can he hit anything?' were typical pavilion comments, more wondering than critical in tone.

The rain, spitting since lunchtime, was a steady drench when the finalists faced each other. A strong, cold wind made conditions about as unpleasant as a late-April afternoon in a blackthorn winter can, provide: the last Spartan pair had long since quit the adjacent tennis courts. The champion, in shorts, made no sartorial concession whatever to conditions - this was gamesmanship of a high order. His opponent played muffled and cowled. Your correspondent cowered in the pavilion among the huddle of spectators, like wrens in a nest, but the standard of croquet was a treat to watch. Fulford had produced a seven-hoop break, the longest so far of the day, to level the score in the second game of his semi-final, when he was clearly getting the full measure of conditions and hitting his stride. He managed two eight-hoop breaks in the final, but not until he had allowed his experienced opponent to get one game up. It was a brilliant match, creditably lost and won.