EA Guingamp 2 USL Dunkerque 1

September 25, 2025September 25, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Guingamp (Gwengamp in the local Breton language, and pronounced gangomp) is a small town of only seven or eight thousand people, which sits on a rocky escarpment above the River Trieux in the heavily agricultural north-west corner of France. For thirteen seasons since 1995, this tiny rural town with a population smaller than Beccles, Mildenhall or Woodbridge had a team in the top division of French football, and also won the French FA Cup (the Coupe de France) twice in that time. But more than that, the name ‘Guingamp’ is just beautiful to the ears, the club plays at the wonderfully named Stade de Roudourou and when Guingamp reached the final of the Coupe de France in Paris, some fans travelled there by tractor. For these reasons, I am fulfilling an ambition today in making a 160-kilometre pilgrimage from where my wife Paulene and I are staying on holiday in Carnac in the south-west of Brittany.

Our journey is elongated a bit by a stopping off north of the topographically scintillating town of Morlaix, 60 km west of Guingamp to visit the huge six-thousand year old Neolitihic cairn at Barnenez, but we eventually rock up in good time in Guingamp to buy two tickets for the match (26.00 euros each) at the club ‘boutik’ in the town, along with a petit fanion (pennant) and fridge magnet (6.50 euros for the two) for my respective pointless collections. Disappointingly, the T-shirts showing a representation of the town of Guingamp through its most prominent buildings such as the basilica and hotel de ville is only available in bizarrely small or large sizes, and whilst I’d like a mug that displays the same design, it would probably just sit on a shelf above the petit fanions overlooking the fridge magnet, and with a little thought I could surely spend that 12 euros doing good. More happily, the very pretty shop assistant, whose name, I think, from what it says on our tickets may be Angelique compliments me on my French, although after initial exchanges we mainly speak in English.

Our hotel room for the night is in a grand nineteenth century house not far from the town centre, but it is a half an hour’s walk from Stade Roudourou and Paulene’s asthma will not stand that once the cold night air surrounds us after 10:30 when the match will probably finish. Sadly, there is no ‘navette’ (shuttle bus service) to the stadium, but on the advice of the two very helpful ladies in the local Tourist Information Office we make a short car journey across town to the Place St Saveur where we park up our planet saving Citroen e-C4 at no cost. Remarkably nearly all car parking in Guingamp seems to be free. From the car park, we can see the floodlights of the stadium, and the walk to the Stade Roudourou takes us only a few minutes over the shallow looking, gurgling River Trieux and down a few closed off streets. The stadium is situated in a residential area which has the appearance of one of the banlieus of a much larger town and is enclosed behind iron fences as if fortified against the outside world, an impression further strengthened by the harsh steel and concrete architecture of the stadium, which is in some ways is at odds with the stone buildings of the town but is perhaps also a modern and cost effective version of them.

The walk to our seats in the Tribune France Barnums (presumably named after a sponsor) takes us around the back of the main stand (the Tribune Cotes d’Amour) past a small wooden hut from which two middle-aged women are selling club souvenirs. I ask if they have any T-shirts like the ones I saw in the shop in the town; they don’t, but nevertheless they laugh either at my description of the very large and very small sizes available in the shop in the town, or just at my French, I’m not sure which. Paulene and I walk on past a skip decorated in club colours and the back of the Kop Rouge where the local Ultras will later gather.

The back of the Tribune Frace Barnums is the least attractive of the four sides of the Stade Roudourou, consisting mostly of sheet metal, but undeterred I make my way in past a smiling member of security staff who frisks me and wishes me ‘Bon match’ under the somewhat glaring eye of another member of security staff whose demeanour suggests she does not approve of such bonhomie. With our tickets duly validated by barcode technology we walk on towards our seats past a classic Renault Estafette van painted in Guingamp colours, from which Angelique of club ‘boutik’ fame is selling hats and scarves and shirts; she confirms that she has no stock of the cherished T-shirts stashed away in the Estafette.

Our entrance to the stand itself, along a corridor, reminds me of the inside of one of carriages on Le Shuttle. Up an external staircase, I am tempted by the ‘pub Lancelot’, only for two teenage doormen and the smell of sandwiches and nibbles wafting out to disappointingly confirm that it is a room reserved for those paying for hospitality. Back downstairs I buy a small plastic cup of beer and a similar cup of the local Breizh Cola (8 euros for the two), which Paulene much prefers to the over-hyped American stuff. We find our seats cosily situated at the back of the lower tier of the stand almost level with the halfway line and next to a galvanised tubular stanchion, which handily ensures people will not be able to edge past us to get to their seats. We pass the time before kick-off making up the life stories of the referee and his assistants, who are warming up in front of us and keeping us amused with their co-ordinated exercises, which with some appropriate music could enable them to pass themselves off as a small all-male dance troupe. One of the assistants we decide looks slightly ill however, and has dark shadows under his eyes. The referee, Monsieur Landry meanwhile, is a tall man with a long body but capable of a neat heel turn, chasse and pirouette.

As kick-off (coupe d’envoi) approaches, the stand fills up with people bearing baguettes stuffed with chips, whilst a row or two in front of us a family unpack homemade sandwiches which appear to be of white sliced bread that has had the crusts cut off, which is not something I ever expected to see in France. Meanwhile, the pitch fills up with youths waving banners with varying degrees of enthusiasm but then, when the teams are read out by the stadium announcer I am shocked, amazed and I have to admit, disturbed to find that unlike everywhere else I’ve ever been in France, the home supporters do not bellow out the surnames of their players as they appear on the big screen in the corner of the ground; they just clap politely. I can’t quite believe it. Being in Brittany I had also expected bagpipe music as the teams trudged out, but It seems these Bretons aren’t like other French or Breton people at all. I am a little disappointed; they don’t even have a cuddly mascot.

When the match eventually begins at half past eight, it is visiting Dunkerque who get first go with the ball, which they generally kick in the direction of the Kop Rouge and far off Morlaix, whilst Guingamp are aiming just to the north of the town centre with its Basilica, castle ruins and huge metal statue of Bambi. Guingamp sport their handsome signature kit of red and black striped shirts with black shorts whilst Dunkerque wear all white with golden squiggles down the shirt front. Despite my disappointment before kick-off, the stadium has now come to life, with a flood of chip and beer quaffing latecomers finding their seats and the Kop Rouge now in full voice with chants of “Allez, Allez, Allez, Guingampaises”. I count thirteen Dunkerque supporters, who I could hear chanting before kick-off, but now they are drowned out by the Guingampaise voices and drums.

The opening play from both teams is fast and slick on the well-watered pitch but Guingamp appear slightly more direct and with only four minutes having passed into history a smart through ball and a low cross from the right lead to the ball being placed past the Dunkerque goalkeeper from about six metres out by Freddy Mbemba, who the interweb tells me is on loan to Guingamp from Charleroi in Belgium. “Buuut” announces the giant screen in the corner in large letters, and when the stadium announcer says “Freddy” the home supporters bellow “Mbemba” and when the announcer says “Freddy” again and the crowd shout “Mbemba” again, and then wonderfully the same thing happens again. It feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. “Mbemba!” I shout on cue after the final “Freddy”.

The game continues at pace with Guingamp looking sharper but Dunkerque not appearing to be slouches either. Standing out for Guingamp, mainly but not entirely because he is two metres tall is their number eight, Kalidou Sidibe, whilst I am also impressed by the tangled mop of hair sprouting from behind the black headband of Guingamp’s number thirty-six, Albin Demouchy who often wins headers and elegantly ‘plays-out’ from the back. On the electronic boards around the pitch there are advertisements for John Deere tractors and Husqvarna mini tractors as well as the supermarket E Leclerc, who if they had shops in Britain would surely employ the tv sitcom ‘Allo, ‘Allo in their advertising.

After fourteen minutes Dunkerque win their first corner; Guingamp have already had two however and as if to prove that this matters Guingamp’s Amine Hemia soon beats the square but not square enough Dunkerque defence on the right, bears down on goal and scores into the far corner off the goalkeeper’s out-stretched palm, and Guingamp lead two-nil. “Amine” calls the stadium announcer, “Hemia” bawls the crowd. “Amine” calls the stadium announcer, “Hemia” bawls the crowd. “Amine” calls the stadium announcer, “Hemia” bawls the crowd, and the scoreboard silently but colourfully shouts “Buuut!” as well.

The row of seats in front of us consists mainly of men with grey hair whilst off to our left a younger bearded man looks a bit like Bob Ferris from the 1970’s sitcom The Likely Lads (actor Rodney Bewes). Behind us there is a gathering of men and women in day-glo tabards; if they’re not orchestrating a “gillets jaune” style protest I guess they must be the first aiders and stewards watching the match. At the front of the stand clouds of smoke billow up from teenage vapers and then dissipate into the night air. I notice that Bob Ferris has quite girlish looking hands.

There are now less than ten minutes of the first half remaining; Dunkerque’s number twenty shoots from the edge of the penalty area and the impressively agile and wonderfully named Guingamp goalkeeper Teddy Bartouche tips the shot over the cross bar spectacularly. Two minutes later and yet another move down the right for Guingamp leaves Louis Mafouta with a seemingly open goal, but with the co-ordination of someone whose foot has ‘gone to sleep’ and who has both arms strapped to his sides, he heads the resulting cross hopelessly and clumsily past the far post. On the touchline, Guingamp manager Sylvain Ripoll, who incidentally once said ‘Bonjour’ to me and Paulene in the lift of a Paris hotel (the Mercure near Parc des Princes) looks frustrated in his pale trousers and zip-up jacket.

The last action of the half seems likely to be the substitution of the Dunkerque goalkeeper, who unexpectedly and mysteriously has hurt himself but then a quick pass in from the Dunkerque right finds Enzo Bartelli inside the ‘D’ outside the Guingamp penalty box. Almost in slow motion Bartelli gently passes the ball beyond agile Teddy in the Guingamp goal and Dunkerque, as they say on the telly, are “back in the game”, although of course as long as Monsieur Landry hadn’t terminally parped his whistle, they were never out of it. Five minutes of added on time fail to alter the score any further.

Half-time is the usual melange of children on the pitch, but as before the start, with added flag waving of varying enthusiasm. The match resumes at twenty-four minutes to ten and the Kop Rouge quickly dive back into endless chants of “Allez, Allez, Allez”. I soon decide that for a man taller than your average back garden fence panel, Sidibe has quite a delicate touch and then within ten minutes Monsieur Landry airs his yellow card for the first time this evening after Dunkerque’s Inigo Eguaras fouls Mbemba.

It is Dunkerque who are now selfishly dominating possession, a situation which Guingamp are contributing to by quickly giving the ball back to them whenever they lose it. On the Kop Rouge, the ultras are swirling their scarves in the style of 1970’s Leeds United fans, whilst the big screen in the corner is showing pictures of real estate as if anyone interested in buying a house would pay more attention to the screen than the match. As the people in the ground with least interest in buying property in Guingamp, surprise transfer moves notwithstanding, the Dunkerque players fashion an intricate passing move down the left only for Eddy Silvestre to shoot narrowly over the cross bar. With the game now two-thirds over, Dunkerque blink first and make two substitutions.

The slick passing of the first half has been replaced with increased niggle and Paulene and I discuss the colour of the shorts worn by Dunkerque’s Brazilian number thirty, Abner. They look more yellow than other Dunkerque players’ shorts, which Paulene attributes to his frequent falling over on the wet grass, whilst I suggest, a little unpleasantly perhaps, that maybe he ‘forgot to go’ before he left the dressing room. Twenty minutes remain and Eddy Silvestre shoots over the bar again for Dunkerque whilst the Kop Rouge sways with a sea of banners and the towering Kalidou Sidibe is replaced by a man with hair reminiscent of the late Tina Turner, Tanguy Ahile.

Somewhat annoyingly, the final ten minutes of normal time dissolve into something like chaos and nothing like football as players of both teams proceed to fall to the ground with alarming frequency. If all the players who go down have genuine injuries, both clubs will need to be trawling the job centres of Brittany and Pas de Calais in the morning for additional physiotherapists. Monsieur Landry, meanwhile, is rushed off his feet, airing his yellow card four more times and showing his red card to someone in the Dunkerque dugout. Six minutes of added time are not so much played out, as acted out, and the final whistle comes as a blessed relief to all. The result lifts Guingamp to eighth in the Ligue 2 table, a point outside the barrage (play-off) places, whilst Dunkerque slide down to fourth from bottom, one above the relegation places.

Despite the weirdness of the last ten minutes, and the unexpected pre-match disappointments over T-shirts, bagpipes and the reading out of the players’ names, overall, the match has been a good one and everything has worked out fine; well except for the T-shirt and the bagpipes, but you can’t have everything. We therefore make our way back to our planet saving Citroen in good spirits, like all but thirteen of the 6,562 strong crowd, but who knows, they probably enjoyed it too.

Lakenheath 2 Mulbarton Wanderers 0

April 29, 2019April 29, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The village of Lakenheath, in the top left hand corner of Suffolk beyond Mildenhall is some 69 kilometres from the County Town of Ipswich, about an hour’s drive along the A14, the A1101 and then the B1112. Lakenheath has a railway station but hardly any trains stop there. If you want to watch Lakenheath FC play on a Saturday afternoon and you really, really want to travel by train two journeys are possible; leaving Ipswich at 8am and 8.08am these take you via Ely and Thetford or via Norwich and Thetford arriving at twenty four minutes past ten, giving you ample time to walk or even crawl the near 4.5 kilometres to Lakenheath village; no buses pass the station. You’ll need to take a sleeping bag because there is no train back from Lakenheath until the next day. If however, you like a lie-in on a Saturday morning but are still committed to saving the planet by using public transport then from Ipswich it is easier and quicker to catch the 11:20 train to Bury St Edmunds from where Mulley’s Motorways service 955 to Mildenhall connects with Coach Services service 201, which arrives ‘outside the post box’ (as opposed to inside it) at Lakenheath at 13.33. Getting back is difficult however because the last bus out of Lakenheath arrives in Mildenhall at 18.18, eight minutes after the last bus departed for Bury. The only way to return from Lakenheath therefore is to catch the 18.58 number 200 bus to Thetford, which is perfectly timed to arrive one minute after the train to Ely for the onward connection to Ipswich left at 19:24. The next train from Thetford is the 19:54 to Norwich from where a connection arrives back in Ipswich at 21:41. The on-line timetables tell us that the bus ‘services’ are supported by Suffolk County Council, but it’s as if they are trying to make them unusable, perhaps so a lack of passengers will justify not supporting them in the future.

With the best part of seven hours being a lot of time to spend on travelling to a ‘local’ football match, my wife Paulene and I reluctantly dodge the pleas of Greta Thurnberg and climb in to our trusty Citroen C3. Sadly, it’s not such a fine day to go travelling either, with low grey clouds, a strong blustery wind and the threat of rain casting foreboding over the Suffolk landscape. The countryside is bleak on a day such as this, although the open fields of Breckland with their rows of contorted Scots Pine trees (pine lines) leaning with the prevailing wind give this corner of Suffolk a distinctive character.

Lakenheath has a long broad main street; we pass the medieval church of St Mary the Virgin on our right and at the instruction of our French speaking satnav turn a droite into Wing Street and then a gauche into a rough car park and the gateway to ‘The Pit’ or ‘The Nest’ as Lakenheath’s football ground is known. Access is down a rough slope and round a sharp corner into another small rough car park; the site is an old chalk pit or quarry. We’ve definitely come to the right place as the Mulbarton Wanderers team bus is parked opposite and they are today’s opponents.

Tall trees surround us on three sides and as I lock up the Citroen Paulene takes crunchy footsteps across the car park to the small wooden turnstile hut without a turnstile. Paulene asks the man in the wooden hut how old you have to be to be considered a pensioner but he doesn’t answer and charges us full price (£5 each), we buy a programme too (£1). The players are out on the pitch warming up as we head for the clubhouse; Paulene remarks on the dugouts being on the far side of the pitch and admits to having hated having to trudge across the pitch from the changing room to the dugout in her time as physio with Wivenhoe Town. It looks like Lakenheath have recently moved theirs to the other side of the pitch, perhaps to improve the view from the stand.

The clubhouse is spacious, if a little dark as a result, but the bar and barmaid are bright and welcoming and I order a glass of rose for Paulene; sadly there is no real ale so I take a deep breath and order a half of Greene King IPA ‘Smooth’, although I would prefer almost any other beer, even if it’s rough; the two drinks cost £5.30. We sit at a table by a window. The TV is on but a caption says there is no signal, perhaps because we are in the bottom of a quarry. Without TV to dull people’s minds the room is filled with the sound of conversation but also the thumping rhythm of loud music from the changing rooms next door; I like to imagine it’s the referees not the players making the noise and that they are stood in their pants singing into hairbrushes and playing air-guitar . At the table behind us three middle-aged men talk very loudly as if trying to be heard above the sound of jet engines at the nearby air force base. They discuss retired footballers, most of whom are now dead. Although this is a far flung corner of Suffolk, the twang of London accents is evident. A man in a yellow and black jacket sells us a strip of yellow draw tickets, Nos 481 to 485. As usual I am destined not to win; the seller has got to me four strips too early.

Time passes quickly and it’s almost five to three. The loud men behind us have already left and we follow suit, downing what’s left of our drinks before braving the breezy outdoors; we both have our woolly hats on today. The two teams line up behind the referee Mr Cameron Saunders and his two assistants Messrs Andrew Hardy and Lewis Lofts, who sounds like he might offer to board over your attic. The group marches on to the pitch but quickly break formation, not hanging round for any ritual handshaking as happens at higher levels of the game.

Lakenheath get first go with the ball kicking towards Wing Street and wearing green shirts with white shorts and socks, they look a bit like French Ligue 2 club Red Star. Mulbarton Wanderers are in all pale blue with shirts sponsored by ‘Pip’s Skips’ and they play in the direction of the railway line far off to the north. The early pace of the game is fast with a clear desire to get the ball forward quickly. Mulbarton soon settle but look lightweight up front. Despite the blustery wind and a hard and uneven looking pitch some of the football is neat and good to watch. For both these clubs it’s their first ever season in the Eastern Counties League First Division, step-six of non-league football, and both have done well, with Mulbarton guaranteed a third place finish and Lakenheath set to finish fifth in the nineteen team league if they win today.

Weirdly Lakenheath don’t seem to have a team captain, with no one wearing an armband and no one annotated as such on the team sheet. As much as a sort of football-collective seems a good idea, their goal keeper Frank Gammon, which incidentally I think is a great name, seems to be taking on the mantle however, with his constant encouragement and advice from the penalty area. “Win your battles”, “Left Shoulder”, “No foul” he shouts, continuously. But he’s doing a good job and Mulbarton are kept at bay without much difficulty. Lakenheath seem to have just one striker, number nine Shaun Avis who the programme tells me has scored 15 goals in just seven games this season, which is rather impressive. He looks lively but misses the two chances he has, taking the ball around the Mulbarton keeper Tom Wright by the corner of the penalty area, but then going for the spectacular and achieving it with a spectacularly high and wide shot before also glancing a free header wide of the goal.

Paulene and I take a stroll around to take in the ambiance of ‘The Pit’, which we both agree is a much better name than ‘The Nest’ not just because it is devoid of unfortunate associations with Norwich City, which is very important in Suffolk. It’s a name that makes me think of Clive King’s children’s novel ‘Stig of the Dump’ and I imagine a variation of the story in which a boy makes friends with a team of Neolithic footballers and helps them erect a goal, which looks uncannily like Stonehenge. This is a lovely football ground, the steep sides of the former quarry and the tall trees acting like natural substitutes for tall stands and creating a sense of enclosure which few non-league grounds even at much higher levels can rival. Sadly it’s a grey day today but it must be beautiful in the sunshine; even today there is birdsong and the tall trees sway eerily in the wind; wild flowers grow behind the goal lines and one corner of the pitch is covered in daisies, albeit closed up ones. Sadly, it’s not yet possible to walk all around the pitch but a concrete path behind the dug-outs and right hand goal form the man stand is due to be completed in the close season.

Back on the pitch, Mulbarton appeal for a penalty. “Handball!” shouts someone, “Rubbish” shouts someone else in response from the stand. Either way no one seems to much like referee Mr Saunders and someone else shouts “Referee, you’re getting worse”. I am slightly suspicious of Mr Saunders myself, his hair is just a bit too neat; he could be a Jehovah’s witness or a Mormon. Meanwhile on the near touchline to the stand the grey-haired, be-spectacled referee’s assistant reminds me of a conductor on the Eastern Counties buses I used catch to school.

Half-time arrives and I depart for the clubhouse where there is a short queue at the bar for teas and coffees. As I queue the half-time draw is made; ticket number 501 wins first prize and the man behind me in the queue discovers he is the winner, but at least I get my tea before him. The tea (£1 per ‘cup’) is poured from a large pot into china mugs, this is sadly something that happens almost nowhere else in senior football any more but it should. If a football club is happy to get the china out it makes you feel like a human being, not as if any old plastic or polystyrene receptacle will do just to get another quid out of you; it feels like they want people to enjoy this tea, as if they care; and a very good cup of tea it is too. We drink our tea in the small brick stand, a homely and utilitarian structure with wooden benches, it’s beautifully dilapidated and I hope it’s never demolished to make way for one of the boring modern, ‘meccano’ stands.

Paulene and I are refreshed and the game begins again at precisely three minutes past four. Within six minutes Lakenheath are ahead. No one seems quite sure why, although importantly Mulbarton players do not seem to be complaining, but Mr Saunders awards a penalty to Lakenheath and top scorer Kelvin Enaro scores his twenty eighth goal of the season, booting the ball to Tom Wright’s right as he collapses to his knees. With a goal lead Lakenheath are more relaxed; the pace of the game is a little slower and the passing more accurate and more controlled, there’s less anxiety. Mulbarton look even less likely to score than they did in the first half, but do claim the first booking of the match as their number seven, the splendidly named Dom Doggett, incurs Mr Saunders’ wrath for a foul. It’s not long before Doggett is substituted for number fourteen, Charlie Norman.

For a while the game drifts and I listen to the birdsong and enjoy the lush greenery of the quarry banks. A tall, grey-haired man walks up into the stand carrying a match ball. “Man of the match Dave? What did you do, score a hat-trick?” asks a voice at the back. Eventually Lakenheath win a corner and the action steps up a gear. “Come on Heath” shouts a man in the stand; it’s not a very imaginative nickname for the club but it follows the pattern set at nearby Mildenhall who are known as ‘The Hall’. Personally, I reckon they should be known as ‘The Quarrymen’ . After one corner, follows another as a shot flashes past the post, deflected away by the Mulbarton defence. It’s twenty-five past four and Frank Gammon sends a kick deep into the Mulbarton half, the bounce fools the Mulbarton defence and number eleven James McCabe runs on to poke the ball over Tom Wright’s head and puts ‘The Heath’ (‘The Quarrymen’) two-nil up.

With the second goal the game changes and seems to lose the reserve it showed earlier. Lakenheath miss open-goals and hit the cross-bar whilst Mr Saunders the referee becomes rather officious and begins to wave his yellow card about with gay-abandon, booking players on both teams, mostly it appears for whinging and whining rather than anything particularly serious. I think it’s his way of adding to the entertainment, everyone loves a good moan about the referee. But happily if there is any ill-feeling it doesn’t last and with the final whistle Mr Saunders and his assistants stand together to receive the handshakes of both teams.

As the stand empties out after the game we stop and talk for several minutes with three people in orange hi-viz jackets, who are temporarily working on the air base, it’s almost as if we don’t want to leave. Driving back home along the B1112 Paulene and I reflect on our afternoon at ‘The Pit’ and both agree that we’ve had a most enjoyable time and importantly have witnessed a Suffolk team beating a Norfolk one which in my mind at least helps redress the recent imbalance between Ipswich Town and Norwich City. We look forward to returning on a sunny day.