LAST weekend a few old school pals and I stood on an open terrace as the freezing North Sea whipped the back of Gayfield Park, watching the mighty Arbroath play in the second tier of Scottish football.

As the final whistle blew on a hard-fought 1-1 draw with Greenock Morton, where Arbroath manfully attempted to correct their false position in the tough second tier of Scottish football a kindly soul asked us: “Will ye be back?”

“Yes, thanks very much,” we all replied eagerly, “it’s been great. We’re definitely coming back.”

The fact is we loved every minute of our trip to Scotland. 

Despite the eight-hour train journey, the sub-zero temperatures and the bone-chilling, biting seaspray it was a life-affirming, magical weekend full of beers and bonhomie with football and friendships — new and old — made and maintained, along with steadfast promises to return.

But what were we doing on the east coast of Scotland in a staunch fishing town proudly nestling between Aberdeen and Dundee, when I could have simply counted down the days until the Premier League returns on Boxing Day?

In these challenging times we all need a warm, comforting embrace — from sport as well as loved ones. 

How so, I hear you cry? Through groundhopping of course.

Groundhopping is largely a football-related pastime and the official description is that groundhopping is a hobby which involves attending matches at as many different stadiums or grounds as possible — but it is so much more than that. 

People taking part are known as groundhoppers. Generally, groundhoppers are football fans, seeing the whole process as a leisure activity as much as a sporting one. 

Which is why me and old schoolmates found ourselves nearly 500 miles away from home last Saturday at 3pm.

Arbroath is a beguiling fishing town with a genuine sense of community, peopled with fine folk who, while many were slightly bemused by the fact we’d embarked on a near 1,000-mile round trip to watch their town’s team, gave us a wonderfully warm welcome on a cold weekend.

A quick walk around the handsome, working harbour, led us to evocative Gayfield Park ahead of Arbroath’s Scottish Championship fixture with Morton last Saturday afternoon. 

The greeting we were given in the nearby pub, the Tutties Nuek Inn was genuinely humbling, bolstered by the fact that through a mutual friend of a friend, the father of Arbroath’s No8 Michael McKenna went out of his way to come and meet us and say hello over a pint. 

Not only that but Mr McKenna had kindly arranged for us to be given a pre-match tour of the ground — not to mention a trip to the hallowed environs of home team’s dressing room — where the club’s good-natured staff happily chatted with us and shared a few jokes a couple of hours before kick-off.

It was then back to the Tutties Nuek Inn where the landlady kindly arranged a traditional pub game, which, alas, I can’t recall now, suffice to say, the experience was considerably more enjoyable than being sat in a stuffy gastropub somewhere in the south-east for example.  

Despite being a hard-bitten, experienced journalist, I absolutely relished the occasion groundhopping at Arbroath, with the camaraderie, warmth and goodwill we experienced from everyone living long in the memory. By everyone, I mean everyone, from club officials and staff to the women in the club shop and even in the famed pie hut.

As I noted at the time, people could stop hunting for the best pie hut in the land, for it exists overlooking the North Sea at Gayfield Park. While the dear old hut has probably seen better days, it was the vista that was as remarkable as their mouth-watering steak and black pudding pies.

I recall a trip to Ely City’s Unwin Sports Ground earlier in the year where the 12th century Ely Cathedral was evident in the background while I queued for a pie during the match — and while Arbroath lacked such Gothic architecture, it did have a dramatic gunmetal grey sea framing the background to complement the culinary delights on offer, not to mention an old lighthouse, as the winter’s afternoon light faded. 

No wonder the club owed its nickname The Red Lichties to its environs — as it is a derivative of the lighthouse’s red light, that guided fishing vessels safely away from the coast on dark nights. 

The Arbroath Pie Hut

If like me, you’re on Twitter — despite a megalomaniac billionaire doing his best to bespoil the platform even further — you may have come across an account called Footy Scran. 

The premise being that you post a picture of your half time pie, or whatever it is that is being served, wherever the game is that you’re attending, and the site “retweets” your photograph, in other words shares your half time pie with the world, as it were.

Well, try as I might over the seasons, I’ve never got near to them RT’ing my humble offerings from grounds up and down the country. In fact, the nearest prior to last weekend was a “like” when I posted a picture of my pie with the aforementioned Ely Cathedral. 

Yet, one shot of the Abroath Pie Hut and my steak and black pudding effort and the Footy Scran account told the world, duly stating: “Ah. The Famous Arbroath Pie Hut,” as true believers everywhere nodded sagely — even if, while my friends and I, as recent, but fervent new disciples, were still taking in the majesty of the hut’s setting. 

Here’s the thing: While groundhopping is a thriving activity with hundreds of thousands of aficionados around the world taking part every weekend, it’s not just about the football. It’s about the fine people you meet along the way and the memories and new experiences you make. Such as taking in the magnificent Arbroath Pie Hut.

So, whether it be the great gang I met in Iceland (and still keep in touch with) for my birthday back in July at the indomitable Leiknir Reykjavik FC — big Arni and all, which also included the club chairman busy working on the official pre-match barbecue. Or spending time in the Arctic Circle savouring the delights of Bodo/Glimt and all the good people I met in northern Norway — including the person who introduced me to local delicacy Brunost, an unlikely brown cheese that tasted of salted caramel for example, groundhopping brings people together. (Yes, strictly speaking it wasn’t groundhopping as my team, Arsenal were playing — but hey, I wasn’t going to miss the chance to experience such an occasion and such good people.)

Equally, I can’t claim to be a fervent groundhopper — not when an earnest German chap I met in Iceland told me he had been to an astonishing 600 grounds — and he was only in his mid-20s. 

However, as someone who only needs three more grounds to complete the 92 in England, as well as having watched football on four continents, I adore groundhopping. 

If you’ve not tried it, you simply have to, because you won’t be disappointed. The best way I can describe it in these challenging times is that it is the sporting equivalent of a warm, comforting hug from fine people.

And, as the final whistle blew last weekend at Gayfield Park on a hard-fought 1-1 draw with Greenock Morton — which included a cracking goal from the home side’s David Gold — as Arbroath manfully attempted to correct their false position in the tough second tier of Scottish football, Mr McKenna inquired if we’d had a good day. “Yes, thanks very much,” we all replied eagerly, “it’s been great. We’re definitely coming back.”