In my role as office Essex girl, I had been sent by TheSouthern to take to the streets of Jethart and record an outsider's impressions of the game.

Stampedes, tussles, fierce competition between neighbours – to me, it sounded like the first day of the sales at Lakeside Shopping Centre. But the sense that I was a stranger in a strange land kicked in as soon as I saw the shop windows battened down like a frontier town awaiting a dust storm.

At 1.30pm the Callants' Ba' was rampaging. The streets reverberated with excitement as the fresh-faced maul careened to and fro, the ba' nowhere to be seen. Almost as alarming as the lurches of the crowd were the number of fully-laden tractors that sped down the street, apparently heedless to the number of very squashable youngsters absorbed in the game within inches of their tyres.

Eventually, just as I began to suspect that the ba' itself was the stuff of legends, it was suddenly ejected from the ruck like a pea from a peashooter, and the ground trembled as scores of teenaged feet thundered past.

Flushed with adrenalin and excitement, I joined the crowds of young girls flattened against the flowerbed walls for safety, and wondered why they don't get the chance to play.

They certainly don't seem averse to dangerous sports, judging by the thrill on their faces every time they fled, screaming, from the erratic path of the maul.

After such an impressive turnout from the boys, it was certainly an anticlimax when the first men's ba' summoned only about half a dozen players – outnumbered many times over by the photographers craning in to get the perfect shot.

I'm told the numbers pick up throughout the day, and I hope that's the case, because the start was a bit of a let-down after the stampede of the callants.

Obviously, no-one is obliged to take part, and lots of people were away earning a crust – needs must. But, with the streets still buzzing from the energy and excitement of the boys' game, it was sad to contemplate that within a few years those youngsters who had taken to the ba' with such gusto could have all but given it up.

Before long, the men were locked into a 15-minute stationary maul. It looked like a cross between a rugby scrum and the furtive, collaborative milking of a cow; only the occasional writhing of a Caterpillar boot or the twitch of a builder's buttock revealing the sneaky grasping for control taking place beneath.

Nonetheless, despite the small number of participants and the invisibility of the prize, the sense of urgency and the slight hint of danger made the whole thing a surprisingly good spectator sport.

But do you know what the best thing was? It was bloody freezing. There could be no clearer way to demonstrate that this is an event held for the enjoyment of locals, rather than a construction for tourists.