England pile the pressure on Australia.

 England pile the pressure on Australia.

Edgbaston had never seen anything like it. It was the first day of the first Ashes Test and the Barmy Army were in full voice. A hazy morning sunshine sat softly and beautifully on the Birmingham horizon and England opening batter Zak Crawley awaited the first ball patiently and enthusiastically. This was a special moment. Cricket's most adoring fans could hardly believe what they were watching. It was almost as if this day had been preordained and prepared, strapped in for the roller coaster ride.

So the Aussie's fearsome bowling attack launched their artillery directly into Crawley's face and Crawley slashed the most outstanding cover drive to the boundary before most of the crowd had settled for the day's proceedings. The runs flowed like a silvery stream and England were set fair for their invigorating day of golden marquee shots that eventually resulted in the most remarkable England declaration for 393 for 8. Most of the big crowd were still wiping the bread crumbs from their lunch and fastening the lid on their Thermos flask of tea and coffee.

Now there followed the most spectacular day of cricket ever seen on the first day. It was a breathtaking exhibition, a cornucopia of astonishing shots, a glorious variation on a thousand themes and the kind of sporting excellence that will rarely be matched. Crawley lashed out with a giddy succession of ruthless cover drives and delightful placement strokes that were swept off the back foot with flawless timing. At last summer had arrived at Edgbaston and you could only have imagined what the great wordsmiths and vocabulary bon vivants would have made of it.

Years after their deaths now you can still hear the heavenly Hampshire burr of John Arlott adjusting his verbs, adjectives and pronouns with that unique brand of poetic lyricism and perfect observation. Next to Arlott would have been another incomparable painter of pictures with words. Neville Cardus, who left school with no qualifications and who had just emerged from school to become a pavement artist, had at his disposal the most beautiful language and descriptions that were so vividly artistic that even now they feel like perfection on a newspaper page.

After a short burst of handsome straight driving and a marvellously designed innings Zak Crawley  was out for 61. But nobody inside Edgbaston panicked because we knew that this immensely resourceful England side  would break into the fastest sprint. Then Ben Duckett tried to assert himself as a cricketer that England could feel so proud of in years to come. Sadly Duckett fatally edged a ball that swung viciously while Duckett could only manage the faintest of touches to the wicket keeper and was out for a disappointingly meagre 12.

Then Ollie Pope, from whom much was expected, patted his bat purposefully onto his crease and a lengthy occupancy was always on Pope's mind. Sir Geoff Boycott would have taken out squatting rights on the day itself. But Pope, although determined to make his mark, always looked slightly vulnerable. There was a nervous and jittery side to Pope's batting that very few could have anticipated. And so it was that Pope was out for 31 and Edgbaston sighed with disappointment and exasperation.

England, who at first, had raced away quite confidently with a whole variety of decisive cricket, staggered to lunch at 124 for 3, clinging desperately onto the knowledge that the rest of the innings certainly had a substantial amount of runs in its locker. England must have known that the world was their oyster and anything was still possible. But further wickets fell quite rapidly once the Aussies had found England's weak spot.

Then Yorkshire powerhouse Joe Root went about the business of the day like a lawyer setting out their documents ready for another gruelling day in court. He braced himself for what proved a voyage of discovery and off he went. The lofted drives, scintillating pulls and cuts were married wonderfully to a steady, equable temperament. Then Root blasted and punched his square cuts through mid wicket with a liberal sprinkling of sixes and stunningly original reverse sweeps that were scooped accurately and cleanly into a permanently lively crowd. Root was anchored to the innings not out with a century and nothing had been given. But then the faut lines in England's cricket were exposed and it was downhill.

Newcomer Harry Brook, who still looked like a sixth form and then college student, then crafted an innings like a potter moulding his clay. It was all very businesslike and determined, a new boy on his first day determined to be the head boy and prefect. For a while Brook displayed his peacock plumage and the runs began to accumulate. Then Brook became tentative, looked startled in the headlights and just lifted his bat awkwardly at a rising ball before allowing the ball to drop helplessly onto his wicket and the bails just fell meekly onto the ground. Brook was out for 32 and it all looked very uncomfortable. 175- 4 looked like a solid foundation but then the wheels came off for England.

Cue captain of the hour Ben Stokes, the all conquering hero. Stokes was the one who flung his hands ecstatically into the air when England had won the World Cup in that enthralling, nail biting finish to the World Cup Final against New Zealand. Once again Stokes, once in looked as if he meant business, rolling up the proverbial sleeves and leading by example. And then somebody dropped the script. Stokes, always ambitious and always ready to attempt the impossible, swiped a horrific reverse sweep and was out for a single.

Now followed the most dramatic disintegration of them all. England fell apart like a broken toy, the batteries had gone and Stokes men were in complete disarray. It was 176 for 5 but it must have felt like the end of England's innings full stop. Moeen Ali, serious and threatening for a while, eventually capitulated for 18 and England were now in trouble. It was just as well that Root was still there because without him England would have been a boat without its sail and rudder.

And then came Johnny Bairstow. Bairstow was gladiatorial, a formidable batter not to be messed with at any point. Rather like one of his Yorkshire predecessors, Sir Geoff Boycott, he was in the mood for destruction, annihilation, complete obliteration. When Bairstow arrived at the crease Australia must have trembled and shivered with fear. This was Johnny Bairstow, a man for all seasons and a man to be respected and never taken liberties with.

Bairstow struck out with a resounding series of thumping fours and shots of savagery, primal power, almost barbaric in their execution. He clumped the ball emphatically across the on and offside, driving, cutting and then guiding the ball delicately beyond the slip cordons. Finally Bairstow ran out of energy and stamina and at a creditable 78 had increased England's run rate exponentially. At 78 he was out but England had once again found their saviour.

Now the tail of England's batting to wag quite distressingly. Stuart Broad went for 16 but Root was still there at the crease stubbornly and obstinately. He reached his century with effortless aplomb, grinding his way at times but then powerfully and authoritatively, the shots humming and whistling across the greenery of Edgbaston.

Suddenly there was a bolt out of the blue With Root and his fellow batsman still hanging around for a while, there was the most unexpected moment of the day. Deep in the England dressing room, a bearded Ben Stokes started wagging his finger at Root and company. It was the most dramatic gesture of them all. Stokes was beckoning his batters into the pavilion and England declared at 393-8. This was surely completely unprecedented and nobody knew why. Day two would follow and Australia would now face the batting music and the notes of the first day would leave pleasant memories for quite a while.