MY name is Alexander Sutherland. Nine days ago, I was taken by the victorious soldiers of Oliver Cromwell from the battlefield at Worcester to this place of imprisonment where many of us now await our fate.

We are kept in a cold, dank hulk on the Thames at Greenwich, and treated most harshly, being fed with only weevily-bread and mouldy cheese. Our captors call us the scum of the earth.

There is a rumour that we poor transports are bound for the colony of Virginia in the New World or perhaps are to be taken to a destination nearer home. There is talk of the East Anglian Fens.

They outnumbered us by almost three-to-one when we met them in battle on that field where two rivers meet. We had marched from Stirling, some three hundred miles from this place of battle, a distance our soldiers covered in 24 days of forced march.

Our brave captain did encourage us well in our fight to restore the rightful king of England, Charles Stuart, but there were too many of the foe. They were possessed of divers muskets, pikes and equipped with much ordnance.

In the end, numbers prevailed, and we were driven to a part of the city walls that is known as Sidbury Gate. And that is where I was captured. Much time has elapsed since I left my good wife and children in Dunbar. May the Lord have mercy on them and give me strength to face the ordeal that I know must come...

Beg pardon for this little bit of whimsy. Nine days after the Battle of Worcester in 1651, there must have been many a Scot who had wished he'd not joined Charles II's hopeless campaign in lowland England.

And nine days after the action replay 350 years later there must be many who are thinking... wow, wouldn't it be a good idea to do this every year!

Anyway, I was there at Bennett's Farm the weekend before last, with camera, rucksack and notebook, cheering on the Parliamentarians. Now there's a funny thing - when the crowd was asked to give a vocal indication of which side they supported, the King received a rousing cheer - whereas poor old Ollie was given a feeble huzzah.

Has Worcester really not moved on since 1651?

Well, after hearing the crowd's support for Charles Stuart, I decided to quieten down a bit. After all, old passions just could become inflamed, you never know. And what with having ancestors in rebel Coventry, perhaps my Parliamentarian pro-Cromwellian attitude might offend the lady next to me who is shouting for the King. Best to keep it buttoned...

We've listened to the verbal insanity of Sam The Sailor, telling us tall tales of the Seven Seas, and now, a delightful young woman is taking us step-by-step through the events leading up to the battle.

She is the epitome of Englishness, blonde hair cascading from underneath a plumed hat. This vision of loveliness makes it quite clear whose side she's on - and the word doesn't begin with "round" and end in "head".

After Sam leaves the stage, there is a demonstration of artillery down the ages. We start with the crude devices from the Battle Of Crecy, through to the Thirty Years War, English Civil Wars, the campaigns of Marlborough and then closing with the type of kit used at Waterloo.

We begin to realise just how dangerous are these weapons. They are loud and smoky. But more than that, they fire unpleasant projectiles called roundshot, grape, canister and shrapnel. None of this will do you any good if it comes into contact with your body. We are told that a German called Gustavus Adolphus was the main man as far as artillery is concerned. Typical.

Parry and thrust

Our cavalier with the microphone continues, while just in front of the taped lines, a gay (in the old sense of the word) blade demonstrates swordplay to the front ranks of the crowd. As he parries and thrusts, his mobile phone falls out of his jerkin and bounces off the turf. Prince Rupert never had this problem.

Meanwhile, traffic is roaring along the new road to the south of the Teme. It is within musket shot of where Cromwell built his pontoon of boats. Later on, while the battle is at its height, we will hear the sound of an ambulance siren.

They could have done with something like that in 1651 - anything would have been better than the surgeon with saw, bucket and boiling pitch.

There is a battle about to commence, so the British have come prepared. Just down the way from me and one particular camp follower - my daughter Alice - a couple have come fully equipped for the campaign.

Folding chairs, for the use of. Two rucksacks, regulation issue. Plates, knives, forks, spoons and cups. Boiled eggs in shells, cold turkey breast, salad in plastic box. Pork pies, sardines and bottled beer. Hats and rainproofs in case of rain - which eventually comes down in stair rods - and various items of photographic paraphernalia.

Yes, the rain. It's the cannon fire, you see. The same thing happened after Waterloo.

But the drums are beating and the infantry are now in sight. Led by their officers, colours flying, our country's destiny is being decided on this water meadow in the English Midlands.

Cannons roar and soon the pikemen are doing their version of a 17th Century rugby scrum, while the musketeers - with a total of 47 commands to obey before they fire the flipping things - struggle to load and prepare to unleash hails of lethal lead at men trying to do exactly the same.

Soon, the air is rent by the sounds of battle and the field wreathed with smoke. A small boy next to me frantically fires a cap gun into the dense masses of swirling men. Unlike the musketeers, his weapon - a Lone Star six-shooter, I would guess - seems to be jamming.

I wonder whether the boy is aware of a notion such as historical relevance. To the best of my knowledge, Doc Holliday didn't fight at Worcester in 1651. Never mind. The gun is now working perfectly and, on balance, this is probably a good thing. It's about time small boys rediscovered cap guns.

Watching this, I'm reminded of the First Battle Of Bull Run during the American Civil War. This took place in 1861, on the outskirts of Washington, and the rich folks rode out in their buggies to Alexandria, Virginia, to watch the fight. Such a shock when Stonewall Jackson's confederates won the day.

Speaking of Virginia, that was where Alexander Sutherland, our Scottish soldier mentioned at the beginning, is probably heading. Crammed into the hold of a slaver, he would emerge two months later, facing a life of servitude in the New World. They say the descendants of men like him still survive to this day in America's Commonwealth state.

Alice and I talk about this as we walk home along the Teme, down the Severn and cross the river, courtesy of the Watergate ferryman. Then it's through Sidbury and to our home on the hill opposite Fort Royal where we enjoy a victory meal.

You see, Faithful City this may be, but I can't help being true to my roots and backing Parliament. Old habits die hard.