I'm always fascinated by traditions, especially if it is a rural one. Traditions are special, they need lots of care and nurturing to keep them well and alive, lest they should be neglected and disappear for ever.

It was my interest in tradition that took me to the Wedmore Harvest Home last year. It was an impressive occasion and had a big impact on me. I'd never seen so many people in a marquee before, rarely seen anything so well organised and so many people determined, collectively, to make the day a success and the tradition survive.

So when a friend in Derbyshire invited me to lunch at the Ashbourne Shrovetide football game, I needed little time to think about it, and readily accepted.

I've seen footage of this occasion and others like it on television, but "they" say there's nothing like the real thing, and in this case "they" would certainly be right.

I sensed that this was something a bit different when my friend said we would have to get his father to drive us into town on Shrove Tuesday. I also sensed that this was something a bit different when we were dropped off and walked along the main street past shops and houses that had their windows boarded up. There were a lot of people about and an air of anticipation was in the air.

The official lunch was held in a big old rambling hotel called the Green Man. There were more than 200 people in the main room for lunch – apparently to get in this room was an accolade in itself. We were in one of a number of adjoining rooms also filled with diners. And there was a real sense of privilege just to be there.

I'd already had sight of the ball that all this was about, made, I think, of cork, and beautifully painted.

We had a good traditional lunch (roast beef) and there were speeches in the main room, some of which we heard on the loudspeakers when they worked, but everyone joined in the rousing traditional song.

Suddenly, without warning that I could detect, the ball was away out of the room to be taken for the game to begin.

The person chosen to toss the ball for play to begin is called the turner-up. To be chosen to do this task is a tremendous accolade. I'd never seen anything like the scene in the main town car park. I asked a policeman how many people were present (policemen know things you and I can only guess) and he gave me just two words: "Five thousand."

The dignitaries mounted a sort of plinth, they and the crowd sang the traditional song and the national anthem, the turner-up threw the ball to the crowd, and we were away.

I'm a big people watcher and had noticed that about half the men in the crowd were suitably dressed for the occasion. Teenagers in rugby shirts, jeans and trainers trying to look hard; serious, purposeful men in their 30s who obviously were.

Apparently the town is divided into Up'Ards and Down'Ards. I decided I would be an Up'Ard, in spirit at least – sounds more thrusting and positive. The idea is for each side to get the ball and take it back to their "own" goal. The goals are three miles apart and the ball can be conveyed anywhere on its journey to achieve success.

I'm told that one year it went through the local Woolworths, and by the time it came out the other side the pick'n'mix was completely empty.

It's difficult to describe what goes on, but at any time there are 200 to 300 men in a tight melee fighting for the ball. There are no colours to distinguish the opposing sides but I suspect it is more organised than it looks. It was like a swarm of bees, with the ball at the centre the queen bee. The ball is occasionally seen as it pops up in to the air like a piece of soap but mostly it is invisible.

The melee itself is called a hug. I've always liked a hug so I ventured a bit closer but it's all about 20 years too late for me so I backed off again.

Sometimes the hug can be static for long periods as it gets jammed in a corner of the car park, sometimes it has an energy that will drive it hundreds of yards at speed. When the latter happens the large crowd scatters in all directions, seeking safety behind walls and trees and recycling bins.

Standing on a recycling bin didn't look that safe to me; neither did the spectators who took to the trees. But by now we were away up an alleyway out of the car park.

The ball popped up into the air and went over a garden wall, and about 200 men were soon over the wall after it. They spent about 10 minutes on the other side – you can only wonder about the state of the garden when they eventually came out.

Then they went across the main road, back into the car park, the hug and the crowd following, then away again down another main road. At the end of the road is the junction of two A-roads and traffic lights, and the hug dwelt there for 15 minutes.

Traffic was stopped in all directions – Shrovetide football has right of way in all respects. Then away again up a narrow road up a steep hill. People were keeping in touch by mobile phones and the consensus was that the downers were in ascendancy and taking to the fields.

We headed away to the Down'Ards' goal. I'd decided I was a Down'Ard by then – fair weather fan me – and half an hour later I watched about 100 men come down a river, push 50 defenders away and "score" against a millstone built into a wall in the river bank.

Suitable celebrations followed and then it was off to do it all again. Play went on until 10 that night, and they did it all again the next day, too.