Three joyful days set a wonderful tone

They had us at hello. It was 10.25am on Wednesday morning: grey sky, drizzle in the air, a breeze whipping around the Swalec. The coin hung in the heavy atmosphere, both a temptress. It landed in favour of Alastair Cook. The overhead conditions screamed to bowl first. The temptress was screaming at the England captain.

Unflinching, and admirably able to resist the dangerous charms set before him, Cook said: "We shall bat." Crikey. Nasser Hussain had not seen that one coming. At Brisbane in 2002, Nasser chose to bowl on a white pitch and with a 35 degree day already leading folk to run for cover at 10 o'clock in the morning. So for that matter did Sir Leonard Hutton almost 50 years earlier. Back then, Australia made 600 and England were soundly spanked by an innings. "Pitches are like wives" said Sir Len, "you never quite know how they will turn out."

But Cook read this Cardiff surface every bit as well as he read the wonderful girl who became his wife. The facts were irresistible. Straw-coloured and dry, the pitch was for batting. The overheads had to be ignored. England had the chance to seize an advantage and seize it they did. It was the right move but not an easy move. At 43 for 3, he might have taken the chance to wind back the clock. Now, of course, he is glad that there is no reversing history.

Let's be honest, he had one jaw-dropping slice of luck. Brad Haddin made a hash of the Joe Root catch, a hash that may haunt the Australian glovemen if his team come out of this English summer second best. From the split-second of the drop everything changed. Even the sun appeared, if momentarily. The ball pinged from the middle of Root's bat as if it belonged to Hutton at his most glorious. And Root's off-side play has something of Hutton about it - upright, crisp and elegant. There was some Michael Vaughan in there too as cover drive after cover drive whistled to the fence. Two Yorkshire batsmen who had once led England to Ashes victories were now mirrored by another who will surely one day do the same.

At the other end came the conclusive evidence of England's state of mind. Right now, Gary Ballance couldn't hit a cow's backside with a banjo but he was damned if he was giving his wicket to any Australian. So we had the splendid contrast of one bloke batting as if touched by the gods and the other like a clubby promoted way above his station. But bat and bat they did, until Cook could rest easy. Root's innings will always be remembered but Ballance's should never be forgotten. After that, it was a carnival. Ben Stokes smashed sixes, Jos Buttler punched fours and Moeen Ali wafted the ball around the park rather as David Gower used to do.

England were free. Free of fear. The expression in the cricket was a thing of beauty and the Australians, who were oddly sluggish, could barely believe their eyes. This bunch of Poms had nothing to do with the rabble so humiliated down under just 18 months ago. In commentary, Geoffrey Boycott sounded as if he was enjoying himself.

Then came the next piece in the jigsaw, the discipline. A tape of the performance by the bowlers will show consistent lines, intelligent lengths and a streetwise understanding of how to use the slow pitch to some advantage. Cue Moeen Ali. Again. He tossed up his offbreaks with modest ability but great expectation. Behind him was an absurdly short boundary and behind that, a river. The best two batsmen in all Australia ran at him with grand intent and perished. It was as if we were in a dream. Steven Smith and Michael Clarke, goneski in barely the blink of an eye. This Moeen is a cracker. No wonder a cult is emerging. There were young men at the ground on Friday who had been at the fancy-dress shop on Thursday. Young men with long beards attached to their chins.

All of this was fine and dandy in its way but could it be sustained? The third morning dawned bright, warm and clear. A batting day. The Australians had five wickets in the shed and were only 166 adrift. Could they find parity and switch the momentum of the match? Of course, they could. It is what they do. Wrong! England had them on toast. All five fell for 44. By lunch England were batting. Ye gods, how quickly this game changes tack. The short odds were now on those who had been rank outsiders just 72 hours earlier.

But Cook drove to cover and Ballance gloved a nasty short-pitcher. Two down for 20, whoops. Cue two 89-ball innings of 60 runs each - one by Root, naturally, the other by Ian Bell. Belly, the great confuser: like Barry Richards one month and Basil Barwick the next. England rocked along and the Swalec rocked with them. They sang their joy and roasted in the sunshine. Slip, slap, slop alongside "Jerusalem", "Land of our Fathers" and a trumpeter that turned the Pink Panther tune into an anthem.

By the time Mark Wood, England's No. 10, was driving a six out of the ground and smearing easy fours past weary fielders, Boycott was quite beside himself. Honestly, you would have thought Yorkshire had won the Cup. In fairness to him, the facts are rather startling. Three days gone and England have demanded 412 out of Australia in the fourth innings of the first match in an Ashes series. I doubt such a thing has happened before. It's a new England all right. And whatever the result by the end of this remarkable match, a seed has been sowed. There is no way back, the future is bright.