I bloody love these trips to France: good food, good wine, fabulous company…
… and some rugby in there somewhere.
Apparently, there are two 3 o’clocks in each day. Who knew?
Thus began the first — thanks to the scheduling wonks at ECR — French away trip in 2¼ years. Not since… the last time we played Toulouse, as it happens.
Anyway, I dragged myself out of bed at some unearthly hour, managed to put my clothes on in approximately the right order, and successfully pointed the car at the airport car park. There, I was bombarded with a series of difficult questions like, “What is your name?” and “What flight are you coming back on?” At four a.m., you might as well be asking me to recite the words of Burkina Faso’s national anthem.
Why is that, on flights where you can book fast-track through security, there’s never anybody there, but where you can’t book fast-track, the queue is longer than the runway?
So, through security in about two minutes and into the terminal building, which was full of Salford fans off for their game against Catalan and Liverpool fans heading home to Belfast.
And then sit around for another hour and a half waiting for the flight…
Air travel is specifically designed to ensure that even a holiday from hell is pleasurable in comparison.
Toulouse is a lovely city, although you realise why it is the centre of the aerospace industry when you find out that it mainly consists of a series of interconnected wind tunnels.
With three days to kill before the match and five hours until we (my son and I) could check into the hotel, it was time to get the important stuff out of the way: second breakfast. I can recommend the petite dejeuner traditionelle at Café La Florida in Place du Capitole.
We tried to fill the time with some sightseeing, but after exploring the Basilique Saint-Sernin and the Musée Saint-Raymond, the early start caught up with us, and we retired to the comfy chairs in the hotel reception for a couple of hours.
On Friday, we took a trip to Carcassonne (an hour on the train, £30 return: why wouldn’t you?). If you’ve never been, I highly recommend it, if you can find your way in: the entrance I used last time I was there was closed off and all the other entrances are small gaps in the wall that you have to climb over dirt tracks to get to. Once inside, though, it’s a wonderful – if somewhat commercialised – medieval city. Spend the €13 to go into the castle and ramparts.
Saturday, we wandered around the Marché Victor Hugo (so much cheese!) and found a lovely little Japanese garden, with the cherry blossom in full flower. A peaceful delight in the middle of a city.
Then on to Pub O’Clock (yes, that is the name of a bar) for lunch (Salad chévre au miel) and to catch up on the fortunes of Sarries and Harlequins…
… OK, we’ll skip over that bit.
Saturday dinner (Camembert roti avec porc maigres) was at a lovely little restaurant called La P’tit Gouaille, then we went off for drinkies with some other sharkies at Café Albert before bed and the big day.
By the way, if you’re wondering why I’m banging on at length about “what I did on my boozy weekend”, there are two reasons.
Firstly, my principal goal with these screeds is to try to present the fan experience (from my point of view, obviously) and, quite honestly, European away weekends are mostly about the travel: the rugby is, if anything, secondary to the good food, good wine and fabulous company. It’s about spending time with some of the best people I know, making memories, exploring new and familiar places, and strengthening bonds of friendship.
I want those who don’t or can’t go on these trips to get a feel for why they are so important to me and why I was so pissed off with ECR over our lack of French away games the past two years.
And, secondly, I don’t have access to a full match replay, so I’m reliant on my memory of what happened at the time, and that’s a bit hazy, so don’t expect any in-depth match analysis.
Sunday morning – game day – dawned bright and sunny, so while my son went off to find a climbing wall to scramble up (like you do…), I went for a walk on the banks of the Garonne. There’s something so peaceful about the early hours on a Sunday, especially after the sheer pandemonium of the previous evening, when all the bars and restaurants were full of people intent on having a good time (or getting wasted, whichever comes first).
On the previous visit, I had had an abomination of a croque monsieur at the airport: it was awful. I was surprised that the police gastronomique hadn’t hauled the offender off to a dark dungeon somewhere for crimes against French cuisine. This trip, I had promised myself a proper one, which was duly consumed at Café Albert.
Lunch taken, it was time to head down to the Stade de Toulouse.
Let’s just talk about the incident for a moment. Yes, we can have a bit of a joke about it now that we know the guy is safe and unharmed. But I can’t help reflecting on the fact that we could so easily have been witness to a man plunging to his death. If the stadium structure was a bit weaker, if his rope had been cut, if the parachute hadn’t snagged tightly enough…
I was listening to the Love Of Rugby podcast, and Dan Cole recalled, as a youngster, a parachutist hitting the stadium and being seriously injured before an Aston Villa match (I think the guy lost his leg as a result). Since that, he’s not been a fan of this sort of stunt and, now, I think I agree with him.
The thing is, it was deceptively windy that day. If you watch the video, you can see the parachute slew sideways. Too dangerous. Get some local celebrity to deliver the match ball if you have to.
The game itself is a bit of a blur. I remember the sinking feeling as Jacques Ouillisse went over for the first try after what seemed like ten seconds (surely there was a forward pass in the build-up: referee!), followed by elation a couple of minutes later as Sale struck back with Luke James’s try.
One thing I’ve noticed about Scottish referees is that it seems to take several dominant scrums before they’ll move past a reset or free kick. I think a Premiership ref would have given us a few more penalties in that game for the way our forwards fronted up at scrum time.
And, for about fifty minutes, I genuinely think we had Toulouse a bit worried. Jonny Hill put us ahead, and it was only a couple of blades of grass that denied Buck. Had his foot been a centimetre to the left, I think that the second half might have been very different.
Don’t let their forwards bully you and put up some high balls for the likes of Buck and Reedy to chase, and you can give any French team pause for thought.
At half time, Sale fans and Toulouse fans alike were wondering what just happened, albeit for different reasons. Did we dare to believe? (Remember Saracens yesterday…)
But, eventually, the sheer depth of international talent available to Toulouse showed: they turned up the heat, and Sale’s valiant defence opened up.
Sometimes, you just have to put the disappointment aside, pretend to be neutral, and admire the likes of Capuozzo sliding through the defence like a neutrino through meringue. I can still remember Jason Robinson doing something similar against London Irish back in the Heywood Road days. You have to acknowledge class, and I sincerely hope he recovers fully; it looked like a nasty injury.
After the match, it was back to the Capitole for dinner (saucisse de Toulouse, jus de viande et purée de buerre, AKA soss, mash and gravy), followed by final drinks and craic in the cafés around the square before bed and an early start for the flight home.
God, I’ve missed these trips.
I want to state in no uncertain terms how proud I – and every other Sharks fan in the Stade de Toulouse – was of the team come the end of that game. We stayed, we cheered them, we honoured them. The score did not reflect how close we pushed them; how, but for a turn of luck here or there, things could have been different.
Make no mistake – and forget the twenty-three point margin – this was not men against boys; this was men against men. It was brutal, impassioned, and glorious. This was rugby: a pitched battle, pitting strength against strength, skill against skill, speed against speed. It was enthralling from the first whistle to the last. Compare that to the defence-optional borefest that was Gloucester vs Bristol recently: no contest.
I want to give a special mention to four guys this time: two youngsters and two old men. Asher, Dickie and SiMac gave a star-studded front row the scare of their lives. Can you imagine? Asher’s got his head between David Ainu’u and Julien Marchand – Marchand for pity’s sake – and he comes out of it with the honours. SiMac’s got sodding Aldegheri in front of him and isn’t fazed. Dickie gets a mention for absolutely melting Meafou. Take a bow, Luke.
And the fourth? Rekeiti Ma’asi-White came of age in that cauldron. He had N’tamack and Akhi to deal with, and he emerged with head held high.
Blimey, this is some team we’re building.
There’s a lot to take from that game, lads: you faced the best in Europe and gave them a scare. From this point on, fear nobody, least of all Harlequins in two weeks.
an old grey dog 
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