Well, that’s another fantastic weekend in France in the bag.
We sang1, we danced2, we drank3, we laughed4. We ate fabulous food, explored the nooks and crannies, met people from around the world, and all in the company of the best set of travelling companions and mates anyone could wish for.
In short, another set of memories to store alongside all the others that I’ve built up over the last twenty or so years of going to European away games. And just think: with a fair wind and a bit of application, we could even have a freshly minted set of memories made of Dublin ore to add to the collection.
You see, rugby is the excuse for going; friendship and the experience are the reasons.
Let’s see: I had a lovely whole grilled sea bass with a chill wind blowing round the nethers; we heard the story of why the waiters in a pub in Bordeaux all wear kilts; travelled first class on the TGV from Toulouse to Bordeaux for a mere £27; sampled a glorious armagnac that took you to summer fields and lazy, hazy days; found a cheese that is quite possibly better than Roquefort and watched, in growing disbelief and amazement, an utter farce of a football match (not all of it – just from when one of the teams walked off because they’d had a penalty awarded against them in the 95th minute).
It all began at stupid o’clock on Friday morning and a seven o’clock flight to Bordeaux (we were a bit Toulouse’d out after two recent visits and, anyway, Bordeaux is objectively a nicer city).
After checking in at the hotel, we headed off to the Marché des Capucins for lunch – a lovely whole grilled sea bass with fries. Even though you’re eating with your big coat on, because you’re right next to the open side of the market in the middle of January, you don’t mind, the food’s that good.
After lunch, it was time for drinkies, so we fell into a place called Pub Saint Aubin, where the staff all wear kilts because the owner once lost a bet with some Scottish fans. I think that’s a brilliant story.
Back to the centre, and a bit of a crawl around various pubs and cafés: Café Brun, the rustic Irish bar with the very… French… toilet; La Comtesse, with the very… unusually decorated… toilet; steak au poivre at lovely little bistro; more wine at Les Vaillant Aux Quatre Coins du Vin (my photo’s geolocation was a bit off)…
After that, it becomes a blur.
The next morning, breakfast and coffee having restored me to something resembling an approximation of a human being, we set off to Gare Saint-Jean and the TGV to Toulouse (150 miles, £16 regular fare).
Drop the bags off at the hotel, wander over to Place du Capitole and lunch at Grand Café de Florida. Down to Gloria Cafe for something alcoholic, check in at the hotel and then head off to the match.
Back to Capitole and a bit of supper and a nightcap in Café Albert, before collapsing into bed.
Next morning, back to the station for the trip back to Bordeaux – first class, this time. Luxury.
To the hotel again – “Hello, we’re back…” – and check-in (I got upgraded: very posh room), and off out to Café Brun to see if Bordeaux could put one over on Bristol (spoiler: they did, and it was good see J-L and van Cannonball again).
A bento box at a Japanese cafe for lunch, then off to more bars and cafés. There’s a place called Ô P’tit Bahut, where you can get a fromagere (a cheese selection board) that contains some of the best cheeses I’ve ever tasted. If you’re ever in Bordeaux, go there. It’s on the Rue des Bahutiers, just off Place Saint-Pierre, which is not far from Place du Parlement and Place de la Bourse.
We finished the night off at La Bande à Roro, where they were showing the final of the African Nations Cup between Senegal and Morocco. Oh, my life; if rugby ever gets like that, I’m giving up on it. The levels of petulance and disrespect to the referee were off the scale. It was embarrassing to watch; my occasional reminder of why I don’t watch top-flight football.
And that was it, apart from the early morning tram to the airport, for the usual rounds of hurrying up to stand still that you always end up doing at those places. Poor weather meant we ended up about three-quarters of an hour late disembarking at Manchester. Then it was a case of getting through immigration, clearing customs, finding the car, and driving home.
And then it was done. Until the next one…
Sorry, what?
Oh. The game?
As soon as I saw the teams on Friday, I knew we were in for a pasting. That’s no slight on the lads that Alex sent out there, but you really can’t expect a team half composed of lads just out of the academy to stop a side that would put the willies up most international teams.
It’s a fact of supporting a team that, even though you prepare for the worst, you hope for some crumbs of comfort. At the start of the game, I thought that keeping them to about fifty and not being nilled would have been a good result. So, when that didn’t happen, it still hurt, even though I knew it was inevitable.
And it hurt the players, too. You could see at the end that they were distraught, and probably more than a bit frustrated at a referee who seemed to give them absolutely nothing, appearing to ref the game more on reputation than anything else.
I’m still undecided on whether being on the receiving end of a drubbing is good for the moral fibre or utterly demoralising (as a player, that is; as a fan, it’s just depressing). I suppose it can go either way, and the way it goes for you is a measure of the player you will turn out to be. If you can go through that and come out of it determined to make sure you never have to do it again, then you’ll probably be a great player.
From what I saw of their reactions, I think most of those have now looked into the abyss and said, “You don’t scare me anymore”…
So, anyway, we’ve got Quins in the next round. I’d say that’s probably the most winnable of all the possible fixtures we could have had. I know they got a tremendous result against La Rochelle, but was that a fluke or a sudden return to a form that they haven’t shown for a while now?
Either way, they are a known quantity. We stand a good chance of going one stage further: an achievement that would go some way towards removing the sour taste of this result.
See you in Dublin, unless we end up hosting Edinburgh.
an old grey dog 