A welcome in the valleys

I know many lovely Welsh people but none of them was sitting nearby on Saturday way up in the Millennium stadium where a few of us were at the receiving end of what has to be the most unwelcoming atmosphere that it is possible to experience at a rugby union match.

There is nothing the Welsh seem to like more than grinding English faces in the dirt. It went quiet for a little while when England drew level. But as the Welsh knocked over a drop goal and a couple of penalties to seal the match the home support worked itself up into the kind of gloating frenzy that does it no credit. A chap behind me apologised. "I'm sorry about this but it hasn't happened much for us this season," he said. Another told us in no uncertain terms where we could stick our chariot.

I was reminded briefly of the time I went with a Surrey rugby club junior squad on tour in Wales. There was a ridiculous sense of deference among the tourist dads. We sang some Welsh hymns but when I began singing an English song I was told to hush lest we upset our hosts. In my experience this kind of English deference is rarely reciprocated elsewhere and never in Wales.

I was glad that our strategy of staying the night in Bristol allowed us to scuttle away from Cardiff before the last train. We ended up in a pub called the Reckless Engineer in tribute, I suppose, to Isambard Kingdom Brunel who was actually born in Portsmouth but who had strong connections with Bristol where he was responsible for designing the Clifton Suspension Bridge and where SS Great Britain, another of his designs, has been restored as a visitor attraction.

It was "glam rock" night in the pub. A band, fronted by a chap who looked a little bit like Eddie Izzard and wore hooped pop socks, tights, a black mini skirt and a gold lame top, played old songs by The Sweet and T.Rex. People of all ages, shapes and sizes, including a woman who looked remarkably like Ann Widdecombe, were having a great time on the dance floor.

This reminded me of a time on yet another junior rugby tour where we spent an evening listening to Brian Poole and the Tremeloes at Butlins in Bognor Regis. I get to see all the class acts on my travels. I like this sort of thing because it's authentic England, more so, in many ways than chocolate box Cotswold villages where second homers spend the weekend polishing their Agas, chopping wood and arranging dried flowers.

I won't be going back to Cardiff for the rugby in a hurry. But I might go back to the Reckless Engineer.