THE HOUR WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN

THE HOUR WHEN THE (Ulster) SHIP COMES IN

Oh the foes will rise with the sleep still in their eyes,

And they’ll jerk from the bed and think they’re dreaming,

But they’ll pinch themselves and squeal and they’ll know that it’s for real,

The hour when the ship comes in.

The good ship Ulster certainly did come in and it was for real. Would it be followed up with another incendiary performance in Clermont the following weekend?

Though coming up short in the latter game, it certainly exposed Ulster to a wider audience and has served advance notice of a real awakening up North.

I made the trip to the Auvergne and Clermont, here’s a report on my travels, travails and tales .

 

Once upon a Time in the Air

When I was about 16 my sister and I travelled to Coventry. (It’s not true we were sent there).

The whole family made the trip up to Aldergrove as it was known then. They piled into a viewing gallery to wave us across the tarmac to the plane and we duly made our destination without worry.

In the 21st century, one imagines the whole pace of flying would be quicker, a lot less sedate and more efficient due to the advance of technology.

Surprisingly, faces are longer and the process of flying from A to C more of an ordeal.

The scanner bleeped me at the Belfast International and I was on receiving end of the most thorough search I have ever encountered in a 30 year association with the Troubles. I was pleasantly surprised he didn’t peer into my tooth cavities!

Waiting at airports was an integral part of my travel and a 3 hour wait at Stanstedt certainly taxeds the imagination.

7 hours later and we were precariously steering up a series of hairpins in thick fog and darkness towards our gite, with only snow poles as a guide to the whereabouts of the precipitous edge of the road.

Chilli prepared by Phil D’Auvergne and a 10litre box of wine was enough to fuel the party of 26 gathered in the gite for the night. Along with beer and 8 bottles of Bordeaux finest, evening passed gently into tomorrow.

Having left Ballygowan on Friday morning at 4:00am I retired to bed at 24 hours later, a tired but happy fella.

 

Irish Mist and an Ulster Fry

Rising at an epic 9 a.m. the next morning I snuck into the living area determined to assist the hosts, by clearing empty beer bottles. The place was already a wee mansion courtesy of the Phil D’Auvergne /Jean Luc team who were busy preparing a fry for approximately 30 people, by making their own soda and potato bread.

As it’s France the bacon is on the local menu, Phil makes his own, cured in salt.

It’s just 5 minutes drive from the skiing area but we were in an unusually mild spell I was informed. Instead of the annual snow, an Irish mist had descended over the hills spoiling what had promised to be an epic view of the Massif Central.

I was belatedly informed the mist and rain lifted an hour after I departed for home.

By midday the fry was ready with baked beans and mushrooms added to an already overcrowded menu. 30 cleared plates later and it was time for France’s traditional drink in the form of pastis.

I declined, on top of baked beans, it was more than any reasonable constitution could be reasonably expected to stomach.

I had a few beers instead!

 

Bushmills Boyos and Clermontois Hospitality

We were joined by 3 fellas from the Bushmills area who had been skiing and staying nearby. They appeared out of the mist and boarded our coach for Clermont, their Ulster flags mounted on sturdy Auvergne tree limbs.

Airport security bar’s fleg poles.

An hour of twisting roads later and out of the mists of the Massif foothills Clermont appeared neatly nestling in a valley, bathed in sunlight, as we ascended a 10% incline.

Tyre factory to the left and stadium to the right, and two rather overcrowded pubs just across the main boulevard from the stadium piazza.

Ulster fans mixed amicably with the Clermontois support.

I located the inestimable Ding Dong who had been in the town since Wednesday and already was almost talking French.

A pleasant hour passed before the short dander to the stadium and up a vertiginous flight of steps and high anxiety to the very roof of stadium itself.
A Cacophonous Contagion

The noise was incredible. I had wondered what it was about this Stadium that made it one of the most feared venues in European rugby for visiting teams.

When you have 10,000 plus Clermontois whacking an A4 size paper fan in unison on the nearest hard surface, (mostly their knees!), you realise that the effect must be cacophonous at pitch level.

A mother carrying a baby, wearing a set of ear defenders came past us summing up the noise levels as deafening.

The Ulster contingent, struggled to be heard until we led 12 -9 and the Clermontois support began to waver. In the white hot atmosphere, Mr. Pearson bottled any remotely controversial decisions he needed to take against Clermont’s less than legitimate tactics.

A poor refereeing performance, but Ulster had their chances and didn’t take them. Clermont and their support knew they had been in a match.

The 3 Bushmills fellas had obtained paper fans from the Clermontois for the return journey on the coach and were busily whacking each other repeatedly over the head, like crazed fundamentalists.

They were staying at Phil’s local pub/hotel where we dropped them off and had a few drinks, so the little village’s normal somnambulant state probably rocked for a brief 24 hours in time.

By 10 o’clock the following evening I was back home, a 3 hour wait at Liverpool airport being suitable retribution for an enjoyable weekend in the Auvergne.
Quiny’s Whinney.

I wiled away some of the hours at the airports reading Alan Quinlan’s book ‘ Red Blooded’. Having read his latest weekly column on how his Ireland career was unfulfilled I was less than impressed.

Injury, competition for places and not good enough, were basically reasons for him only getting 30 odd caps for Ireland.

Essentially, had he not played for Munster he might only have got 10 caps.

Quinlan has started believing his own publicity and that of SKY. He must know now, how all those talented Ulster players felt.
Jones Jibes of the Times

Stephen Jones of the Sunday Times recalls, ‘I know life changed when attending games (6 Nations) became a job, not a spiritual, joyous holiday.’

A little later he says, ‘ Ireland are being paraded by their fans and by themselves as God’s gift to rugby… Now, at last, they might learn to spend less time worshipping at an altar and more time getting on with their attack and their rugby lives’.

Eh, oh no? This is what happens when you become a sad old hack. Jones has lost the will to live and the right to say anything remotely pertinent.