Only my second ever away game with 'tim pel droed Cymru' and the other N.Ireland because I happened to live there at the time.
We had qualified! After nearly 58 years since that World Cup in Sweden and en route to Bordeaux for the opening game v. Slovakia.
The journey there didn't bode well and soon as we reached the Paris Metro after Eurostar things went AWOL.
Nothing to do with strikes, ISIS or any French neo-fascists with enough weapons to make the villains of 'Blue Eyes' envious.
On line 4 to Montparnasse someone was on the tracks and the train at a dead stop. Even Tour Organiser CJ couldn't have predicted that.
Cue frantic dash for a taxi and driver who made Kenwyne Jones animated (one for Bluebirds), stopping at every crossing as the fare clocked up fast as our heartbeats.
We had to get the train or......surcharges, no places, an evening stuck in the station.
CJ and MV manned their devices and we hopped out of the taxi in despair and back onto the Metro.....heading in the wrong direction!
Luckily, at Montparnasse there were numerous fans in the same predicament, so the supervisor was bombarded and let us on the next train.
I'd inexplicably sustained an arm injury and MV had aggravated his knee strain. Would we be fit for pre-match celebrations?
The journey down was Kronenbourg, a burpish brew and we amazingly arrived shortly after the original train.
The Auberge in the old town was lovely : spacious and sandy-stoned , the architectural equivalent of a macroon, though not as crumbly.
Soon on the streets, we headed for Place de la Victoire and a restaurant/bar which unbelievably for France had a very tasty veggie option .
We sat and watched the second half of the France game and Payet's stunning winning goal in a restaurant packed with French people which took off into the night sky with the noise of victory.
Just opposite we could see (and hear!) a party of Welsh fans not so interested in the cuisine.
Us 'posh gets' joined them outside their bar, where we later tried the champagne as if we'd already won (no worries, Nye Bevan was also a man for such fineries).
Flags from Tredegar, Carmarthen and mostly boyz from 'y gogledd'. word--for-word perfect on 'Ar Lan Y Mor', 'Calon Lan' and, gloriously, 'Yma O Hyd'.
Slovakians with trumpets and one, off his head, with a large flag which he draped over everyone.
Joined by a group of multi-ethnic French fans in wheelchairs who'd been attracted not so much by our renditions of 'Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau' as the Beating the Cars entertainment.
As cars, vans, motorbikes (and even one poor cyclist) passed , voices crescendoed till hands hammered a rhythm against them.
One man stopped to pick up his girlfriend and a drunk Welshman got into the back seat!
Inside the bar a Slovakian greeted a Welsh fan in a wheelchair , took off his shirt and gave it to him.
French fans danced into our midst singing their anthem and many Welsh fans joined in.
If you could define the opposite of those aggressive, provocative, xenophobic England fans rioting in Marseilles, then this was it.
Walking back , we sat on the sculpture of a tortoise to have our photos taken.
It was that kind of night!
Next day and a brandnew Cymru/Wales polo shirt to sport.
Tapas for lunch : how French can you get?
(Nye Bevan confession : I drank more wine than beer...well, it was Bordeaux!).
The crush in the trams was seriously dangerous on the way to the Stade de Bordeaux.
Biggest cheer was for a heavyweight Welsh fan spewing up on the street....all those Chronicbourgs had got to him.
Later MV informed me that I was squeezed right next to a Middle Eastern- looking bloke wearing something suspicious round his waist. Glad he didn't point that out at the time.
At last the stadium, looking like a sophisticated Meccano structure. Different, at least.
Our seats way up in the gods and I was worried about altitude sickness.
Team announced and no Hennessey, Ledley or Robson-Kanu.
After managing to meet no-one I knew. I was a few seats away from a fella from Heolgerrig.
Much singing and chanting, with our fans outnumbering the Slovakians.
My favourite is - 'He's Gareth Bale, he's Gareth Bale. He turned his back on the Union Jack. He's Gareth Bale.'
I'm in a great position to appreciate his tied-up hairstyle for the first time, with our seagull-eye view.
'Hen Wlad' sung with such passion :the very best of anthems (well, I am biased).
Bale up front and Edwards deep. Tactics and team selection looked odd, especially when Bale twice lost possession early on and Slovakia almost scored, but for Ben Davies' brilliant interception.
Then that free-kick.
Madness and mayhem. joy and jubilation!
Gareth Bale. World class. Who else?
Yet as the game progressed, it was our defence and the magnificent Joe Allen who stood out.
Edwards struggled to cope with the threat of Hamsik.
At the beginning of the second half Duda scored for them and we faltered. It was transformed when two subs came on, Ledley and Robson-Kanu, as they had to, being the most (en)chanted players.
Ledley settled in alongside Allen and Hal made those characteristic wide runs, allowing Bale to run at them from deeper.
As Ramsey pushed up we looked dangerous and, although stumbling, he made the goal for Robson-Kanu ( scuffed shot, but who cares?).
In the last part we could've scored two or three more as Bale was released on the break, but he seemed very leggy.
Final whistle and we leapt and cheered, my vocal chords strained to the point of snapping.
We had done it!
As B. cried with joy, I couldn't help but do likewise.
Leaving the stadium, Slovakians lined up to clap all the Welsh fans and some opposing fans hugged each other.
How far away from England v. Russia?
And this was the game we eventually watched in a bar, after seeing the legendary Gruff Rhys on the tramcar dressed for winter (but without bobble-hat for once).
Delicious beer at last called Edelweiss, as one Cymru fan actually celebrated Dier's goal ( a Spurs supporter?).
When Russia equalised there was more joyous jumping and chanting of 'We are top of the league!'
Could it get any better? Maybe not.
Can we qualify for the last 16 , or do we have to rely on England and Russia being expelled?
Well, it was worth every penny, every hold-up, suffocating journey, crazy dash across Paris and hangovers like hammer-head sharks.
Bring on England!
I want to hear Rob Phillips proclaim - ' David Cameron! Boris Johnson! Charlie Windsor!.....we beat your boyz!'
1 A.M. IN PLACE DE LA VICTOIRE
Dancers, chanters
in Place de la Victoire
summoning spirits of '58
merlins from Caerfyrddin
tribes from Tredegar
magic-men from Meirionydd
Slovakians with flags and trumpets
one giving his shirt away
to a wheelchaired Welsh fan,
French in tricolour wigs
singing the Marseillaise
with boys from Colwyn Bay
who know all the words
four Bleus in wheelchairs
ready in formation
as cars enter the square
and we drum each one
the owners not angry
but joining the celebration
dancers, chanters
in Place de la Victoire
night before the game
as though we knew
'Hal Robson, Hal Robson-Kanu!'
some ancient 'hud'
'Calon Lan' and 'Hen Wlad'
no invasion just party
and to broadcast loudly
'We're yer! Dyn ni yma o hyd!'
Notes : hud - magic
'Dyn ni yma o hyd' - from Dafydd Iwan's song, meaning 'We are still here'
We had qualified! After nearly 58 years since that World Cup in Sweden and en route to Bordeaux for the opening game v. Slovakia.
The journey there didn't bode well and soon as we reached the Paris Metro after Eurostar things went AWOL.
Nothing to do with strikes, ISIS or any French neo-fascists with enough weapons to make the villains of 'Blue Eyes' envious.
On line 4 to Montparnasse someone was on the tracks and the train at a dead stop. Even Tour Organiser CJ couldn't have predicted that.
Cue frantic dash for a taxi and driver who made Kenwyne Jones animated (one for Bluebirds), stopping at every crossing as the fare clocked up fast as our heartbeats.
We had to get the train or......surcharges, no places, an evening stuck in the station.
CJ and MV manned their devices and we hopped out of the taxi in despair and back onto the Metro.....heading in the wrong direction!
Luckily, at Montparnasse there were numerous fans in the same predicament, so the supervisor was bombarded and let us on the next train.
I'd inexplicably sustained an arm injury and MV had aggravated his knee strain. Would we be fit for pre-match celebrations?
The journey down was Kronenbourg, a burpish brew and we amazingly arrived shortly after the original train.
The Auberge in the old town was lovely : spacious and sandy-stoned , the architectural equivalent of a macroon, though not as crumbly.
Soon on the streets, we headed for Place de la Victoire and a restaurant/bar which unbelievably for France had a very tasty veggie option .
We sat and watched the second half of the France game and Payet's stunning winning goal in a restaurant packed with French people which took off into the night sky with the noise of victory.
Just opposite we could see (and hear!) a party of Welsh fans not so interested in the cuisine.
Us 'posh gets' joined them outside their bar, where we later tried the champagne as if we'd already won (no worries, Nye Bevan was also a man for such fineries).
Flags from Tredegar, Carmarthen and mostly boyz from 'y gogledd'. word--for-word perfect on 'Ar Lan Y Mor', 'Calon Lan' and, gloriously, 'Yma O Hyd'.
Slovakians with trumpets and one, off his head, with a large flag which he draped over everyone.
Joined by a group of multi-ethnic French fans in wheelchairs who'd been attracted not so much by our renditions of 'Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau' as the Beating the Cars entertainment.
As cars, vans, motorbikes (and even one poor cyclist) passed , voices crescendoed till hands hammered a rhythm against them.
One man stopped to pick up his girlfriend and a drunk Welshman got into the back seat!
Inside the bar a Slovakian greeted a Welsh fan in a wheelchair , took off his shirt and gave it to him.
French fans danced into our midst singing their anthem and many Welsh fans joined in.
If you could define the opposite of those aggressive, provocative, xenophobic England fans rioting in Marseilles, then this was it.
Walking back , we sat on the sculpture of a tortoise to have our photos taken.
It was that kind of night!
Next day and a brandnew Cymru/Wales polo shirt to sport.
Tapas for lunch : how French can you get?
(Nye Bevan confession : I drank more wine than beer...well, it was Bordeaux!).
The crush in the trams was seriously dangerous on the way to the Stade de Bordeaux.
Biggest cheer was for a heavyweight Welsh fan spewing up on the street....all those Chronicbourgs had got to him.
Later MV informed me that I was squeezed right next to a Middle Eastern- looking bloke wearing something suspicious round his waist. Glad he didn't point that out at the time.
At last the stadium, looking like a sophisticated Meccano structure. Different, at least.
Our seats way up in the gods and I was worried about altitude sickness.
Team announced and no Hennessey, Ledley or Robson-Kanu.
After managing to meet no-one I knew. I was a few seats away from a fella from Heolgerrig.
Much singing and chanting, with our fans outnumbering the Slovakians.
My favourite is - 'He's Gareth Bale, he's Gareth Bale. He turned his back on the Union Jack. He's Gareth Bale.'
I'm in a great position to appreciate his tied-up hairstyle for the first time, with our seagull-eye view.
'Hen Wlad' sung with such passion :the very best of anthems (well, I am biased).
Bale up front and Edwards deep. Tactics and team selection looked odd, especially when Bale twice lost possession early on and Slovakia almost scored, but for Ben Davies' brilliant interception.
Then that free-kick.
Madness and mayhem. joy and jubilation!
Gareth Bale. World class. Who else?
Yet as the game progressed, it was our defence and the magnificent Joe Allen who stood out.
Edwards struggled to cope with the threat of Hamsik.
At the beginning of the second half Duda scored for them and we faltered. It was transformed when two subs came on, Ledley and Robson-Kanu, as they had to, being the most (en)chanted players.
Ledley settled in alongside Allen and Hal made those characteristic wide runs, allowing Bale to run at them from deeper.
As Ramsey pushed up we looked dangerous and, although stumbling, he made the goal for Robson-Kanu ( scuffed shot, but who cares?).
In the last part we could've scored two or three more as Bale was released on the break, but he seemed very leggy.
Final whistle and we leapt and cheered, my vocal chords strained to the point of snapping.
We had done it!
As B. cried with joy, I couldn't help but do likewise.
Leaving the stadium, Slovakians lined up to clap all the Welsh fans and some opposing fans hugged each other.
How far away from England v. Russia?
And this was the game we eventually watched in a bar, after seeing the legendary Gruff Rhys on the tramcar dressed for winter (but without bobble-hat for once).
Delicious beer at last called Edelweiss, as one Cymru fan actually celebrated Dier's goal ( a Spurs supporter?).
When Russia equalised there was more joyous jumping and chanting of 'We are top of the league!'
Could it get any better? Maybe not.
Can we qualify for the last 16 , or do we have to rely on England and Russia being expelled?
Well, it was worth every penny, every hold-up, suffocating journey, crazy dash across Paris and hangovers like hammer-head sharks.
Bring on England!
I want to hear Rob Phillips proclaim - ' David Cameron! Boris Johnson! Charlie Windsor!.....we beat your boyz!'
1 A.M. IN PLACE DE LA VICTOIRE
Dancers, chanters
in Place de la Victoire
summoning spirits of '58
merlins from Caerfyrddin
tribes from Tredegar
magic-men from Meirionydd
Slovakians with flags and trumpets
one giving his shirt away
to a wheelchaired Welsh fan,
French in tricolour wigs
singing the Marseillaise
with boys from Colwyn Bay
who know all the words
four Bleus in wheelchairs
ready in formation
as cars enter the square
and we drum each one
the owners not angry
but joining the celebration
dancers, chanters
in Place de la Victoire
night before the game
as though we knew
'Hal Robson, Hal Robson-Kanu!'
some ancient 'hud'
'Calon Lan' and 'Hen Wlad'
no invasion just party
and to broadcast loudly
'We're yer! Dyn ni yma o hyd!'
Notes : hud - magic
'Dyn ni yma o hyd' - from Dafydd Iwan's song, meaning 'We are still here'
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