Cardiff, this weekend is awash with the bouquet of Bordeaux and awhiff with the fume of Gitanes. The soundtrack is the babble of expressive chatter in a gallic tongue. As I ran this morning, I couldn't help but notice an air of sophistication in the Bay, with groups of French fans enjoying the early morning Cardiff sunshine. I swear I saw Maurice Chevalier and Édith Piaf by the Norwegian Church.
Judging by the barriers I saw outside outside St David's Hotel and the hoards of blue clad men looking like the cast of Asterix the Gaul, I'd say that the French rugby team are encamped there for this weekend's Six Nations match against Wales. By the time many of you read this, the match will be over and Wales will be Grand Slam winners of the Six Nations, or not.
There is, in my mind, a difference to rugby games involving the French. I'm not talking about the behaviour of the players on the pitch but the behaviour of the fans during the weekend around the game. They are more like tournaments than matches. There is a relaxed loucheness that is unattainable in the routs with our Celtic cousins and a gentrification that is only aspirational in the clashes with our Anglo Saxon opposites.
I'll leave you with this: Your Mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.
| Today's run at 08:24 | |||
| Distance | 4.01 km | Time | 23:19 |
| Pace | 5:49 min/km | Cadence | 81 spm |
| Comments: Bright. | |||
Definitely something I miss about cardiff.
ReplyDeleteThe ripple of the French language in Cardiff happens but once a year.
ReplyDeleteOnce every two years actually Duncs.
ReplyDeleteAhem, once every two years actually Duncs!
ReplyDeleteMy error... Once every two years, of course. Perhaps it was wishful thinking.
ReplyDelete