HE'S BACK !

...but I have to say that Castres really was the place to be - all weekend.

I arrived there just before 3 pm on Friday afternoon, having had the usual delays in and out of CDG – how I hate that accursed airport! Luckily, I was seated next to a friendly expat on the Paris-Toulouse flight, and he very kindly gave me a lift to Gare Matabiau. After downing a sandwich, I boarded the 13.46 for Mazamet, and disembarked just over an hour later. I found that ElthamWasp and RichardWasp had been on the same train. As we were all staying at the same hotel, we pooled resources for a cab. The hotel bumph rather generously claimed that it was 5km from town. It seemed more like 7 or 8. The hotel itself was pleasant enough, with quite a cosy bar, but it was located at the far end of a huge trading estate, with magnificent views of a large Citroen showroom immediately opposite, and the tantalising sight of the Buffalo Grill just a few yards further away. There to greet us was midlander5, who’d just driven in from Andorra.

After checking in PDQ, we were heading back to town with half an hour. We were rather shocked to see that all the roadside hoardings seemed to be covered with huge posters of Danny Grewcock! On closer inspection, we discovered that the Bath Bruiser’s lookalike was a pop singer, whose name (thankfully) escapes me. If the men from the Wreck ever visit Castres in the near future, Mr. Grewcock may well find himself the target of some unexpected attention!

Once we reached the town centre, things immediately improved. Although it’s described as an industrial town, it has a charming centre, with many fine mediaeval buildings. It also has plenty of bars and restaurants. Surprise, surprise - we went straight to the Bar & Brasserie Europe, on the spacious main square. A few other Waspies soon appeared, and we got stuck in to some of the local Gaillac wine – slightly rough, if truth be known. But, when in Rome!

After an hour or so, we moved on to La Cocina, which had been recommended by none other than Paul Volley. It has a nice riverside location, immediately opposite the stunning mediaeval houses which adorn most postcards of Castres. It’s run by the former Argentina prop, Maurizio Reggiardo, who’s now playing for a junior club in the region, after serving Castres for several years.

It was mild enough for us to sit outside, and we had a few more snifters before crossing Le Pont Vieux to the restaurant of that name. We opted for the mid-priced menu – four courses at €21.50. Courses one to three were too big for any of us to tackle number four. Another visit to La Cocina, where Maurizio himself was now behind the bar, and we sat down to watch the Gloucester-Leinster game. Having launched a few chants of ‘Glawster, Glawster’, we celebrated their win and got a cab back to Buffalo View. A quick visit to the bar and off for a fairly early night.

After a leisurely breakfast, we arrived in town just after 10 a.m. on Saturday, to find that the central square (and the road alongside the river) were the scene for a bustling food (and wine!) market. After strolling around for a while, we went for a morning coffee, where we found the advance guard of Waspie day trippers, who’d come in from Toulouse and other nearby towns. After catching up on the gossip, we repaired to another riverside bar, just a couple of doors along from La Cocina. The location, and the bar, had some similarities with Chez Imbernon, in Perpignan – but Monsieur le Patron could not have been more different from the giant former lock. The guy that ran this place was so camp that he made Julian Clary, Quentin Crisp and Graham Norton seem like the Pontypool Front Row.

When I ordered a pastis, he minced up to me and purred, in best Clouseau English: “Wid yoe lak an asskyurb?”, making the most of pouting opportunities presented by his final question!

We lingered outside for a while, welcoming other familiar faces, before deciding to head off to the Stade Pierre Antoine, which is barely a mile out of the centre. We were confident that the roads to the ground would be lined with cheery bars. Sadly, the only signs of any life were in two military equipment shops, next to the huge barracks, where paratroopers are trained.

We found the ground without difficulty, to learn that it would not be open for another half an hour, so we went straight to the neighbouring supermarket and bought some beer, cheese and bread. As we began our impromptu picnic, in the car park, we were hailed by locals – in fact they were Toulouse fans, who invited us to join them in a glass of wine. Vive l’Entente Cordiale!

And so to the game. Most of you will have seen it and read about it, so there’s not much that I can add. Suffice it to say that analogies of the Alamo, Rorke’s Drift and Horatio at the bridge all sprang to mind. I haven’t yet watched the recording of the match. I hope it conveyed the atmosphere in the ground. Not as loud as Perpignan or Biarritz perhaps, but every bit as partisan. At times, when every perceived Wasps offence prompted a spontaneous and concerted chorus of advice to the referee, you could have been forgiven for thinking you were at Kingsholm. One chap behind me kept muttering: “Tout le temps, monsieur l’arbitre. Tout le temps!” The decision not to penalise Eoin Reddan, for apparent obstruction, prompted a hail of missiles which lasted several minutes. Luckily, the missiles in question were the crumpled up blue and white cards our stand had been given to hold up to hail the Castres players, as they came on to the pitch.

There was a great deal of emotion when the final whistle came, and we all gathered outside the players’ entrance to show our appreciation as the guys left for the official bash just across the road. Nearly all of them looked completely shattered – not surprising!


I headed back to town, having arranged to meet everybody else back at la Cocina. I was in fact given a lift by a local, after I asked him the best way. I have to say that the people in Castres could not have been friendlier. From the moment we arrived, anyone wearing Wasps colours was immediately approached by enthusiastic locals, who were eager to discuss ‘Le Match’. They were every bit as friendly after the game!

Quite a crowd had already gathered in the back bar, ready to watch the Munster-Leicester game. We were soon joined by several of the players, along with a beaming Geech and a Shaun who was grinning from ear to ear. It soon became so crowded and noisy that I decided to de-camp(!) to our friend, Monsieur Asskyurb. There, in all their glory, and kitted out in their pinstriped suits, were the majority of the team, looking suitably delighted and tired. Asskyurb was on nuage neuf. His bar full of muscular, well-dressed men - Christmas had come early! I’m reliably informed that they drank him out of beer! I left, just as Martin Purdy’s guitar came out for a joyful singsong – one of those great evenings where players, supporters and management all mingle in a way which staggers newcomers to our game. One tour virgin was heard to gasp, open-mouthed: “I can’t believe it! This would never happen with Man. United!” Too true!

I hurried off to meet a couple of friends who’d just driven up from Nice, and we had an excellent dinner. I’m told that, in my absence, Lawrence received an endless flow of champagne from Monsieur Reggiardo, which he then happily dispensed to all and sundry.

Back to Buffalo View, for an Armagnac nightcap.

I saw Asskyurb the following morning. As I sat in a café on the main square, he walked past with his little dog. I waved at him, and he beamed excitedly and waved back enthusiastically. He might go down well with one of the patrons of the Black Horse, Fulmer.

And so, the train back to Toulouse. Even after less than 48 hours in Castres, the culture shock of returning to the urban bustle was enormous. It made you realise how much we will miss visiting places like Castres, should the French boycott of the Heineken Cup not be lifted. In small towns like that, you cannot miss the fact that a big game is on. In the big cities, life goes on, with most of the citizens supremely indifferent to what matters so much to us.

I ran into a lot of Ulster fans, quite a few of whom had been to our match. Not surprisingly, the first thing they talked about was Trevor Brennan’s moment of madness. They decided they’d boycott his bar – De Danu – in protest!

This was truly a weekend to remember – both on and off the field. The players dug deep to produce one of the great Wasps performance. And those of us who were there exposed to the warm and vibrant spirit of French rugby.

One thing I made sure of doing was to visit the tourist office, to ask why it was so hard to find Castres hotels on the internet. She gave me a complete list of accommodation in the town, most of which you can’t currently find on the web. Next time, I’ll be all right, Jacques!

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