Cardiff - When the sonorous singing swells through the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff next month, you will know that, win or lose, Wales will fight to the end in the Rugby World Cup.
Fighting, singing and poetry are in the very DNA of the Welsh people and, as we stand outside the stadium, rugby legend Gareth Edwards remembers that day in 1977 when, on the brink of a seventh Five Nations victory, captain Phil Bennett told his dream team (including Edwards and Barry John): “We’ve been exploited, raped, controlled and punished by the English and that is who we are playing this afternoon.”
The Welsh poet laureate Dylan Thomas, born a century ago, summed up that spirit: “Do not go gently into that good night… rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
The Red Dragons will live those words on the field of the World Cup. And this time it will be the recently knighted Sir Gareth who will help inspire his countrymen. One of the finest scrum-halves yet, he loves the country of his birth with a passion – a passion equalled only by his love for fly fishing.
It is the intertwining of legends and landscapes that makes Wales so compelling. I have interviewed Edwards three times and on each he has chosen to fly fish in rivers synonymous with his childhood favourite haunts – the Wye, the Tweed and the Taff – or to play golf at Celtic Manor, home of the Ryder Cup.
Cardiff – a once-busy port shipping coal and ore to Bristol – has almost become a shrine to Edwards: The city, in addition to an impressive castle, of which there are 600-odd in Wales, has a statue of Edwards, the majestic Millennium Stadium (which resembles a futuristic cathedral) – and another “rugby cathedral” from the past – Cardiff Arms Park, where “Sir Gar”, playing for the Barbarians, scored the greatest try yet against the All Blacks.
But to experience the true beauty and pulse of the fabled green valleys, you should head for Britain’s southernmost mountain range, the Brecon Beacons, and first national park – one hour north of Cardiff.
After winding through a breathtaking mountain pass, past lakes and conifers, one drives through rural Powys to arrive at the gates of imposing Jacobean manor Llangoed Hall, whose rambling gardens are juxtaposed with fields of maize and Jersey cows with a suitably colourful past.
This was the seat of the first Welsh government, a property that was reputedly later lost in a card game to the MacNamara family who, after two generations, sold it to Sir Bertram William Clough-Ellis, a renowned architect who redesigned it as an Edwardian country house. In 1987, it was bought by Englishman Sir Bernard Ashley and, eventually, turned into the first hotel in Wales to acquire a Michelin star.
There is an aura about Llangoed – apart from the thrill of watching Edwards deftly snare a fish in the River Wye and devouring it with him and his wife, Maureen, in the dining room, while eloquently being educated on the finer points of the local religion, rugby.
The plethora of original art, the antiques, spacious rooms, the grand staircase and sweeping views set the stage, while the white-gloved waiters and Cole Porter piano music encourage one to waft from floor to floor like Audrey Hepburn in High Society.
Although Edwards had elected to meet me at Cardiff Arms Park – “because that is symbolic to me, of what my knighthood means to the Welsh” – I had to go back to Sir Bernard’s home for the sake of Welsh singer Max Boyce, who in 2007 arranged a helicopter ride from Llangoed Hall across the Brecons to his modest village, Glynneath, where he stood on the rugby field waving the South African flag and singing our national anthem as we landed.
I was not disappointed. A signature ash tree had been stuck down by wind, the grass tennis court had morphed into an outdoor chess set, the suites had been refurbished and there was a new French chef, but the Llangoed Hall of my cherished memories, with her rambling apple orchard, manicured croquet lawn and meandering woods, remained intact.
Writer Alexander McCall Smith apparently slept in the same bed, although I might have preferred the thought of Sean Connery...
If you are not as accomplished a fisherman as Edwards, you can gently canoe down the river, admiring the swans and wildlife. The famous Griffin Inn, where choirs serenade your beer-swigging, is within walking distance and the biggest agriculture show in Europe takes place almost on the doorstep.
At the opening ceremony at the Millennium Stadium, it took me 45 minutes to find Edwards – and a further 45 minutes to fend off fans who worship the ground he walks on.
Yet a more modest knight you could not wish to meet: “You grow up watching your fathers emerge from blackened, belching coal mines and the green grass of the beckoning rugby fields becomes an escape. I kicked a ball from dawn to dusk every day as a youngster and you dream of first representing your country and then, when that becomes a reality, success is measured in trophies, just as an Olympic athlete is measured by his medals.
“I never had an inkling a knighthood was coming. And when it did I accepted it on behalf of everyone who ever helped me in the game.”
Edwards comments on the necessity for every team to have a brilliant flyhalf, be it a Barry John, a Leigh Halfpenny or a Jonny Wilkinson.
“It’s like having a big serve at Wimbledon… you have to be able to get those free points on the board at every opportunity.
“The margins of error – or divine intervention – that define a Rugby World Cup victory are ridiculously slim.”
We are now in the hallowed sanctuary of the Welsh Trophy Room and I am seeing vintage memorabilia from Lions and Springbok tours – an ostrich feather creation from the South African government takes pride of place.
I have a vision of Sir Gar having to fish the Red Dragon out of this “Pool of Pariahs”, but between that possibility and now, he is joining Welsh entertainer Boyce on a night fishing expedition to catch elusive brown trout out the River Taff as they continue to rage red into the sunset of Camelot…
l Curtis-Setchell traversed the UK care of Avis/Budget UK.
Saturday Star