Day 9 - Home

Day 9

Miles travelled - 327 (2214 in total for the trip)

French phrase of the day - Le Tunnel (The Tunnel)

Straightforward day today. Hour drive to Calais, stocked up on cheap wine and beer, and then shared the drive back home with Dad, reaching Llansantffraid and two very excited children (I got a good ten seconds of attention before the present bags took over) just before six o clock. 

So that's it then. Trip of a lifetime over. Back to enjoying the tournament on television, like every other since 1986 when I first watched these brilliant sporting occasions.

With the next two world cups based in Russia and Mars (or somewhere equally as appropriate), and the UEFA experiment of playing the next tournament all around Europe, it's not a trip I'll have the opportunity to do for quite some time. Also, given my dad's 67 now and he's only got 35 or 40 more years left him, unlikely that we'll have another Hopkins/Hopkins Jnr. road trip of this magnitude again.

But there's always something else to look forward to.

The amount we've packed in has left me totally exhausted, so I've just got enough energy to share with you some of the final memories swirling round my head. 

Taking my Dad for his first ever trip to a harvester and watching him struggle to comprehend the number of hugely obese people all in one place at one time. Driving down the French motorways and seeing the beautiful simple villages with their steeples. Cracking open what I thought was a hard boiled egg at the breakfast table, but turned out to be raw, making a terrible mess, and which gave Dad the most enjoyment I've seen him have on the trip. He almost passed out laughing. The Welsh national anthem before the first match bringing us both to the verge of tears. Having a tear up with Bosch Customer Service whilst on the telephone in a little square in Lyon. Facetiming the family and feeling those pangs of homesickness. Listening to Dad happily humming chants he had picked up whilst watching Belgium. Eating cheese rolls in bed at midnight with a can of lager. Watching pretty girls on bikes. Watching a Welsh team continue to play above themselves as individuals and keeping a nation proud, even in defeat. Listening to the Marseilles in the fan park before the opening game. The friendship, warmth and generosity that I saw on an hourly basis amongst fans of all nations. And finally, that magical Saturday in Bordeaux, when Hal mended the hearts that Pele had broken in 1958. 

Couple of thanks before I retire from writing blogs forever.

Firstly to those of you who've read it. It started simply as a way for me to record this trip in a slightly different way, and one day perhaps for my children to read it and be interested in it. However, the numbers of who have read it have come as a lovely surprise and I genuinely hope you enjoyed at least parts of it.

Also to my family (including some no longer with us) who in their own different ways (they know how) made this trip happen for me in the way it did, and I thought of them all frequently throughout. Finally a special mention for my Dad. It was a little bit of a step into the unknown living 9 days in each other's pockets, but it was just superb. Being able to share this trip with him both as father and son, and as friends, is something I'll always be thankful for.

Thanks Dad.

Cymru am byth.

The end. 

Day 8 - Football

Day 8

Miles travelled - 444

French phrase of the day - Un bise (a kiss on the cheek)

Funny really, today ended up being all about the football, when pretty much everything else on the trip has been about other things, with the football matches just hanging it all together. A new country, new acquaintances, old friends, good food and wine, plenty of wine, some beautiful scenery and just hundreds of thousands of different people from all over the world enjoying themselves. Those have been the special moments for me, but made even better by it being linked to following Wales around, even if only for their first two games.

But today felt much more like we were all there just for the game. An important one, but not a special one. There was clearly rivalry in the air, but not a hint of trouble, and Lens gave us everything we needed by way of a welcome to at least have a beer and make some noise in the sunshine. Both Dad and I had been sorted out with tickets thanks to some very kind Welsh fans (neither of whom asked for a penny above the face value of the ticket), facilitated by another kind Welshpool soul. 

Bale's brilliance again gave us a fantastic moment, and the team gave everything but even though it came in a cruel way, England's late winner saw the right team get the points.   Let's hope Wales have something left in the tank for the game against Russia, and hope that Gareth Bale can be Mr Monday Night and extend our dream for a little longer. Even if they don't, it's been quite some achievement by this set of players. 

On the way out, one of the volunteers, a girl about 20 or so, approached me to ask if she could have my flag for her young brother. I initially said no, thinking I'd keep the flag as a memento for myself, but a few steps later, I realised the pointlessness of keeping a flag I'd bought from EBay just a week ago, and which would end up gathering dust in our loft pretty soon. I've already got plenty of mementos and memories, and I'm sure her young brother will treasure it more than me, even if only for a short while. 

So I returned to her, handed it over, and she gave me an unexpected big hug and a kiss on the cheek. So very French. And it was a very nice moment for me to sign out of these championships in person. 

Thanks to pitchside photographer Matt Ashton, for getting a nice shot of me with said flag.

After the game it was back to the hotel just north of Lens, another two star job, but at least the two stars here haven't been secured to the wall with blu tack like our first one. 

Home tomorrow, and one final post from me to close off this blog, and this remarkable experience. 

Day 7 - Calm before the storm

Day 7

Miles Travelled - 2

French word of the day - Avec (With)

Another short update today. No football and no particularly humorous incidents. 

Little bit of sightseeing today instead. Went to my third cathedral of the trip (a basilica at the top of a massive hill in Lyon). I have a standard routine, which I repeat at any cathedral, and which is as follows, starting from the point of arrival at said cathedral :

1) let out a little gasp and say to my travelling companion - "very impressive isn't it?"

2) go inside 

3) repeat step 1

4) take the opportunity to sit down on one of the many seats for ten minutes 

5) leave 

After that, and after another little beer stop (I'm going to miss these in particular) my Dad and I took a boat trip down the Rhone for a circular tour of Lyon. 8/10. 

We then had more beer and a pizza in a tourist trap before sharing a bus back to our hotel  with a bloke from Swansea and one another from Northern Ireland, where we pondered upon the mathematical possibilities that could lead to us both qualifying from our groups. It certainly beats work. 

At this point I should point out that I have been using my GCSE French to the maximum throughout this trip. There's been more 'Je voudrais', 'Un xxxxxx sil vous plait', 'Merci beaucoup' and 'Ou est la toilettes' than you can shake a stick at. Even when the French have done that thing where they smile and then calmly reply to you in perfect English, I haven't been dissuaded, and carry on using my broken French, always leaving them with a hearty "Au revoir". 

Unfortunately, I haven't had any opportunity to 'provide directions to someone who asks you where the town hall is' nor to 'write to your pen pal Pierre in La Rochelle to tell him about the unfortunate accident you had whilst skiing'.

The low point came tonight though when I confidently ordered 'Un Sprite Avec Un grande Biere' only to spend the subsequent minute desperately trying to convince the barman not to pour them in the same glass. Think I might just go back to pointing and speaking English slowly instead. 

Anyway, it's a 4.30am alarm call in the morning, with a 400 mile trip to do to Lens by midday, so I'll sign off. 

Two more days to go. 

Day 6 - Portugal Vs Iceland

Day 6 

Miles travelled - 92

French phrase of the day - Marcher (walk)

I thought today would be all about Ronaldo. It ended early up being all about Iceland. What a story.

After a very quiet morning (which featured a superb mid morning nap), we headed off to St Etienne, having managed to get tickets for the Portugal Vs Iceland. 

I got the sense of St Etienne  even more so than either of the other two cities we've visited, were totally embracing the opportunity to host matches in this tournament. Along with the official fan park, there was also a more informal party with a DJ in the town hall square. Fans from all nations were sat outside the numerous bars and restaurants, making a terrific atmosphere. 

After a something like a three mile walk around the town, all based around a decent restaurant, which was firmly closed when we arrived (French opening hours are as  maverick as their attitudes to strikes), we got a tram upto the stadium.

The Iceland story is a great one. With a 330,000 population, like Wales they are here at their first ever tournament. There was a huge presence from their fans throughout the town, with a high proportion of families bringing children of all ages. 

Security was high outside the stadium. I had the most efficient body pat down by a security guard I've ever had (including those in airports) on the way in, to the point I got extremely ticklish mid point, and had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing as some of my more sensitive areas were randomly grabbed by the security guard. Would it have been inappropriate to have laughed during a body search? Surely no more inappropriate than the behaviour of my father who began queuing in the female only queue, where you receive a body search from a female security guard. I think he must be missing my mother. 

I'll probably write something about all the hooliganism stuff at the end of this trip, but yet again all that I saw were fans having a brilliant time. When we got into the stadium, we had great seats, with English, Portuguese, Icelandic, Japanese, French and Russian supporters all sat within a couple of seats of us. Interestingly, the Russian lady sat next to us had each one of her fingernails individually patriotically painted. These includes Russian flags, Russian dolls, footballs, and an image of a Mixed Martial Arts fighter hammering a football supporter with an iron bar. Well, the last one was made up, but the rest were true. 

The games was high paced action throughout. The Icelandic fans were fantastic, and objectively I'd have to say this was the best atmosphere of the three games I've been to, with the 38,000 capacity stadium noisy throughout. 

Iceland had a great chance to score early but were denied by the keeper and Portugal took over, with a goal on the half hour. I thought I would be neutral watching this game, but just after half time when Iceland majestically swept in their equalised, I, along with the other neutrals around me, leapt to my feet to cheer. It was quite moment. 

They hung on, despite a couple more great Portuguese chances, and received a great ovation at the end. The Portugal fans looked shell shocked. 

Another great day. We're into the home straight of the trip now, with our last day in Lyon tomorrow before we start making the long trip home, with just the small matter of Wales v England to deal with. 

Day 5 - Italia!

Day 5 

Miles travelled - 38

French word of the day - Fromage (Cheese - I'm eating my bodyweight in the stuff this trip) 

Good day today. Explored Lyon by foot, tram and trolleybus. Since the kids have come along, the simple joy of spending holidays wandering round a new city, stopping for something to eat or drink as you want, has become a distant memory, replaced by endless kids clubs and shows featuring Anxious the Elephant and DJ Ned. Still, won't be long before I can bore them to tears by dragging them round various European cities I'm sure. 

Quickly became apparent that the Belgians were hugely outnumbering the Italians in the city today. The red devils as they call themselves were packing the cafes and bars from midday onwards. Great atmosphere all day, with plenty of singing, drinking and not a hint of trouble. I'm sick to death of Seven Nation Army mind. 

Dad and I have managed to go 5 days without a row, despite me putting up with some absolute nonsense from him.  Here's a couple of the gems we've had from him today:

"Gareth, look here in this shop window. There's a pair of jeans for 49 euros. But next to them, there's the same pair but with a rip in the knees, and they cost 69 euros!"

"Oh no, my rain hat has got all wet....."

Also, the mess he got into ordering his breakfast in a cafe had to be seen to be believed. They had to bring him an English language menu out in the end, which in the culinary capital of France is as insulting as it gets. He assures me he got a 'pass' in his O Level French however, and overall he's been great company so I'll lay off him for now. 

Can't quite work the Italian support out. The country's regional history is pretty complicated of course and I know that the national team's relationship with the Italian people is not straightforward, but hell they always bang out their national anthem, particularly that last line about their name being Italy, or something like that. And when they went one up, they suddenly showed up. Also, seemed to be a lot of English and other non-Italians supporting them.

The game was very enjoyable. Belgium started strong but Italy, the seasoned veterans they are, got a beautiful goal out of nothing, and held firm defensively before sealing it with a second in injury time. We missed the second goal as we'd left to catch the bus before the crowds hit. Always makes me wonder why the hell do we travel miles and spend ££££s to watch a game of football and then bugger off early just to save ten minutes queuing to get out. 

Still, I was back in the hotel within 40 minutes of the final whistle,  tucked up with a can of Sterling lager (40p a can) and my third cheese sandwich of the day, so it was a good call.

St Etiene for another night game tomorrow. Then it's time to turn our thoughts to England in Lens. 

Day 4 - Bordeaux to Lyon

Day 4 

Miles travelled - 345

French word of the day - Crepe (Pancake......... or is it a Crepe? Anyway, it's what I had for my lunch) 

Will keep it brief today. Still a little drained to be honest after yesterday, which really was as good as it gets. 

So today was a stunning drive across France, from Bordeaux to Lyon, past the Chaine des Puys, a collection of volcanic mountains which gave some superb views. 

Comedic highlight was my father choosing to pay a 10 euro toll with a 50 euro note, and then getting paid his change entirely in coins, and promptly dropping half of it out of the car window. The Spanish couple in the car behind, who had to wait for two minutes whilst he scrabbled round on the floor after it, found it hilarious. Or perhaps they'd clocked the GB sticker on the car and thought we might hurl some patio furniture at them if they didn't laugh. 

Decent hotel with a pool in Lyon for the next four nights. We're based opposite a camping site where there are lots of fans from different countries including English and Belgiums who all seem to be getting on and having a great time. Not sure that will make the pages of the Daily Mail mind. 

Belgium V Italy tomorrow. The first International I've attended as a neutral since watching Colombia Vs Morocco at the Nou Camp in 2006. Now there was a clash of cultures.

Off to sleep now. Still dreaming of Hal. 

Day 3 - Hal Robson-Kanu

Miles - 26 (just the car rides in and out of Bordeaux from the hotel)

French word of the day - Biere (Beer)

"Excuse me sir, what does it say on the back of those t shirts" the elderly French gentleman said to me. "I think it's meant to say in French that they have sex with sheep" I replied. "Yes, but the translation is very poor and it makes no sense" a nearby French girl on a bicycle chipped in. "Don't tell them" I said, "they're having a good time".

And they were, and so were around 24,000 other Welsh fans in Bordeaux. It's a great city, and has managed the influx of fans with total ease. The bars and cafes have been packed, the weather has been reasonably kind, and there's been a very relaxing atmosphere all around.

After a morning stroll down Rue St Catherine, France's longest pedestrianised street as you all know, we ventured to the Blarney Stone. I always think it's vital to really try to get to know a city when you travel, and nothing achieves this less than visiting a faux Irish pub to drink a pint of carlsberg out of a plastic cup, surrounded by people from your own country.

From there, we had an enjoyable catch up with some fellow Montgomeryshire lads, and after a decent pizza, more beer, a glass of wine and a shot of limoncello, we headed off to the Cathedral, then another couple of bars for more beer and wine, and then headed off to the stadium.

To be honest, the alcohol was kicking in at that point and I joined in perhaps over-heartily with the Welsh songs on the tram on the way there. The Welsh have really upped their game in terms of songs and decent airings were given for both 'Give me hope Joe Allen' and 'Ain't nobody like Joe Ledley'. However, neither of these could touch the 'Hal Robson-Kanu' rave-up.

Ah, Hal. A proper cult hero. I'd even worn my Hal t shirt as a tribute to the man. Says everything about Wales that's man who has been released by Reading and essentially is currently eligible to claim unemployment benefits is just as revered by the fans as one of the top 5 footballers in the world.

Not going to rattle on too much about the game. If you're interested, you will have seen it yourself so you'll know how it went. And if you're not, well then you're just waiting for me to go back to amusing anecdotes aren't you?

All I can say is that the Welsh fans and team were superb. Brought, emotion, passion and humour to the stadium in bucketfuls. Kept together when Slovakia threatened to overrun us second half, and then of course Hal came on and with eight minutes to go, and gave us the result that we've all dreamed of. The last few minutes with the wall of sound in the stadium was just terrific. 

A perfect day. Spent an hour or so more in Bordeaux with another beer and a ham and cheese sandwich with the ham taken out (the vegetarian option) and then back to the hotel in time to see the end of the England game with a nightcap.

Plenty of alcohol. Plenty of singing. Plenty of magic. 

And Hal.

Off to Lyon tomorrow. See you there. 

Day 2 - Bordeaux

Day 2

Miles travelled - 400

French phrase of the day? Mouvement de greve (Strike Movement) 

Reasonable night sleep followed by a two star breakfast and the old man and I were back on the road by 7.30am. Nice bloke at breakfast with a strong South East English accent said he was also off to Bordeaux. Claimed to have been born in Barry Island - didn't believe him, but great to see people will now say anything to jump on the Bale bandwagon. 

The toll roads over here are superb. 80mph speed limits and no traffic. Stopped off for a great pre booked lunch in a town called Saintes, which was only slightly ruined by the cheese plate not having a Jacobs cracker in sight. I didn't say anything, it's all part of the experience I guess. 

Arrived at decent hotel on the outskirts of Bordeaux - the sight of carpets, soft furnishing and a working shower a welcome step up from last night's lodgings. 

Anyone who has ever travelled with me knows how much I like to plan things out. I spend hours ahead of every single holiday trying to ensure I know where to eat and drink, what to see, how to travel, and to be as well prepared as possible. Basically, squeezing any sense of adventure, surprise and spontaneity out of weekend breaks away and annual family holidays has become my calling card. And I love it. 

So it was that we turned up at the local tram station, exactly as planned, so we could park the car and do the short trip into the heart of Bordeaux. No cars in the car park. And no trams running either. So we went to my Plan B and drove to another nearby tram station again with a car park. Again, no cars or trams. 

A guy nearby, having clearly spotted our number plate, wandered over and said 'Alright mate, never seen a British person around here before'. I asked him if the trams were running to which he replied firmly "No, because the French are a load of wankers. They're on strike". He then explained he was living in France because he was "lumbered" with a French girlfriend (his words not mine). He had one of those 'pint' shirts that typically have a matching 'half pint' t short worn by your child. Clearly this bloke had become trapped in a loveless marriage,  with a child to boot, in a country he hated, and now he couldn't even get a tram for a night away from this domestic nightmare. 

He looked at Dad and I, clearly desperate for us to offer some sage words of advice, or even perhaps to bundle him into the back of our car and take him back to Blighty. We didn't though. He was in his early 40s, smelt a little of alcohol, and to be honest, was a little bit odd, so we drove quickly off. 

Eventually we got into Bordeaux, driving past the Charles Dickens pub packed with red shirts and headed into the fan park to watch the opening game. 

Since Folkestone, the odd Welsh fan here and there has turned into cars and minibuses full of them on the roads leading here, then into dozens in the bars and finally in the fan park hundreds if not thousands of us. Brilliant to see. 

Listened to the French fans sing the national anthem - Le marseillaise is something to behold live, behind the Italian one only as my favourite other anthem, and it's finally sinking in now that tomorrow, the waiting is over. Hairs on the back of your neck time.

Decent second half, and a great winning goal for the French. Let's hope our boys can strike one like that tomorrow.

Back to the hotel for a Stella, and now for some sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow. 

Day 1 - We're off

Day 1 

Miles travelled - 493

French word of the day? Ferme (closed).

A day of travelling today. Left Llansantffraid at 7.15 and 290 miles later, we were at the Folkestone Channel Tunnel terminal. 

Plenty of Welsh fans there when we got there. All looking a little dazed to be honest. Still not sure the fact we are going to a major championship has sunk in. A quick toilet stop, a few seconds of quiet reflective thought by the picture of Gordon Kaye and Vicky Michelle which hangs outside the Gents, and half an hour later we arrived in France. 

This is only my third time driving on the continent and the first few miles are always a little nervy, but a straightforward three hour drive and we reached our motel.

I'd warned my father not to expect too much from our first hotel. The £19 a person pricetag and Tripadvisor ratings speaking of 'firm beds' and being 'OK for a quick stop off' should have dropped the expectations further. However, the sad look on his face when we opened the door to two camp beds in a baking hot and tiny little room, will haunt me forever. 

I suggested we go to the nearby village for a beer. He was out of the door before I'd finished asking the question. And he doesn't really drink much.

Orbec is the nearby village/small town and it has a dazzling array of creperies, bars, restaurants, wine bars, 'pubs', and ice cream parlours. All of which appear to be closed ('ferme') by 8.30pm of a Thursday night. 

In fairness there was one place open but to be honest, based on the blokes drinking outside,  I'd have felt more comfortable if I'd opened a bottle of 'Butty Bach' opposite Poundland in Welshpool, approached the drinkers who gather outside the public toilets there, and declared "Let's talk Brexit".

"This is a lovely little town" declared Dad. "Shame it's closed".

We go again tomorrow. 

The new plan

So as we established last time, the Euro 2004 trip was cancelled.


This time round, thanks to our tight defence, genius of Gareth Bale and great team spirit formed by Speed and built on by Coleman, qualification was as straightforward as we could hope for after a number of great nights, including a brave 0-0 draw in Belgium and a 1-0 win in the reverse fixture.


We qualified on my 36th birthday, 10 October 2015. By losing of course, but let's forget that for now. Within a month or so, I had the general plan set out for our trip to France and bit by bit it has fallen into place ever since, to the point where I actually have three restaurant reservations arranged. Although in fairness, one of those is at a Harvester near the channl tunnel (£5.99 early bird with all the salad and bread rolls you can eat....) so it's not exactly Rob Brydon and Steve Coogan in The Trip.


In summary, we set off on Thursday by car, reaching Bordeaux the next day. We watch Wales kick things off against Slovakia, and then the next day head across to Lyon for a four night stay.


Whilst we're there, we have tickets to both Belgium Vs Italy, and also Portugal Vs Iceland in nearby St Etiene.


Over those few days, I hope to immerse myself into French culture (i.e. red wine, cheese and bread) and just generally enjoy being in a foreign country that is hosting a major tournament, and in which Wales are competing in. Our first major championship for.....well, you know how long.


Then it's time to head back home, with just the little matter of Wales V England in Lens en route. Thanks to some very helpful Montgomeryshire folk, we've managed to get one ticket so far for that , with just one more needed which hopefully I'll get sorted out sooner rather than later.


Total distance we travel by car will be somewhere in the region of 2,300 miles.


It's almost time to set off.


Come on Wales.

The Plan

I've been planning this trip since 2002. Euro 2004 was to be played in Portugal, and with the Welsh side on fire, a couple of weeks in a villa or hotel with some international football thrown in looked inevitable.


Wales had been drawn in a group with Italy, Serbia, Finland and Azerbaijan. Second place was a real possibility. I was in the second year of my Graduate Development Scheme working at the DVLA down in Swansea, and went along to every home game including the friendlies that came beforehand. We beat Germany and drew with Argentina, to finally get some optimism flowing for the first time in 10 years that once the qualifying matches started, this could be our time.

Things kicked off with a great away win in Finland before our first home game against the Azurri. Mark Hughes as manager had at his disposal a fairly settled first 11, which was balanced and full of quality and had plenty of experience of top flight English football. This had been a rarity over the past decade.


Skip on to October 16 2002. Wales V Italy at a packed Millenium Stadium The Manic Street Preachers play (mimed) as the pre-game entertainment, a performance still packed with emotion, but even that (and I say this as a massive MSP fan who middle-named their little boy after the erstwhile Richey) was then topped by Bryn Terfyl belting out "Mae hen wlad fy nhadau" shortly after John Charles had made an appearance. If we could have, we'd have wheeled out Dylan Thomas and Richard Burton. By god, you felt Welsh that night. Anticipation and a general feeling of expectation that something spectacular was going to happen was everywhere you turned.


Within 10 minutes or so, we were 1 up, Simon Davies firing home to cap a great start from the lads. The inevitable fight back came of course, with Italy scoring a deflected free kick from Del Piero later on in the first half. Del Piero was something of a hero of mine, albeit more for his sideboards than his set piece prowess. Below is a picture of me trying to follow in his path back in 1999, although to be honest in retrospect my facial hair is closer to that of Amos from Emmerdale. And even that's less of an issue than the fact that I'm wearing a bum bag.


 Anyway, at 1-1 we all settled down and hope to hang on for a decent point.


Except we didn't. We came out second half, tore into the Italians again and after some classic hold-up play from John Hartson, Craig Bellamy rounded the keeper and fired home the winner. The reaction was incredible. I've never seen anything like it at a football match before or since. Absolute jubilation from everyone there, old and young. Bloody amazing. The scenes at the final whistle were incredible and just for a few minutes, we felt unstoppable as a force.


I'll touch on how it all ended again, but suffice to say I never got to Portugal in 2004. I ended up in a Spanish seaside resort called Tossa.


12 years later, and as part of our road trip I've got four nights booked in a hotel in a place called Craponne. It seems I still have a penchant for booking holidays in places with beautifully titled names. Only this time, my holiday coincides with Wales' first major football tournament for.......well, you know how long.

A trip down Memory Lane

I can't claim to be the biggest fan of the Welsh football team. I've been to see them in person no more than a couple of dozen times or so. My attendance record pales by the side of thousands of others, who go to extraordinary lengths to follow a team that has not qualified for a major championships since...well, I think we all know for how long.


However, a week tomorrow, I will be setting off from Welshpool in Montgomeryshire at 7am with my Father, on an eight day trip to France. It's a trip that I never thought would happen, and as long as our relationship holds out on the 800+ mile initial journey (we normally fall out within the first twenty minutes of any journey when he's driving - mainly due to his laissez faire attitude to roundabout lanes...) then on the 11th of May, we will be in the Stade de Bordeaux to watch watch Wales' opening game of the Euro 2016 tournament against Slovakia.


My first experience watching Wales came aged 7, when Dad took me along to the Racecourse in Wrexham, and I still vividly remember Ian Rush equalising against Czechoslovakia in the final minutes at the Kop End - the opposite end to where I was sitting. The Racecourse is a ground I've visited several times since, cheering on Shrewsbury Town to a number of memorable victories - supporting an English club side and a Welsh national team has always sat comfortably with both me, and many others from Mid Wales. It was a great introduction to international football, especially as we avoided defeat, but on reviewing the statistics, I note that had we drawn our away match with Denmark rather than suffer a narrow 1-0 defeat, we would have gone to the Euro 88 championships. So many near misses.


The Welshpool Town boys team I played for were made ballboys for the Wales vs Georgia game in 1995 at Cardiff Arms Park, thanks to the generosity of Welshpool legend Tegwyn Evans, of whom I will mention more of in another blog. We had a great day out, getting to see the players up close, and I was positioned behind Neville Southall's goal, getting a particularly good view of the George Kinkladze winner which sailed over Big Nev's head. The moment when a 15 year old version of me puts his hands to his head can be seen on the youtube link below, saved for posterity for ever more.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Apz97NYNV34


Since then, Dad and I have undertaken away trips to Dusseldorf, Milan, Bologna and Prague to watch Wales. Highlights have included meeting Ryan Giggs in Italy, drinking dirt cheap beer in Teplice, belting out the national anthem in Piazza del Duomo, but the common theme has been defeat every time. In fact, my Dad has managed 6 trips to the continent to watch Wales, and in that has seen 2 Welsh goals, 5 defeats and a goalless draw!


Two years living down in Swansea when the games at the Millenium Stadium were so easy to get to was a particular highlight, given that it was a fine Welsh team that again came within a hair's breadth of qualification to a major tournament including that great win over Italy, and a fine friendly win over Germany. Yet, almost inevitably, it ended in play-off heartbreak against Russia.


Memories eh?


One of my happiest memories of watching a Welsh side comes from 1988. Not for the game, although the occasion of the Wales U-18 team (featuring Chris Coleman) playing a match at Latham Park in Newtown was pretty big news in Montgomeryshire that year. The importance of the memory for me comes from it being  one of many happy times I shared with my Granddad who passed away later the next year, and the only time we'd watch international football together. Inevitably, we lost (4-1), but I still remember the excitement of the game played under floodlights, and the happiness in receiving a small Welsh flag he had bought for me to take to the game.


I wish I still had the flag, it would be coming with Dad and I to Bordeaux next week, but in its place will be all of the above memories and more, and the chance to make new ones on what could be a once a lifetime trip.