Month: September 2011

Impure speculation

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Ok so I spent time in Canada and was struck by the locals (everywhere!) passion for hockey. I watched schoolboys from Oakville and semi-pro’s from Thunder Bay; the same. High tensile, testosterone-fuelled balletic brutality cheered upon by parents or truck drivers psychotic with feeling. Equivalent, absolutely, to our footie. Wayne Gretski and Mario Le Mieux (if I remember correctly) were godlike – Rooneyesque – in their pomp. I watched Canada v USSR in a university campus bar and nearly suicidally cheered for the Soviets, such was the volume, magnificence and crassness of the home support. But man they meant it; this was the lurid expression of something powerful and wonderful as well as daft and politically dubious.

Now an appalling number – does the number matter? – of fellow hockey people have been wiped out; in Russia. A sort of Busby Babes echo – only more multi-nationally devastating – reverberates, for now even this hard-wired northern sport has ‘gone big’ and gathered in players from distant lands. Thus in a city we know nothing about (Yaroslavl) a spectacular pool of A list skating talent has been cruelly wasted. Lost too a Canadian coach – Brad McCrimmon.  And inevitably cruel worries will begin to gnaw, about what immediately should have been done and what, more broadly, consists airline safety policy in the region.

But having loved Canada’s heartiness, through the depths of several feet of snow, in fact; through the clatter and skid and bawl and body-check of hockey games; despite the absurdity – perversity even – of this link, I feel sad, deeply sad to hear of this loss. And I imagine and I think I hope that my soul brothers and sisters in Ontario, Manitoba, Saskatchewan are, at least in their minds, laying wreaths for their Russian friends, for the 11 foreign players, as well as the teams Canadian coach.

Away

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So going away is a kindof imperative. Ya need to, ya have to, it makes spiritual sense. Maybe the crushingly banal “change is as good as a rest” motif tessellated somewhere in the shadowy but soft-focussed depths of your mind has something, enough truth to make it worth the effort of packing all that stuff?  A picnic. Water. Information; mobile phone stuff, dog stuff. And that’s just for the journey. In our case this was up to the Llyn.

So we’re in Pembrokeshire, meaning we scoot – or creep and boot! – straight up the coast, pretty much. Over the glorious pimples – the Preseli’s – ‘cross the often really rather majestic Teifi and then up through the Mid-Wales coastline, where you can’t overtake for 60 miles, unless you get your Lewis Hamilton head on, which I do, when it’s safe, at about ten minute intervals. (Make that twenty minutes). Think about stopping at Aberaeron, which should you be slowish, educated, maybe foodie people might entrap you – so far we’re proving too young, too wild, too… on a journey. But I don’t rule it out, for the wide-street regency(?)-battenburg thing that’s going on is certainly appealing; and maybe too the marina I mean harbour. But by one principal car park the sea-wall and indeed the seaside is more concrete than abstract in its er… appeal.

But I’m being snobbish. It’s almost certainly a lovely town, Aberaeron – certainly parts of it are – but like much of the alternately low-slung/darkly brooding townie developed coast from here to Aberystwyth and beyond, compared to Pembs, it’s crap alternating with high pastures. The coast, that is. Something to do with the non-sand; and caravans; and fields. So we tend to look for kites.

I have, in this context to relate a minor but possibly horrifying tale for soulful or, perchance, twitchy members of my readership. On a recent jaunt up here in my capacity as coach to a junior regional cricket side, (I thank yo’), during a moment of coach-like joviality I bet the assembled players (12, aged 9 or 10, on a minibus) 50p I would see the first red kite. And I did. However it failed to dawn on me until the return journey that I think none of the boys had understood the red kite in question to be a bird of prey. They had (presumably) assumed I’d asked them a surreal question about… red kites. What this says about their family lives in rural South West Wales I try hard – very hard – not to be too judgemental upon. But I don’t care in the slightest if I sound pretentious in the following revelation; that my son and daughter both knew what a red kite was when they were 4. Maybe earlier.

In case you are interested, there are loads of Kites in this part of Ceredigion and beyond because a) the world is getting more wonderful and b) there’s a feeding station just up the road.

You skirt Aber ‘proper’ as you go North, into richer territory. Views of more authentic mountains and authentically twisted, bat-friendly trees. A flash of Aberdovey, of a river, of a railway. Less kites but maybe an osprey as Machynlleth approaches. Detour to Ynys Hir, the wetland/estuary wildlife reserve south of Mac, for a walk, a picnic, a squirrel-fest. Wonder what the posh hotel that apparently doesn’t take kids is like. Fusty and pompous? Or a relief? Imagine staying there when we’re older and foodier and all that. Wild sex and willow warblers. Maybe.

On through absurdly walled mountain flanks – Cadair Idris – passing glassy glacial lakes and pubs fit for proper trekkers with filthy boots and good taste in bitter. Down the ensuing bullet-road, who’s shamelessly exposed invitation to speed I fully intent to accept, in an Aston Martin, one day, pausing for a celebratory pint – or overnight stop! – at the Three Foxes. Then on, past stony Dolgellau.

Having stopped for healthy nosebaggings at The Quarry Cafe, Machynlleth, we were keen to (I was keen) to press on, but the Mawddach estuary is always a treasure and in the sunshine, the extraordinary railway bridge framing the view, I almost stopped. These few miles just south of and leading into Barmouth are just top. Beyond it gets caravanacious and Scousiferous and Mancunatious, as we know – and why wouldn’t it with a real, major population within striking distance? Fortunately there are the local, hoodied mountains and the views of Things Further Off; the big guns of Snowdonia proper.

Harlech is worth a proper shuftie and I always had a soft spot for the wacky little toll bridge towards Porthmadoc – a 12 year old boy inevitably fidgeting with his Nintendo between curt revolutions of the STOP/GO sign. Otherwise blast on past Criccieth and Pwhelli, both of which seem disappointing. Getting close now, to our bolthole by Rhiw. And things open up and we lose the people and the tack and the everything, except that land’s end feeling as we roll past Porth Neigwl. Second time around, we find our slot, down a gravel track, to a loose, child-friendly, animal-friendly former farmstead. Here. Let the dog out.

A REAL MONSTER WORLD CUP !!

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Let’s hope the coming Rugby World Cup doesn’t suffer the indignities and the general scorn deservedly poured upon Channel 4’s coverage of the World Athletics Championship. In trying to rescue the situation, that near-hunky young bloke in a lumberjack shirt, with worryingly good teeth, who looked like maybe he was just about to offer the nation DIY tips, convinced almost nobody, even with the fairly wonderful Michael Johnson supporting.  The commentating ranked about no. 142 in the world this year, and Iwan Thomas – whilst coming across as the kind of geezer you might want to jaunt down the wine bar with to swap news about bands coming to the Uni – performed substantially below his PB. Given the outstanding nature of some of the sport… t’was a shame.

And it’s only now that having looked at telly schedules, I begin to fear a repeat…

Steve Rider – too smooth and bland by half – whom you might imagine has no connection whatsoever with sport, never mind rugby, fronts ITV coverage, with ‘back-up’ from Craig Doyle. (ITV1 and 4 have it all. The Beeb lost the radio slots too, to Talksport). Personally, I won’t miss Guscott’s slightly porky platitudes but the Butler/Moore axis, even if watched from behind the settee during their Anglo-welsh spats, will be missed. Big Eddie – a cultured and generous sort – will be essential reading in The Guardian and Observer, whilst Moorie will apparently be contributing – sharply – on Talksport. In combination with David Campese, the gifted and lary Aussie winger, that could be worth a listen. But it’s the action that counts, right?

The All Blacks have to be favourites, despite recent defeats in the Tri-nations. The fabulous tension around their likely progress is all in the head; but the head of a nation, plus, in truth, a whole world of rugby-conversant bystanders, now familiar with and even excited by the notion that the Kiwis could choke. Again. The Blacks are an astonishingly engineered and prepared side, year after year turning in performances of a standard far beyond anything achieved by pretenders from the North. This year is no different. France and England might compete for parts of a game – usually not more than about half of it – and an inspired Wales side (who have been known to genuinely threaten them) may conceivably make a match of it… but I doubt it. The All Blacks are still – are always – in a different league in terms of their pace and handling at breakdowns; they are more ruthless – magnificently so – when opportunity twinkles; they seamlessly switch from planned moves to electric impro’. They still have McCaw and Carter and so much more besides.

Surely then, they have too much for any of our lot? England may benefit from the need to be massive/conservative in dodgy weather and tight games – though games tend, unsurprisingly, to be tight when teams daren’t play expansively. Which England turns up per game will either by a complete irrelevance or an important and developing theme in the tournament, depending on results during dodgy weather and tight games. Ireland are almost certain to be found out as a seriously declining force fairly rapidly. Scotland may compete with real honour in a group suggesting forward power will be key, but surely they could never get beyond a quarter final? Wales, as always have a real pool of talent, particularly in the backs, so that if something really goes for them – a special and uplifting moment or two from Hook or Williams, perhaps? – then their Lion-like colours may begin to chase. But surely not to the end?

The Aussies and the Springboks however, do pose a legitimate danger – as real as the sickening possibility for psycho-doom alluded to by so many already. It appears likely that the Aussie pack (or perhaps more accurately their front five), having been mangled by the Italians and the Irish in the group phase, may not carry them to ultimate victory, despite their recent Tri-nations success. Elsom and Pocock are odds-on to be influential or even outstanding, but for the Wallabies to win big their admittedly hirsute ‘girls’ – extraordinarily minus Giteau – may have to play out of their skins. Indeed, for anyone other than the homesters to win the tournament, it may necessitate a new breed of exhilarating brilliance to emerge; or might it just be moments?

Whether the South Africans, until a year or so ago arguably on a par with the Blacks, can produce enough… I wonder. They should bludgeon and/or dance their way through their group and if they emerge fired up and confident then maybe lookout. The ideal scenario for us who are either unbiased or who know in our hearts that our own are Mullered Men Walking might be all three of the Tri-nations giants shaking off the minor inconvenience of the group stage with a controlled heat idling. For then we might see that top level international rugby really can be as dangerously exciting as a forest fire.

So burn burn burn.