Dim, drizzly, murky November afternoons feel like the perfect backdrop for rugby international matches with an historic rivalry.

Memories come flooding back of great winter treks when New Zealand would tour these islands for months on end travelling the length and breadth of our countries playing clubs, combined xv’s and finally the Barbarians.

In the modern professional era, this type of rugby odyssey is no longer viable, and the game is all the poorer for it. But there are still the vestiges of those magical days in international form, where the anticipation and thrill of the contest are still very much as they have always been.

On days like these you can feel the ghosts of seasons past breathing down your neck Duckham, Kirkpatrick, Going, Obolensky, days when rugby was black and white on the field and on your television.

England and New Zealand matches, for more than a century, have heavily favoured the All Blacks, but the rivalry is about far more than wins and losses. The two sides first met in 1905, during the famous tour of the “Original All Blacks.” New Zealand won 15–0 at Crystal Palace, a match that introduced English crowds to the revolutionary running and passing style that would come to define New Zealand rugby. For England, it was both a shock and a revelation, a glimpse of how far the game had evolved beyond its birthplace.

The two nations have met each other on 43 occasions with New Zealand winning 33, England 8 and two matches have been drawn.

This All Blacks side, by their own high standards, have shown hitherto unseen signs of vulnerability, emphasised by recent narrow defeats to Argentina and massively to South Africa.

But in victories over Ireland and Scotland over the last few weeks we have seen if not a rejuvenation then certainly signs of greater things to come from this group of players. Facing England at Twickenham would be the acid test.

For an England side unbeaten in their last nine games, this was the day to prove that they could live with the big dogs of the game. With a frightening depth of talent now at their disposal, there could be no excuses.

England started in full colour, pounding the All Black defence, but the visitors held out and scored tries through Fainga’anuku and Taylor in a five-minute spell.

Lawrence pulled one back for England before George Ford landed two drop goals in the space of two minutes just before half-time to make it a one point game.

The second half couldn’t have started much worse for New Zealand, a harsh yellow card for Codie Taylor and a try conceded within the opening three minutes.

England pounced on an error strewn All Blacks team and built up a 25-12 lead before Will Jordan scored for New Zealand closing the gap to sevens points with fifteen minutes remaining.

England despite being down to fourteen following Ben Earle’s yellow card not only saw out the remainder of the game but managed a further try from right wing Tom Roebuck.

Make no mistake, this was a convincing win for England. Whilst their chest pumping and posturing after every successful turnover and penalty may not be to everyone’s liking, there is no doubt they have woken up the Allianz Stadium, which was as loud as I have ever heard it.

It may have been rugby in black in white, but there will have been plenty painting the town red in the Twickenham area and further afield last night and maybe for a few nights to come.

“La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid” or, for those of us who scraped through GCE French, “revenge is a dish best served cold”,

One of the first recorded instances of the saying in print was in the 1845 French novel Mathilde by Eugène Sue, which suggested the phrase was already in common usage at the time.

Three years ago, on this very soil in the Northern outskirts of Paris, the Springboks broke French hearts. They trampled all over their Rugby World Cup dreams and left a long-lasting and deep hurt in the soul of Les Bleus.

Saturday night was the first meeting between the two teams since that October night in 2023 when an epic World Cup quarter-final ended with a South African victory by a single point (29-28).

Time heals old wounds, but there was still plenty of rugby scar tissue remaining to remind the boys in blue of that epic balmy autumn night 756 days ago.

There were six French survivors in the starting line up from that game and there would have been many more but for France’s extensive injury list which includes Peato Mauvaka, Uini Atonio, Tevita Tatafu, Paul Mallez, Matthias Halagahu, Joshua Brennan, François Cros, Antoine Dupont, Baptiste Couilloud, Louis Le Brun, Jonathan Danty, Yoram Moefana, Théo Attissogbe, Gabin Villière, Romain Buros plus Pierre-Louis Barassi, Matthis Lebel, Matthieu Jalibert, Romain Taofifenua and the recently returned Baptiste Serin.

In a match that should have been measured on the Richter scale the hits were immense and the physicality in all quarters was simply breathtaking from start to finish.

Damian Penaud’s first half brace of tries, the first after just four minutes, gave France a narrow 14-13 half time lead with the Boks further punished by Lood De Jäger’s 39th minute permanent red card.

France started the second half where they left off. A penalty from Ramos extended the home side’s lead to 17-13 but their their dominance of territory and possession were not converted into any further points.

The 14 man Springbok team that appeared to be on the rack produced a defensive masterclass and staged a remarkable comeback scoring nineteen points in the last fifteen minutes of the match including three tries to give them a remarkable 32-17 victory.

A night that had started so promisingly for a France ended with an almost silent Stade de France crowd slinking off into the darkness of a late dark Parisian night engulfed in a feeling of Deja vu.

Revenge a dish best served cold was not on the menu tonight.

There’s a certain electricity that hums through a stadium when Cam Roigard takes the field. It’s not just the anticipation of what he might do next, it’s the sense that, at any moment, he could change the course of the game.

From the quiet fields of Cambridge on the banks of the Waikato river to the roaring cauldron of international rugby, Roigard’s rise has been a story of persistence, patience, and passion. He wasn’t born into rugby royalty, nor did his ascent come overnight. It came through sweat, toil, long drives to training, and the relentless pursuit of something greater.

At Counties Manukau, he learned to lead men older and stronger than himself. With the Hurricanes, he became the spark, a scrum-half who saw space where others saw walls, who appeared to have more time than anyone else. His game displayed both art and aggression, a dancer’s footwork with a warrior’s heart.

When Roigard pulled on the All Blacks jersey for the first time, against Australia in 2023, it was an arrival. His crisp passing, fearless running, and predatory instincts brought crowds to their feet. The Kiwi’s took him to their hearts, earning him the love of a nation recognising one of its own.

Then came the cruel twist of sport which the rugby gods can endow so cruelly, he tore his left patella tendon playing for the Hurricanes in March 2025 a knee injury that stopped him in his pomp.

For months, he could only watch as others played the game that lived in his bones. But even from the sideline, Roigard’s spirit never dimmed. He spoke of gratitude, of growth, of using the setback to come back stronger. And when he did return, he carried not just speed, but steel, a player tempered by the bitter experience.

Now, as New Zealand rugby rebuild and dare I say it look human, Cam Roigard provides both as both promise and proof.

Proof that the black jersey still finds its way to those who earn it the hard way, and promise that the heartbeat of the game’s future beats strong in men like him.

Every pass he makes feels like poetry, every tackle a reminder that greatness isn’t built in comfort but in courage. The crowd may cheer the tries, but it’s the story behind it the grind, the grit, the grace, the humility that makes Cam Roigard a name to remember.

Because in the rhythm of his play, New Zealand can hear its rugby heart beat, and those of us who have the privilege of watching him play can feel our pulses racing that little bit faster too.

“On the anniversary of his death I felt moved to write a piece about Grav. Here is my humble tribute. May you continue to rest in peace Ray.”

RAYMOND WILLIAM ROBERT GRAVELL 

(12 September 1951 – 31 October 2007)

WALES CAP NUMBER 763

BRITISH & IRISH LIONS CAP NUMBER 553

“The centre must be everything — the shield, the sword, and the storyteller.” 

To be a centre in Welsh rugby is to carry a tradition of partnership, pride, and poise under pressure. It is to step into a jersey once worn by legends and be expected to play with the same courage and commitment. Whether it’s holding the defensive line, launching a counterattack from deep, or cutting inside to crash over the whitewash, the centre has always been more than just a cog in the machine. In Wales, the centre is the soul of the backline.

Calpe is a charming old town in south east Spain. Its landscape and sandy beaches make it an ideal holiday destination. The peaceful and relaxed demeanour emanating is a complete contrast to the nearby lively resorts of Alicante and Benidorm.

The magnificent Rock Penon de lfach hovers above Calpe. That limestone mountain is 330 metres high and connected to the ground by a neck of land. It is one of the most beautiful geographical features on the Mediterranean coast.

It was in this delightful place that Ray Gravell passed away at the age of 56 whilst on holiday with his family on 31 October 2007 just over two thousand miles away from his beloved Wales and his home on top of another mountain Mynydd y Garreg (mountain of stone).

This is a place I know all too well. As child I was brought up in the town of Kidwelly just down the road.

For Raymond William Gravell his mountain home was his castle, the fact that there was already an imposing Norman castle in Kidwelly was a total irrelevance. 

His heart, the one that gave out on that fateful day in Spain, belonged to Wales, but Ray gave a piece of if to every one he met. It was a heart that was full, a heart that was generous, maybe he had given away so much of it to others that it couldn’t carry on.

The date of his death, 31 October, could not have been more poignant, it was on that exact date in 1972 that Grav wore the number 13 shirt for Llanelli in the club’s greatest ever victory a 9-3 win over the New Zealand All Blacks. It really does make you wonder whether there is some vast eternal symmetrical plan to our earthly life.

Ray crammed so much in to his fifty-six years on this earth, he lived many different lives and didn’t waste a single minute.

Born on 12 September 1951 in Kidwelly he was no stranger to tragedy. His father took his own life after the pain of a mining accident became too much to bear both physically and mentally. Ray was one of a group to find his fathers body aged only fourteen the horror of that experience must have been hugely traumatic and something Ray had to carry with him on those broad shoulders for the rest of his life.

Despite winning 23 caps for Wales and playing in all four Tests on the Lions’ 1980 tour of South Africa, Gravell never saw himself as one of the greats. 

For a man of giant stature and power on the field of play he was saddled with a deep-seated insecurity. 

Friends and former team-mates recall that he was always looking for reassurance both on and off the field as well as personally and professionally.

One of the greatest rugby coaches the world has ever seen, Carwyn James, was in charge at Llanelli when Gravell started his senior career with the Scarlets in 1969 making his senior debut in 1970 against Lampeter.

Grav stated categorically that Carwyn made him believe that he was better than he was. “Carwyn knew, better than most, that psychology plays a big part in sport, I do not think I was that good a player, but Carwyn made me think I was a world-beater. I was 21 when Llanelli beat New Zealand in 1972, the youngest player in the side. I was terrified before the game, but listening to Delme Thomas and Carwyn speaking before we went on to the field made me forget my nerves. Even all this time later, I can remember exactly what they said, the goose pimples their words provoked and how tall they made me feel.”

Gravell was one of the first of a new breed of centres taking the ball up the middle, enticing defenders and using his strength to cross the gain line whilst holding on to the ball to provide a target for the forwards. He became pigeon holed as a crash-ball centre, but he was much more than that, he was also a skilled provider as the wingers at both Llanelli and Wales would happily testify.

Five Nations Championship 1975 France v Wales Parc des Princes Paris

The many stories surrounding Grav’s Wales debut have passed into legend, it used to be that children would sit on their Grampa’s knee and be regaled with tales of Gelert, but that all changed in 1975 and those fireside stories of myths and legends became centred on Raymond Gravell.

For the uninitiated one of the best known, and loved, folk-tales in Wales is the story of a faithful hound.

The story goes that in the thirteenth century Prince Llewelyn the Great had a palace at Beddgelert in Caernarvonshire, and as the Prince was a keen hunter, he spent much of his time in the surrounding countryside. He had many hunting dogs, but one day when he summoned them his favourite dog Gelert didn’t appear, so Llywelyn had to go hunting without him.

When Llywelyn returned from the hunt, he was greeted by Gelert who came bounding towards him …his jaws dripping with blood.

The Prince was appalled, and a horrible thought came into his mind …was the blood on the dog’s muzzle that of his one-year old son. His worst fears were realised when he saw in the child’s nursery, an upturned cradle, and walls spattered with blood! He searched for the child but there was no sign of him. Llywelyn was convinced that his favourite hound had killed his son. Enraged with grief he took his sword and plunged it into Gelert’s heart.

As the dog howled, Llywelyn heard a child’s cry coming from underneath the upturned cradle. It was his son, unharmed! Beside the child was an enormous wolf, dead, killed by the brave Gelert.

Llywelyn was struck with remorse and carried the body of his faithful dog outside the castle walls, and buried him where everyone could see the grave of this brave animal, and hear the story of his valiant fight with the wolf.

In Wales there is often a very thin veil between myth and reality and to confirm that premise a short walk from the village of Beddgelert following the footpath of the Glaslyn river there is a stone monument to mark the resting place of Gelert the faithful hound. History lesson over let’s get back to Grav.

He was selected to make his international debut with x other new caps at Parc des Princes not the sort of place considered a wise choice to be an inexperienced new cap but Wales well and truly debunked that theory with a magnificent 25-10 win.

One of six new caps Grav travelled to Cardiff on the Thursday before the match spending the night at the Angel Hotel. He was a bundle of nerves. JJ Williams, his team-mate with Llanelli, Wales, and the British Lions, said “Grav was so nervous before his debut in Paris and we shared a room that Thursday night.

“At about three o’clock in the morning, I heard a commotion in the room, only to wake up and Grav was packed to go home. “I can’t take the pressure JJ, I’m not cut out for international rugby, I’m going home’,” he said.

“If I hadn’t told him to jump back into bed his career would’ve been over before it started. He did get back into bed and of course the rest is history. But that was his strength. He was a bag of nerves but then when he stepped onto the field he just exploded.”

John Dawes, the Wales coach who selected Gravell spoke about the new man’s dreadful nervousness.

“We lost Grav, we didn’t know where he was and then all of a sudden we could hear a noise in the toilets and there was Grav singing Dafydd Iwan songs in one of the cubicles Derek Quinnell had to knock on the door and beg him to come out and when he eventually did he looked ten feet tall and ready to face the French”

One of the tales that has passed into legend from that 1975 debut concerned a telegram he received before kick off.

DEAR RAYMOND

ALL OUR LOVE

MAMI & TWDLS

Twdls by the way was the family cat.

The match itself turned out to be one of the greatest and most unexpected wins in Welsh rugby history, and Ray was convinced that somehow his Father was close and with him on that most special of days.

Wales to everyone’s surprise led 17-7 at half time scoring a try after just three minutes through new cap Steve Fenwick who seized upon a sliced Gareth Edward drop goal attempt to touch down near the posts.

The French fans booed their team constantly throughout the second half as the men in red rampaged to a memorable victory scoring five tries in the process with Terry Cobner, Gerald Davies, Gareth Edwards and Graham Price adding to Fenwick’s early effort. Wales failed to achieve another win in Paris for twenty four years.

Five Nations Championship. 18 February 1978. Wales v Scotland. National Stadium, Cardiff 

Ray’s only try for Wales in a major international came against Scotland in the wintry Welsh capital in early 1978. Snow had been cleared from the pitch and was piled up behind the posts but it was nothing to compare with what was to follow later that day. 

Wales were awarded a penalty following Scotland being pinged for being on the wrong side at a ruck inside the Scottish twenty-two on the fifteen metre line at the Westgate Street end of the ground.

Bill McLaren’s commentary thrilled television Welsh viewers on the BBC’s Grandstand programme.

“So the Welsh are going for a quick one-Edwards to Windsor to Edwards-Gravell of Llanelli- and Gravell is there-the whole of Llanelli will be simply thrilled”.

Once the match was over it started snowing heavily, the blizzard turned out to be one of the worst of the century. Around two feet of snow fell post match between 6pm and 10pm. Cardiff was completely cut off and the Welsh players were marooned in the Angel Hotel until Monday morning whilst the Scotland squad fought their way to Birmingham, the nearest operating airport, on the Sunday afternoon for a flight home.

Five Nations Championship. 20 March 1982. Wales v Scotland National Stadium, Cardiff Arms Park.

Four years after scoring his first international at the same ground and against the same opponents Ray’s international career came to an abrupt end as Wales were heavily defeated by a rampant Scottish outfit.

The manner of the defeat left the country in a state of shock. Wales had not lost a Five Nations game at home for fourteen years, equating to twenty seven championship matches. It was Scotland’s first win in Cardiff for twenty years and Wales had never previously conceded five tries at home there were bound to be scapegoats after such a national disaster.

“I remember praying with six minutes to go for the match to end and bring the nightmare to an end, I had never felt like that before on a rugby field.”

Grav decided he would end his international career on his own terms although he did not make an announcement until the start of the following season.

Ray continued to play club rugby with his beloved Llanelli until 1985, his final game a Welsh Cup game against Llandovery on 26 January 1985 where he suffered a broken arm, After 485 appearances scoring 120 tries he finally hung up his boots.

He had been diagnosed with diabetes in 2000 and campaigned vigorously to help raise funds for research into the disorder. In 2007 he was admitted to hospital with blood supply problems in his right leg. Toxins in the tip of his little toe had spread and septicaemia had set in. His life was saved on Friday 13th April by an operation to amputate his right leg below the knee. According to reports Ray was only days away from death.

Even after this traumatic event because of a condition brought on by diabetes, his renowned humour did not desert him he was cracking jokes about how he was never a kicking centre anyway. His artificial leg was Scarlet with the Llanelli club crest emblazoned on the front

When you have a street named after you it’s a pretty good indicator that you are regarded as someone special.

Jonah Lomu Drive in Auckland, Muhammad Ali Boulevard in Louisville, Kentucky along with Jack Nicklaus Drive in Palm Beach, Florida are testament to that fact. 

England has honoured two Steve’s in similar fashion with Ovett Close, just yards from the Crystal Palace athletics track, and Redgrave Road in Putney a town famed for its association with rowing.

Just a stones throw away from Stade de France in Paris lies Rue Jesse Owens where there is a wonderful boulangerie and my regular coffee haunt when covering France’s home games.

So when the band U2 start singing ‘where the streets have no name’ send them to any one of those locations or better still point them in the direction of Mynnyd y Garreg where the road sign Heol Ray Gravell stands proudly, and for those readers who don’t speak the language of heaven Heol is Welsh for Road.

At the end of his playing days, he joined the BBC in Cardiff and took the leading role in a BBC Cymru film for S4C, Bonner. In 1991, he played an impoverished 19th-century farmer in a big-screen adaptation of Dylan Thomas’s Rebecca’s Daughters, starring Peter O’Toole, and the following year played Jeremy Irons’ chauffeur in the Louis Malle film Damage. 

Also in 1991 he received a letter inviting him to become a member of the Gorsedd of Bards.

He was inaugurated at the National Eisteddfod in Machynlleth.

Up until his death, he hosted radio programmes and was due to present the shirts to the Wales players before the November 24 international against South Africa in Cardiff but sadly fate intervened.

On 15 November 2007 under cloudless bright blue sun kissed skies 6000 filled the stands at Stradey Park and even more lined the streets of Llanelli to pay homage to the man for whom they had so much affection. The famous old scoreboard showed ‘Llanelli 9 Zeland Newydd 3’ and the Llanelli Male Voice choir and Burry Port Brass Band led the crowd through Calon Lan and Cwm Rhondda.

Ray emerged one last time from the Llanelli dressing room carried shoulder high by three of his team mates from that historic day in 1972 Delme Thomas, Derek Quinnell and Gareth Jenkins, along with three current Scarlets at the time Dwayne Peel, Simon Easterby and Stephen Jones.

His two young daughters, Manon and Gwenan wore Llanelli jerseys with their father’s number on the back, 13, as they and their mother, Mari, in lead the procession behind the coffin as former Scarlets, Wales and Lions hooker Robin McBryde carried the ‘Great Sword’ that Grav used to bear at the National Eisteddfod.

Rev Meirion Evans, a former archdruid and great friend of Grav, led the mourners and there were moving tributes from the First Minister as the time , Rhodri Morgan, Welsh historian Hywel Teifi Edwards, and former Wales and Lions legend Gerald Davies.

Wales First Minister Rhodri Morgan spoke: “Grav had charm and a Bambi like vulnerability. As a politician you rate communicators. But few of us touch people’s souls like Grav did. Every achievement of his he never expected. He had huge talents, but he didn’t realise he had them. He never expected anything and everything that came his way came as a pleasant surprise.”

Gerald Davies his friend and former team mate said: “For the many who knew him, and the many thousands who felt they knew him, he was an inspiration. He first made his name as a remarkable rugby player for Llanelli, Wales, the Lions and the Barbarians. As Carwyn James said of  Ray, ‘no one has ever worn the Welsh jersey with a sharper sense of what it means to be a Welshman’. He was happy among Princes, paupers and poets – and the difference meant nothing to him. He was dazzling and unforgettable with a heart of gold. He was a rugby Viking, a true warrior who Bill McLaren once declared to be ‘a force of nature’. Today is a remarkable testimony to this great Welshman’s benevolent heart.”

As Grav was carried from the field at Stradey Park for the final time. the crowd rose to give him one long last standing ovation it was a fitting tribute to the people’s friend.

Ollie Cracknell is renowned for his powerful ball-carrying, tireless work rate, and uncompromising physicality on the field. Born on May 26, 1994, in Leeds, Cracknell qualified to play for Wales through his Llanelli born grandfather.

He represented Wales at under-20 level, making a strong impression early with his aggression and commitment in the back row.

A few days ago after Leicester Tigers defeated Sale Sharks 36-35 in a pulsating match he was called up into the Wales senior squad for the upcoming Autumn Nations Series to replace the injured Taulupe Faletau.

Cracknell began his professional journey with the RGC 1404 academy in North Wales before joining the Ospreys in 2014. Over several seasons in Swansea, he established himself as one of the most consistent flankers in the United Rugby Championship earning a reputation as a player who thrives in the toughest physical battles. His performances for the Ospreys led to a senior Wales squad call-up under Warren Gatland in 2017 although he was not capped.

In 2021, Cracknell moved to the English Premiership with London Irish, where his robust defensive work and relentless tackling quickly made him a fan favourite. Following Irish’s closure in 2023, he signed with Leicester Tigers, continuing to showcase his trademark intensity and leadership in the Premiership’s back-row battles.

Speaking to him in Leicester he love for the club is very evident.

“Tigers have an environment where people improve and that is where I want to be. Knowing I will be somewhere I can improve and learn is a big thing for me.”

“The fanbase Leicester Tigers has is incredible and the history around the club enormous.”

“Tigers is a massive rugby club, you can see that, and I am really excited to be a part of it.”

Off the field he has a passion for ornithology and has ventured way up north to the Isle of Skye to observe birds of prey.

“I’ve been up to Scotland for a couple of family holidays and we saw eagles up there on one of those and I thought they were really interesting and I wanted to see one in the wild,” said the former Osprey.

“When we had we had week off in January sometime ago or February, I went with my dog up to the Isle of Skye in my camper van and saw a golden eagle and white-tailed eagles in the wild.”

Ollie’s call up came as a shock with most folks assuming fellow Tiger Tommy Reffell would get the call, but Wales coach Steve Tandy had other ideas.

Eight years after that initial call up it looks like he will finally get that elusive Welsh cap at the tender age of thirty-one

When I spoke to him that call had not been made

“Every player that goes out there in the Premiership aspires to play international rugby,” he said.

“I want to test myself at the highest level I can, but l’ve got to be patient and play as well as I can.”

Little did he know that call up was just hours away.

The Wales Grand Slam winning side of 1976 was pretty special, it contained names that have gone down in rugby legend as some of the all time greats, they played with a verve and an insouciance the like of which we Welsh pine for in these modern professional times.

So when, on 16 October 1976, Argentina came to town to play a fully laden Wales team, the expectation was one of an inevitable comfortable victory for the star-studded men in red, how wrong could you be.

In the lead up to the international, Argentina had beaten an East Wales side 25-22 at Rodney Parade, and followed it up with a 29-26 win over Cardiff.

An 18-6 victory over Aberavon followed, but four days before the match against Wales, the Pumas were beaten 14-12, at Stradey Park, by a West Wales side that included, Elgan Rees, Clive Griffiths Andy Hill and Geoff Wheel.

A large crowd gathered at the National Stadium for a three o’clock kick off, and to witness a contest within a contest as two of the greatest fly halves ever to grace the game faced each other, Phil Bennett the magical diminutive pale-faced Welshman, and Hugo Porta the Argentinian with the swarthy elegant film star looks, and it turned out to be quite some battle.

The scores were level at half time 6-6, two penalties apiece.

Wales scored two second half tries through Gareth Edwards and Gerald Davies, but as the match progressed the home crowd were about to witness the unthinkable.

George Gauweloose side-stepped JPR Williams forty-five metres out and ran over for an Argentinian try started way back in their own twenty-two.

The sight of JPR being beaten once in a match was a rarity, so when Gonzalez Becca Varela also ran past the great man to score in the corner, after Roy Bergiers had lost the ball in the Pumas twenty-two, there was an air of disbelief in the Cardiff autumn air.

As the match entered injury time, Argentina were leading 19-17, with seconds left to play Wales were awarded a penalty, following a high tackle on JPR Williams, which Phil Bennett converted to give Wales a 20-19 win.

Gareth Edwards rates the Pumas fly half, Hugo Porta, as one of the true greats of the game.

“Hugo gave Terry Cobner, Trevor Evans and Mervyn Davies the runaround that afternoon, Merv named him as the best fly half he had ever played against.” 

The match is still hugely revered in Argentina, indeed in 2016 the governing body arranged a massive gala de rugby to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of this memorable game.

Autumn is supposed to be the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, according to John Keats. Luckily for him, the great romantic poet was not involved with Welsh rugby.

For Wales, the turmoil continues. The season of mellow fruitfulness appears to be just a precursor to another winter of discontent, with little prospect of it being made glorious summer by the son of York or indeed anyone else involved in Welsh rugby at this moment in time.

But despite everything, we still sing, even if our voices are sotto voce. That is the tragedy and the beauty. We still rise. We still believe. Because the passion and love for Welsh rugby is not built on World Cups or Grand Slams, it is built on the first time a child clutches a rugby ball in the rain. It is built on stories told by grandparents of great victories over England, of Phil Bennett sidestepping through ghosts. It’s built on community, identity, and an unyielding belief that no matter how dark the tunnel, the dragon will roar again.

What we are witnessing is not the death of Welsh rugby but its reckoning. A time of painful truth. It must change fundamentally, structurally, spiritually. The old ways, the old arrogance, must be let go. We need leadership with integrity, not just nostalgia. We need investment, not just in stadiums, but in people in girls’ teams, in schools, in grassroots coaches who build more than players.

The soul of Welsh rugby hasn’t died, but it has been bruised, perhaps more deeply than ever. It limps where it once soared, wrapped not just in bandages, but in bureaucracy, disillusionment, and financial fragility.

With Argentina, Japan, New Zealand and South Africa to visit next month the only realistic prospect of a victory is the match against Japan, but the visitors from the land of the rising scrum will not fear the contest having beaten Wales in the drawn series in Japan during the summer.

If it is asking too much to expect the Dragon to roar, can we please just experience a little fire, heat and warmth to lighten up the dark winter days ahead.

Cymru am byth.

There are figures in sport who transcend the game. Not because they chase glory or hoist trophies aloft, but because they bring integrity, courage, and humanity to the heart of the contest. Nigel Owens was never the player scoring the match-winning try. He wasn’t the captain lifting silverware, Yet he earned a different kind of respect—quieter, deeper, lasting.

To watch Nigel Owens referee was to witness something rare: a man who didn’t just control the game, but elevated it. His whistle wasn’t just a signal of order—it was a symbol of fairness. His voice with a proud Welsh lilt, became a familiar and reassuring sound across stadiums and living rooms worldwide.

He had a gift, not just for reading the game, but for understanding players. When a scrum teetered on chaos, or tempers flared beneath the posts, he stepped in, not just as an official, but as a calm presence. His famous words, “This is not soccer,” weren’t just witty—they were a reminder of the standards the game demanded, and the respect he expected.

But what truly sets Nigel Owens apart isn’t just what he did on the pitch. It’s who he chose to be off it.

In a world where conformity often seems safer, Owens stood tall and proud as one of the first openly gay men in professional rugby. He carried that truth not as a burden, but as a beacon for every young player or fan who ever felt they didn’t belong in the game they loved. His courage didn’t just break boundaries it built bridges.

When he refereed his final international match, it wasn’t just the end of a career. It was the closing chapter of an era defined by authenticity, empathy, and class. There will be other great referees. But there will never be another quite like Nigel Owens.

Rugby was better with him in the middle. The game will go on, as it always does. But every time a whistle blows and order is restored to chaos, every time a ref earns the respect of the crowd, players, and pundits alike, there will be echoes of Nigel Owens in the silence after the whistle.

And that, in the end, is the measure of a legacy, not the noise you make, but the space you leave behind.

In rugby, the referee is often the invisible hand, guiding, disciplining, upholding the spirit of the game. But Nigel was never just another whistle on the field. He was a force of nature in the middle of it all. Calm in the storm of a Six Nations decider. Unshaken in the face of a roaring Eden Park crowd. Fair, firm, and unmistakably himself.

From gritty local derbies in Llanelli to the thunderous clash of World Cup titans at Twickenham, he brought the same honesty and humour to every match. Whether managing a messy scrum between South Africa and New Zealand, or defusing tensions in a fiery France v England test, he never lost control of the game or of his principles.

Players listened to him not because they had to, but because they wanted to. There was clarity in his calls, warmth and humour in his reprimands, and wisdom in his restraint.

“You don’t like it? Then go and play another game.”

“I am the referee, not your coach.”

“This is not soccer.”

Those weren’t just soundbites for highlight reels they were statements of principle Nigel Owens got respect not through punishment, but presence. His authority came not from the whistle, but from his authenticity.

But beyond the laws and lineouts, it was the man himself who inspired most.

In a sport where strength is celebrated in tackles and mauls, Owens redefined bravery. He spoke openly of his mental health struggles. Of his battle with bulimia. Of the loneliness of hiding who he truly was in a world that wasn’t always ready to accept him.

Nigel Owens showed them — and us — that you can be true to yourself and still command a stadium’s respect. That you can be vulnerable and still be strong. That you can be different and still be one of the best.

When he officiated his 100th international match — a test between France and Italy in the 2020 Autumn Nations Cup it was more than a milestone. It was a testament to a career defined by excellence and courage. A celebration not just of one man, but of the values that rugby should always stand for.

Now retired from the international game, you’ll find him on his farm, in the rolling hills of West Wales, tending to his prize Hereford’s and speaking with the same sincerity that once stilled scrums and settled nerves. Rugby has moved on, as it must. But Nigel Owens leaves a space in the centre of the pitch that will never quite be filled.

At first glance, rugby and opera couldn’t seem more different. One is fast, physical, and brutal. The other is slow, precise, and expressive. One is played in stadiums, often in the rain and mud. The other unfolds on stages lit by chandeliers and carried by orchestras. But beneath the surface, they’re not opposites, they are parallels.

Both are about performance. Both demand absolute commitment and both are driven by emotion, story, and the need to connect with an audience.

In rugby, the field is a stage. The players know eyes are on them. Every pass, tackle, or decision carries pressure. It is not just about winning, it is about showing heart, resilience, and skill in front of thousands of onlookers.

In opera, the singer takes the stage with a different kind of vulnerability. The voice must be perfect, the timing exact. But more importantly, the emotion must be real. You can’t fake a heartbreaking aria any more than you can fake a match-winning try.

What most people don’t see in either world is the training. The hours even years of practice. The pain, the sacrifices. In rugby, it’s the early mornings, the bruises, the physical toll. In opera, it’s vocal exercises, language study, constant repetition, and the pressure of perfection.

Opera tells its stories through music and emotion. The pain of love, the weight of loss, the joy of reunion, all delivered through voices that carry centuries of tradition.

Rugby tells stories too. Not with words, but with action. The underdog fight. The comeback. The heroics. Every match has its own emotional tale. A team on the ropes, digging deep. A player playing through pain. A moment of brilliance that changes everything. Both forms remind us of what it means to feel, to struggle, to overcome adversity.

There’s a ritual to both. In rugby, the anthem, the haka, the roar of the crowd. In opera, the hush before the curtain rises, the collective breath before the first note. The audience is never just a bystander, they’re part of the spectacle.

Fans of each carry deep loyalty, shared language, and reverence for history. A great performance lives on, whether it was a famous aria or a legendary match.

But what truly links rugby and opera is emotion. Raw, honest, sometimes overwhelming. They both ask their performers to feel deeply and to express that in a way others can share. And they both ask something of us, to show up, to watch, to listen, to care.

Rugby and opera might speak in different languages, but they both speak to the same part of us. The part that loves the story. That respects effort that wants to be moved.

They show us what’s possible when passion meets discipline. When physical strength or vocal power is guided by something more, the drive to connect, to move, to matter.

In the end, whether it’s a note that gives you chills or a last-minute score that makes you leap off your seat, it’s the same thing, the thrill of being part of something that reaches deep into the soul and takes you for that split second out of the troubled world we live in.

Beneath the floodlights, they ran not only for victory, but for every girl who once whispered, “Is there a place for me here?”

The roars at Twickenham were more than a cheer, it was a breaking of silence, a chorus declaring: You belong. You always have.

Grass stained knees, scarred hands, hearts unyielding, they carried the weight of generations who played unseen, who were told wait, who were told NO !

This time, the stadiums were full, the cameras stayed, the world leaned closer. And in that closeness something shifted, perception, possibility, the horizon itself.

From packed terraces to village clubs a new story is written: not as an afterthought, but as the headline.

Legacies bloom in muddy boots, in the laughter of young teams, in clubs where doors swing wider, where space is carved for all who wish to enter.

The final whistle crowned champions, but the truest victory was this: That a generation watched, believed, and began to dream louder than the world had ever allowed before.

Mike Pearce September 2025