FAW Trophy. Away, Llannefydd’…
I press my back to the dry stone wall as a Landrover clatters by with an empty trailer. I press my back to the dry stone wall as a Transporter van glides past. I tie my shoelace on the dry stone wall. A mischievous, escapologist sheep stands atop the dry stone wall on the ‘wrong’ side of the fence, looking triumphant. The mooing of a calf with separation issues reflects off the dry stone wall, and then I reach Plas Brondanw, and the rustic walls give way to architecture, and the random trees give way to manicured yew, and the mists rise, and my head clears, and it’s 8.10am, and I’m going to football. I forgot to mention two walkers. They must have been Dutch. No other walkers wear shiny PVC overtrousers, do they? Maybe they were sex-shop managers from Amsterdam. Right now, one of them is writing a blog about encountering a bleary-eyed bloke wearing a Cuban flag. He must have been from Bangor, he writes…
I’ve spent a lot of time, and a fair few quid in The Ring, or, to give it its more formal name, the Brondanw Arms. This morning, I note that there is a nut tree growing in the restricted space by the front door and that the terrace of houses that adjoin it have very interesting gates. The bus comes, as Gwynfor’s Coaches promised it would, bang on time. Bus drivers don’t hang around do they? In no time, I’m peering up at Carwyn Jones’ work atop the porch of Y Llong, and then disembarking at Porthmadog Central. I suspect that the woman in the shelter is going to be the onboard entertainment for the next leg of the journey. A large man sits two metres away. She’s a talker. He stares at the scaffolding that adorns the front of the Awstralia, with an expression of resigned politeness as she regales him. Regales him with what? Who knows… she just regales…
The T2, Trawscambria service arrives on time. Passenger odds and sods board. The driver is friendly. The woman talks. We’ve all paid, but just as I anticipate our departure, he pushes aside the barrier to his cab, steps off the bus, and engages in conversation with a man on the pavement. The woman talks to another woman across the aisle. Eventually, the driver re-boards, so does the man on the pavement, and we’re off. The woman raises her voice above the noise of the engine. Great. She speaks loudly and piercingly, with great authority, about the events of 9/11. Outside Bryncir, on a long stretch of featureless road, a woman hurries with a bag. The driver sounds his horn and stops, all air-brakes and kindness. She gets on, and then gets off again by The Goat. I want to stand up and applaud him, but instead, I adjust my mask and stare out of the window. He didn’t miss out on appreciation for his thoughtful act, though…
“What a noice men? Isn’t that a loovly thing? Aw… ” and then, perhaps questioning her earlier 9/11-based assertion that humans are essentially bad animals, she adds more praise.
In Penygroes the bus begins to fill up. Wrexham fans, Warrington Wolves fans. Who knew? In Caernarfon, more Wrexham fans join the throng. The bus is full. All of life is here. At Ysbyty Gwynedd, a small boy declares that we have arrived at the doctor’s house. We take Penrhos Road at high speed before lurching up Belmont Road and down Ffriddoedd Road, onto Holyhead Road and the station. At a point between the lights and the top of Farrar Road, the driver stops the bus. Roadworks have rendered the bus stop closed, but he just stops anyway, and the assortment of fans hurry off the bus through the cones to their respective dooms. At the bus station, Pete is talking to local legend John Gibson, who is bemoaning the fact that he doesn’t know when the games are on. Not every super fan is on the grid. Food for thought. And then food in Greggs. And then we sharpen things up with a token Spanish lager and head for muster…
On a slip-road outside Conwy, figures disappear into the strategic camouflage of the thicket before returning in dribs and drabs (!) from a very early comfort break. Every diehard has been on a football minibus. Every county pub landlord knows the feeling of a football minibus swinging into his car park on a quiet Saturday lunchtime, and those diehards know that win, lose or draw, the next hour will be golden.
Today is no exception. The landlord of the Llindir in Henllan, regards us at first suspiciously, then upon the arrival of two more minibuses, pragmatism becomes the order of the day, and the ale flows. As we say. Jar.
Everything under the sun (and the intermittent showers) is discussed in the Llindir’s garden. Have we been to a thirteenth century inn before? Stonehenge – “is that it?” Five-a-side in the shadow of the Ernst Happoel stadium in Vienna. Three-at-the-back can be dodgy.The inadequacy of hybrid tyres on chalk downs. Returning to gigs after eighteen months off. Bavarian lager brewed down the road. I already know that my face will ache tomorrow from laughing. Over on another table, two young lads are enjoying their first Bangor away trip. Cokes and crisps. Following in Dad’s footsteps. History and Pride. Cherished.
We head to the ground. Two years ago we succumbed to Llanrwst in this competition and my instincts nag. Familiar faces gather in this stunning outpost. Proper football offers this dividend. It’s a beautiful place, and we are greeted by the volunteers that make the ‘real’ game what it is. These are the hi-vis foot-soldiers of the only empire to which I’d ever subscribe. Llannefydd FC deserve huge credit for their setup, and as the first half concludes with them taking a 3-0 lead, the Ghost of Disappointments Past rattles the chains of inevitability. We win the second half 1-0, and without a series of saves from their keeper that no-one will ever see endlessly replayed, we could have won. He played a blinder and so did they. We were off the pace, lacking dynamism and didn’t click. At the end, we gather in the corner and applaud their players from the field. We’ve been ‘done’. Fair play.
Driving through the village, Mr Dave Roberts, driver, stalwart, legend, sounds the minibus horn of friendship to the wedding guests and production crew of S4C’s Priodas Pum Mil show. The horn of plenty looks imminent for them; a bridesmaid smiles. The landlord of the Llindir would have had a quiet afternoon but for The Hawk and Buckle, the epicentre of Llanefydd, finding itself in demand by a voracious media. Big events in Llannefydd are like London buses…
It’s not over yet. The game might be, but the day goes on. In the al fresco area of the Plough in Llanelwy… or St Asaph as it’s also known, we expand upon our earlier conversations. I had some success playing cricket in this small city. Win or lose, drinks would be taken in the Plough… unless we were rained off… and then it was to the Talardy we would adjourn. But I digress. At this point in the day, rhyme and reason blur; objectivity is fuzzed; pessimism is cast out, and we have almost reached the zenith of the perfect grassroots football day.
We love this club. When the club-killers came for it, it was taken to a place of safety, given a new identity and nurtured. As we swill down the last few drops, news filters through of another three red cards awarded against the masqueraders, who spiral from courtroom to courtroom, in a vortex of who-knows-what? Maybe in a betting shop in Singapore, a rookie bookie is being rinsed by a consortium of who-knows-who?
Back in Bangor, I bid my farewells. My comrades will carry on until the last embers of the day are extinguished, but I have prevailed enough upon Jo’s good nature, and as her car rounds the corner with perfect timing, I shovel myself into the passenger seat and we begin the journey back to Croesor. I wonder how the sex-shop managers fared on the Moelwyn? I wonder if the landlord of the Llindir has any beer for the evening? I wonder if the separated calf has calmed down? I wonder if Warrington Wolves and Wrexham won? I wonder what the future holds for three at the back? Past Plas Brondanw, a defiant sheep bleats from the top of a drystone wall. Surely she hasn’t been there all day?
We’re concentrating on the League now.