Lost in translation between Bordeaux and the Côte d'Azur on the Rugby World Cup trail - The Irish Times - Translation

Saturday

A Tricolour and Red Hand of Ulster flag hang side by side in listless air from the roof at Stade de Bordeaux. That would have been triggering for some, a kind of blended solution as the official IRFU provinces flag was nowhere to be seen. Returning to the city on the tram a group of Irish fans open the revelry with an out of tune blast of Sean South from Garryowen. With 28 stops to Gare St Jean, that kind of feels like a death sentence until two verses in it melts away to a solo voice in the baking cabin. Next day, the Welsh follow with a song about committing murder as Tom Jones “Delilah” fills the carriage. It was a strange kind of weekend.

Even Johnny Sexton gets in on inverting the narrative when he is asked a question from a French journalist about his kicking game against Romania. Between himself and Andy Farrell, they listen to the translation in their earpieces, then turn and acknowledge each other’s profound cluelessness. A question hopelessly lost in translation. “I thought the French were having a go at me again,” said Sexton improvising. There is some kind of natural cheer spread around when the Irish captain comes out swinging in the interview room.

Sunday

My favourite overpriced eateries are near the station St Jean, an impressive arching structure with about 20 tracks on the south side of Bordeaux. The restaurants opposite are places where the waiters run between tables with sweat dripping from their noses and half the customers are people with suitcases. Everybody is coming, going, or, lost. The station has its own charming layer of grime and bubble of life around it as well as its fair share of traumatised souls wandering around shouting at objects and people. It was here the red vino had to be sent back a day ago. A Saint-Emilion if you must know.

With a zero skillset around wine, rule of thumb is if it causes a gag reflex and fizzes in the glass when it ought not, you’re on safe ground to flap it away. The waiter took the bottle, smiled and then he pointed at the sky. “It’s too hot.” he said. I wondered if they keep slinging lava wine to unwary travellers, who today had mostly red shirts as the Saturday green of Ireland gave way to the Sunday red of Wales.

Six hours and counting on the TGV as we hit Montpellier, Narbonne and Nimes. Photograph: Damien MEYER/AFP via Getty

Monday

So long Bordeaux hot red. Hello Côte d’Azur chilled Rosé. Scotland and South Africa are down here somewhere as the TGV chugs out of the Gare St-Jean ecosystem. Leaving the Golden Tulip Bordeaux Euratlantique for the Le Windsor Jungle Art hotel in Nice you could be forgiven for thinking Irish Times accommodation selection is based on good scoring Scrabble words. Six hours and counting on the TGV as we hit Montpellier, Narbonne and Nimes with another two-hour leg from Marseille to Nice, the yummy bit by the Mediterranean to Antibes and Cannes. A road trip this one.

A highlight is the Marseille St Charles station perched on a hill with steep steps down to the city and somewhere the stadium where Doug Howlett made history at the 2007 Rugby World Cup, when he drew level with the try-scoring record of Christian Cullen. Afterwards, there was a scrum of about 60 people around him, TV cameras, world feeds, the lot. Up popped a Cork voice. How do feel about going to Munster next season, Doug? A 1000-watt smile beamed back. “Just great, mate.”

Tuesday

My place in Nice specialises in wellness stays with a Zen Space located on the fifth floor. Guests can also benefit from a private Hammam. I might sign up for one of them. Not the Turkish bath. Might have stuff to get out after Bordeaux. In Nice barely a day and already overdosing on the self-diagnosed Côte d’Azur leisured cosmopolitan sophistication disorder. All those homeless lads around St Jean with their companion dogs screaming mort at people and asking for the leftovers on your plate.

But today, an upstairs seat on the double-decker TGV to bolt from Nice to Toulon and was like a child again “borne back ceaselessly into the past,” the Riviera chronicler F Scott Fitzgerald might have said. To the Grand Hotel des Sablettes Hilton, and there’s the kid with the black hair from around Dublin’s Sandycove sitting up at the top table in front of the sponsors backdrop. Felix Jones holds court today for the Springboks at their press conference. Suspicion is Rassie is off doing some mad genius experiment in the rugby lab.

Promenade des Anglais, in Nice. Photograph: Sebastien Nogier/EPA

Wednesday

Down to the La Promenade des Anglais to nail down the 10,000 steps. Steaming towards Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat on this warm dull morning, I’ve noticed an optimism among the people already standing in the surf or practising their callisthenics. In Ireland we get up, look out the window at the blue sky and wonder will it rain. Here they leave in the morning on an overcast day, go to the beach and expect the sun to come out. Voila, 20 minutes later it obliges. Locals are never wrong. #

That’s maybe why I feel a little self-conscious passing the seafront hotels with their international flags. Blue cotton T-shirts at three for €10 are killers in this heat. Filling with sweat, then falling with gravity they basically try to pull themselves off your back. Slinking up a side street out of view for a salad baguette, bottle of water and Americano to go and the receipt says €12. “Eureka”. Nice just off the main drag might be cheaper than Dún Laoghaire. Good news for fans from Wales and England, who play here this weekend.

Adblock test (Why?)