Rugby World Cup Road Trip: A word about the Welsh

Wales fans celebrate at Hamilton International Stadium. Photo / Christine Cornege

My Uncle, who claims to be of Welsh heritage, but actually won fame in the Lord of the Rings movies (he was the Hobbit whose bankcard got eaten by the money machine on Mordor) reckons the boys from the Valleys are back.

Surprised?

On the road at least, the presence of a 'Boyo Bandwagon' in 2011 has come a distant second to Le Convoy Francais and the homeward-bound Irish. In both numbers and voice, Welsh fans have been distinctly low-key. Somehow managed to sneak in under the radar. Just like their team.

The question now on most Kiwis lips is a simple one: Just where have they arrived from? And I'm not talking about their form on paper. If anything, Wales reincarnated have reminded us that rugby isn't played on paper. At least, not when it's raining. The paper gets too soggy.

There is a tendency amongst New Zealanders to consider Welsh Rugby on a perpetual journey back from an egg-shaped ball wilderness. Consign them to the history books... where they won the first All Black Test 3-0. Stopped an original Grand Slam. But only (we think) because the coal-powered TMO broke down.

Yet, even if this true, who's to say they would never regroup - haven't been camped out there on the fringe worlds with rugby greatness burning in their hearts? In the 60s and 70s, Wales were our traditional rivals in a more innocent age. Cardiff Arms Park cast to the tune of Guide Me O' thou Great Redeemer. Arguably only lost their mantle as the greatest team on the planet because Andy Haden leapt out of a lineout. Sideways.

And don't get me started on the names.

Phil Bennet. JPR Williams. Barry John. Monikers burnt into the consciousness not by the Land of My Fathers, but by the torch my own Dad would use to wake me up for early morning matches. And perhaps the greatest player of them all: Gareth Edwards. Poetry would hang its head in shame at the very idea it could be in motion like that.

Then you have the Welsh themselves.

Wales is the only country in the UK where Rugby rules supreme; where they would have built clubrooms deep in the earth had it been possible. They are burdened with the same sporting 'big brother' syndrome (with England) that we bear with Australia.

Suffer the same slurs of sheep-shagging we do... even without conclusive photographic evidence. Henry, Hansen and now Gatland have all been there. They are the enemy we know, yet have perhaps forgotten.

It remains to be seen whether the French will make the same mistake.

Which brings me back to my Uncle. Frodo Gerwyn Jenkins-Davies. Or more precisely, his days as a Hobbit... and one of his favourite sayings:

There is no good time to wake up a Dragon.