Welcome to Brive, truly rugby country

THEY’VE been to paradise, but they’ve never been to Brive.

Munster fans have seen and done it all in Europe; Cardiff in particular holds mostly good memories after two Heineken Cup wins (and one loss) while in French terms, Bordeaux, Castres, Perpignan and Lille have all played host to some seminal moments in the past decade or so.

But that well-publicised failure to make the Heineken Cup’s knockout stages for the first time in 13 seasons has both team and supporters taking the road less travelled, with a visit to Brive-la-Gaillard in central France.

Those intending to continue the fine tradition of Red Army invasions of Europe’s rugby hotspots will find there is no straightforward route to Brive (population 89,000), given Ryanair’s summer schedules to France haven’t started yet.

By the time I’d over-nighted in Stansted, flown to Limoges the next day and driven the two hours or so to the town (I believe it’s a short enough journey if you’re smart enough to bring a SatNav) I half-expected Brive rugby legend Olivier Magne to be on hand with an honorary club membership just for completing the journey.

Rugby is the only real sporting show in town here; you can buy Brive iPhone covers in the club shop, for example, and within half an hour of exploring the town I’ve clocked three billboards advertising a France U19 clash with England.

Worryingly, the teenage French scrum-half in the poster looks like he’d give Tomás O’Leary or Conor Murray a run for their money in the physical stakes. Let’s hope he doesn’t turn up in a Brive jersey against Peter Stringer.

The floodlights of the club’s Stade Amédée-Domenech hover into view next, a shoe leather-friendly 15 minutes walk or so from the town centre. I’m expecting just to be able to take a peek through a gate but instead I find someone has left said entrance ajar.

Inside lies a tidy, compact ground, not too dissimilar to the old Thomond Park, and where a Brive training session is in full flow. On the main pitch, coach Ugo Mola is putting the backs through bizarre-looking kicking drills while the forwards do lineout practice on the back pitch.

I’m watching both sessions unfold simultaneously, when an overhit grubber kick comes my way from the main pitch. I just about gather the ball and punt it back towards South African utility back Scott Spedding. This pleases my former teenage self no end, as I manage not to look monumentally uncool in front of bigger, more popular boys.

However, this draws attention to me from other watching punters, a clutch of about a dozen or so. Predominantly male, they look older than time itself. Many have placid, well-behaved small dogs in tow. So far, so French.

One of them, clearly putting two and two together and realising the pasty ginger watching in solitude is not a local, beckons me over and asks if I am a tourist.

In pidgin French I manage to explain I’m a journalist from Ireland, which draws hearty laughs from the bunch: “Oui, oui, espionage,” exclaims one.

Another, who will only identify himself as Vincent, is willing to venture an opinion in English: “Munster are very dangerous. Wallace is good. And O’Connell. He is like Chabal, only less hair. Very scary.”

FROM there, it’s on into the town centre, where a previously sleepy-looking backwater begins to reveal itself. Brive’s most notable tourist fact is the near-total lack of stand-out tourist attractions, but a mazy web of streets, fanning out from Place du Général-de-Gaulle and featuring pretty turreted houses, are a joy to explore.

The same goes for the five men frequenting Café du Pont du Buis on Avenue du Maréchal Foc, the official watering hole of fans group Les Gaillards, around 5pm.

This bar is, frankly, awesome. It looks, feels and smells like someone has knocked their kitchen into the living room, built a bar, covered it in rugby paraphernalia. There are flags from London Irish and Sale Sharks but, suspiciously, none from Leinster, who were here in 2008/09 and opened it up to the public.

We come unstuck in the verbal communication stakes due to my flimsy grasp of French and their apparent tipsiness, but the gestures are read loud and clear.

One, a wisp of a man with long, thin black hair and cling-on leather pants who looks like he’s never touched a rugby ball in his life, nearly puts his foot through a table as he executes a kicking motion while repeating “O’Gara” and nodding enthusiastically. He’d be a perfect candidate for those Guinness “This is rugby country” ads.

Munster won’t be long in finding out that’s exactly what they’ve stumbled upon here.