It was in Toulon that I was first exposed to the madness of French rugby. Actually, it was halfway up Mont Faron, around midnight.
We were covering a football tournament in the area. My companion that evening, another English sports writer, had arrived for dinner attired in an England rugby shirt. Rugby’s a working-class sport in France, unlike England, and the Toulonnais in particular are mad for it. So we attracted a lot of attention. Over too many beers and plenty of rugby chat it was then suggested we went back to the clubhouse of a local amateur club that housed an impressive collection of whiskies. Our French host had the keys, and a car, which was needed as the destination turned out to be the other side of the mountain overlooking the city.
