TUESDAY 6 SEPTEMBER
London-Hong Kong. Surrounded by French supporters, all wearing multicoloured rugby shirts, embroidered with "Les Catharians", homage no doubt to the Cathars of the Albi-Toulouse area, a sect deemed heretical by Rome in the middle ages and put down most cruelly. They look a rowdy bunch, but soon settle into a rich, deep French slumber. I am woken instead at 36,000 feet by the hand of Elfed Holloway, agronomist of Mold, Flintshire, and somewhere over Kazakhstan I say yes to meeting the referees of North Wales. "Any Monday night in the winter," said Elfed. "If you're passing through." Long‑haul flight is a dangerous business.
WEDNESDAY
Hong Kong-Auckland. Sit next to Glen Sinclair, chief exec of Otago University "Built on Tradition" Rowing Club. He is on his way home to Dunedin from a regatta in Russia. "You'll love the new Forsyth Barr Stadium," he says. "We row past it all the time." Which is more than could ever be done past old Carisbrook, the House of Pain still sitting where it has always sat, under the railway track, among the wrecking yards of the southern city limits. Will Glen be going to the rugby? "Every Kiwi's sworn duty," he replies.
THURSDAY
Auckland. The hotel is opposite the old Town Hall, a hike up the Queen Street hill from the waterfront, where all the mainstream action is, but active enough at nearby Aotea Square, which seems to have attracted an easily mixed cocktail of Argentines and Tongans. Go to the All Black press conference at Eden Park after the captain's run. This is much quieter, a murmur of pre-match nothingness from Richie McCaw, Brad Thorn and Wayne Smith.
FRIDAY
Auckland. Every car horn in town is beeping. Aotea Square is jumping with the Tongans, all dressed in red and waving their flag, which includes a red cross on a white background. Already it is like a giant Red Cross camp. Take the Dedicated Fan Trail to Eden Park, through Myers Park, a thin, sloping strip of green in the city. There is a flurry of activity here with artwork being erected – white umbrellas everywhere – before the pilgrimage to the outlying stadium begins in earnest. On Karangahape Road – K Road, as it's known – the Tongans conga into the traffic and the cars beep and gently veer to the side.
You don't want to bump into a Tongan, for whom beauty and kilos go together. They sure can shimmy. Return to the hotel much later and note that Myers Park is very dark and empty, unlike Aotea Square. Tonga won the day, New Zealand won the match, and Tonga are reclaiming the night. Every Tongan's sworn duty. The red cross is overstretched.
SATURDAY
Auckland-Dunedin. Fly south to Dunedin, Otago. Very Scottish – bagpipes on the corner, even though Scotland are even further south in Invercargill, having the fright of their World Cup lives v Romania. A bit of Irish here too, with live diddly-dee music on the Octagon, the heart of town. NZ contributes, with a couple of strumming troubadours among the clowns on stilts. England shirts drift up and down, calm for the moment because the game at the new Otago Stadium, down in the harbour area, is a while away yet. Pacing yourself is important. And then there is an eruption of the sight and sound of Argentina. Hundreds, thousands of blue and white shirts start bouncing and, well, shouting, but with style and rhythm. They take over the city, the stadium, nearly all of the game and then they bounce away back to the Octagon. Argentina lose, but rule at the World Cup.
