For the Euro 2016 group stage tie between Ireland and Italy I travelled from Verona to Lille with the Azzuri. With the Irish desperate for a victory to progress, it was a match and a party I'll never forget! On 1 January 2016, an ex-student of mine, a proud Veronese with a curious west coast drawl, sent me a message to ask if I'd be interested in going to France for the Italy v Ireland game. I could hardly say no. Of course, at this stage he didn't actually have the tickets and the chances of getting them in the ballot seemed remote, so it was more in hope than in expectation that I accepted his kind offer.
I'd long ago promised myself that I would attend the next major tournament that Scotland qualified for (regardless of venue), but with the prospects of Scotland qualifying for a tournament about as likely as bumping into a sober Irishman on the streets of France this weekend, I decided to throw my lot in with the Italians. In truth, I was a bit doubtful about supporting a 'foreign' nation and going 'on tour' with anyone other than my close friends and compatriots, but I'd been living in Italy for nearly five years, my wife is half-Italian, my youngest son was born in Verona and I never drink a cappuccino after 11. Maybe it was time to unleash the Italian in me! Well, match day finally arrived and, like all good away trips, this one started in a motorway tollbooth car park. The Verona North junction of the E45 (a remarkable motorway that somehow connects Karesuando in Sweden with Gela in Sicily) is a fairly surreal place to be at 6.45 am on a Wednesday morning, but it was here I had arranged to be picked up for the first leg of the journey from Verona to Lille. Being British, I arrived early. Being Italian, my lift arrived late. Not to worry, we were soon speeding south, our somewhat circuitous route taking us first to Bologna, then north by plane to Paris, before the final leg of the journey by train to French Flanders on the border with Belgium. My companions for the trip were: 'Gelme', an in-house lawyer for an Italian I.T. service provider, from the famous wine-making region of Valpolicella, he nonetheless has a healthy appetite for the beer and, as a former Erasmus student, a remarkable penchant for cultivating cross-border friendships. On a previous European adventure (Poland 2012), he had befriended some Irish fans who were in a neighbouring campervan and he has successfully nurtured this friendship over the years, offering warm hospitality in his native Verona in exchange for an eye-opening 'cultural exchange' to the Emerald Isle. "Il Capo", another native of Verona, lifelong Milan fan and loyal season ticket holder. Short, fit and well presented, an eye for the ladies and a quiet determination that somehow ensured that at 3.00am on Thursday morning, when the chances of navigating through the walls of Irish, six deep at every bar in the city, seemed all but impossible, he gleefully returned with 4 pints, giving our dwindling spirits the much needed kick in the arse that would see us through until dawn. Gian, a cultured and thoughtful businessman from Torino, he bought with him a book about two 19th century Italian prostitutes, which he absorbed in the quieter moments of the trip. Arriving at Bologna airport at around 10.00am, my thoughts quite obviously turned to beer. My companions, however, were more interested in the motorbike on display in the Ducati shop. A chance encounter with a dapper but surly Andrea Mandorlini, the manager of Hellas Verona who had been dismissed in November 2015 after an incredible run of bad form which would eventually culminate in the club being relegated, added a sense of occasion to proceedings, and before long we were boarding the short Air France flight to Paris. We barely had time to quaff a can of Heineken (or in the case of my Italian companions, a continental fruit juice) before we were descending into Paris GDG). At Paris we got our first taste of what was to come over the next couple of days. The Irish were immediately obvious with their green jerseys and propensity to congregate at the nearest bar. They were without exception unfailingly quick to strike up a conversation (usually a twinkle-eyed request that we let them win). Nothing, I soon realised, confuses an Irishman like an Italian with a Scottish accent. An explanation of my origins and background added another dimension to our conversations, with some inevitable good natured ribbing of the luckless Scots who, by comment consent, were unfortunate not to have qualified for the tournament, having taken four points from their encounters with the Irish. Italy had already eased into the knock-out phase of the tournament as group leaders with two emphatic victories (against pre-tournament favourites Belgium and Ibrahimović-led Sweden). The ease with which the Italian side has reached the knock-out phase has surprised many, but for Ireland, a win was necessary to proceed to the knock-out stages. With Antonio Conte taking the opportunity to rotate his squad, resting key players like Buffon, Chiellini and De Rossi, and giving Paris Saint-Germain goalie Salvatore Sirigu and West Ham defender Angelo Ogbonna rare starts, Ireland were in with a chance. On arrival in Lille, a beautiful old town with classic Flemish architecture and a vibrant city centre, it was immediately clear that the Irish had taken over the entire city. Every single bar, street and piazza was overflowing with singing, dancing, drunken Irishmen. We soon met Gelme's old Irish friends from his previous expeditions and, as a small group of Italians, we were warmly embraced as we joined the army of Irish fans who were already in high spirits. As thousands upon thousands of drunk and boisterous Irish boarded the metro trains to the stadium, I found myself in a compartment opposite a north African family, including a baby in arms. A visibly nervous looking woman in a hijab also occupied a discreet corner of the carriage. As the carriage quickly filled to bursting point, there was a moment of anxiety for those who had unwittingly found themselves caught up in this Irish exodus from central Lille to the city's stadium. They need not have worried. The friendly Irish quickly introduced themselves to their fellow passengers, fussing over the children and even showing-off mobile phone pictures of their own kids to the somewhat bemused passengers. The match itself might not have been a classic (in fact, after one-too-many of the stadium's low-alcohol sleep inducing lagers, one of our number actually fell asleep during the first half), but the spectacle was unforgettable, particularly in the second half when it reached its incredible climax. I'll never forget the haunting lyrics of the Fields of Athenry echoing around the stadium and the utter hysteria as Robert Brady scored the late winner that would take Ireland through to the next round, nor the far away stand, a bouncing, delirious sea of green, while the Irish players desperately fought to cling on to their slender lead. It was almost too much for the row of young Irish in front of me who could barely contain themselves in the minutes before the final whistle. You would be hard pressed to find a single Italian who would begrudge the Irish their victory. Indeed, in the post match hysteria, I caught a fleeting glimpse on the stadium's big screen of Gigi Buffon, the classy Italian goalkeeper, embracing Martin O'Neil with a genuine enthusiasm that would epitomize the Italian feelings towards the Irish. In the days, months and years to come, when people ask me what I remember about Euro 2016, it will be enough to say: I was in Lille with the Irish. From an organisational perspective, getting back to the city centre after the match was a frustrating experience and, in different circumstances, frustration could have spilled over into something uglier. The Irish, however, accepted their plight in the same way as they faced everything else - with good humour and song. When a couple of hours later we eventually boarded the metro that would take us back to the city centre, we were treated to a drunken but spirited rendition of some old Irish folk songs. And this is the remarkable thing about the Irish travelling army. They come not to conquer or to fight or to display their superiority. They themselves know all about being an oppressed minority, they understand the pain of intolerance and the plight of the migrant. They follow their football team with an unrivalled joy and alcohol-induced passion, but I can honestly say that I didn't hear a single racist, sexist or homophobic remark, which in the context of such a huge group of travelling football fans is quite remarkable and which, by the way, is in stark contrast to the language of the Italian fans, whose conversation is peppered with a casual but virulent racism that would make Nigel Farage blush. In fact, in my time in Lille I don't think I even heard an Irishman so much as swear! I happened to mention this to an Irish lad I found myself speaking to in the early of Thursday morning. "We're no angels" he confessed, "but when we come abroad we just want to make friends and do our country proud". In France this summer they have certainly done that, both on and off the pitch. But while few fancy their chances against the host nation on Sunday afternoon, fewer still would begrudge them another moment of glory. Waking to laden skies and a thick drizzle, a perfectly presented full-English breakfast was just the thing to kick-start our fifth day of walking, a day that would see us return to civilisation (or Carlisle, as it's better known in these parts). Promising to return, we said a fond farewell to our luxury accommodation and to our hospitable landlady and stepped out into the gloom, spurred on by the promise of "the best coffee in the world" just a few miles down the road. Having tackled a couple of hilly miles on tarmac, our mid-morning coffee break, and a chance to shelter from the persistent rain, couldn't come soon enough. We had been promised the best coffee in the world and, to be fair, we weren't disappointed. The Reading Room at Walton is a lovely quirky little tea room in a quintessentially English village. A very decent flat white, as close to the classic Italian cappuccino as you'll find in a land that seems to favour half litres of boiling hot coffee-flavoured milk, and a lavish selection of home-baking, it was with some reluctance that we eventually donned our damp jackets and stepped back out into the incessant drizzle. From Walton we pressed on another few miles through undulating farmland. By the time we reached Crosby-on-Eden we were very much looking forward to a rejuvenating pint at the first pub we had encountered all day, and the last before Carlisle. When we eventually caught sight of the promising exterior of the Stag Inn, it appeared like an oasis in the desert. Imagine our disappointment when we realised it was closed. A devastating blow at this stage in the late afternoon! Putting our disappointment behind us, we trudged on through the affluent and picturesque suburban villages of Linstock and Rickerby. We had by now joined the path of the meandering River Eden and had to navigate a number of detours that were still in place following the devastating floods that had accompanied storms Desmond and Eva the previous winter. It was sobering to see the extent of the damage caused by the floods, with the high waterlines still clearly visible on the landscape, even four months after the event. Before long we were negotiating the bustling streets of Carlisle - a bit of a culture shock after 5 days in the Cumbrian/Northumberland wilderness! We are heading towards the Cathedral and our lodgings for the night, the Carlisle city Hostel but, before checking in, we can't resist the temptation of a much needed pint (or two) and the inevitable wi-fi hit. Before long our exertions of the day are nothing but a damp memory, and it is with high spirits and good humour that we brace ourselves, ready and looking forward to a well-earned night out in Carlisle! From Windshields Farm it's a short steep climb back up to Windshield Crags and the Wall. The sky is heavy with low dark clouds, but for the moment it's dry. Today I have decided to adopt an innovative method of hydration, taking a swig from my hip flask every mile. This proves to be an exhilarating way to count down the miles until inevitably, at the ten-mile point, the flask runs dry! From the roller coaster crags, the landscape again changes in favour of broad sweeping farm and moor land. At this time of year there is an abundance of spring lambs and it is fascinating to observe these delightful creatures at such close quarters. An incredible curiosity, tempered only by a startling vulnerability, as soon as we are within a few metres they scamper delightfully to the comfort and security of their attentive and protective mothers. So taken am I by these defenceless creatures, I vow never to eat lamb again. My companions are less sentimental, and are delighted to see lamb on the menu in the pub this evening! A constant drizzle interspersed with the occasional wintery downpour, our path is again punctuated by crags, quarries, mile castles and forts, including Aesica (modern day Great Chesters) where, in 1894 a hoard of jewellery (an enamelled brooch shaped as a hare, a gilded bronze brooch, a silver collar with a pendant, a gold ring and a bronze ring with a Gnostic gem) was found, and the impressive Birdoswald Roman Fort, which includes a shop and visitor centre as well as the excavated remains of the fort itself. It is one of the best preserved of the 16 forts along Hadrian's Wall. In Roman times, it was known as Banna (Latin for "spur" or "tongue"), reflecting the geography of the site. It's a popular destination for Roman enthusiasts but, as we have a tight schedule to follow, we stop only long enough to enough to enjoy some of the complimentary mead on offer (really!) and to stamp our Path Passports to prove we've been here. After another day of hiking in wet and muddy conditions, we are overwhelmed by the welcome we receive when we finally arrive at Quarryside B & B. We are immediately ushered into a pristine living room and served with with tea, coffee and fresh muffins. A real taste of luxury after four days of mud and grime! Logistical arrangements are already in place for our evenings' transportation to the pub. Our taxi driver, a game old bird, delights us with her local anecdotes and football know-how. Our destination this evening is the Belted Will Inn, a traditional family run watering-hole which has been serving thirsty travellers since the 17th century. So, another fantastic day's walking is rounded off with yet more fantastic hospitality. Maybe it's the beer, maybe it's the fatigue after 4 day's walking, maybe it's because the end of our expedition is now in sight, but tonight we feel our friend's absence more than ever. Wish you were here Jude. #Walk4Jude |
AboutRichard Hough writes about history, football, wine, whisky, culture + travel and is currently working on a trilogy about wartime Verona.
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