190. On the road (3/3)

 We look around. No rugby pitches. The car's fuel light is on. Our fuel lights are on too. This is not looking good. 

I call my husband. I know this is totally ridiculous but I always call my husband when I am in a tricky situation. I know he is at work but he is not a teacher so it is ok to call him. I know he is miles away and believe me there have been even more ridiculous situations than me just being unable to locate a rugby club that is made of three full-size pitches. He keeps his cool and looks for a solution. I just scream and shout and panic. So I call him.

' Call the club.' 

'The club?'

'Yes, the club. There is a club house and people in there. Call them.'

He asks to speak to his son. He wants him to memorise the phone number which he reads out three times. Our son is now incapable to take part in any human activity apart from eating. Unfortunately for us the African roasted chicken stall is packing up.

We call the club and much to my surprise somebody answers the phone. A friendly woman gives me directions and I make her repeat everything twice, just to be certain. My son keeps waving his hands singling I should stop asking her to repeat everything. But I need to be certain. I have spent hours getting here and I won't leave until I have set foot on the pitch.

'So we go through the gate ...'

'Ok, so we go through the gate, is this gate on Rue des Olympiades?'

'Yes, that's it, Rue des Olympiades ...'

'Ok through the gate, I got that, and then?'

'Take the path that borders the prairie ...'

'The prairie?' I ask, very puzzled.

'Yes, it's small football pitch, unkempt, we call it the prairie.'

'Oh? Ok. The gate, the path, along the prairie ...'

This is driving my son crazy, he is mouthing and signing some message which I think means I know the way and stop making us look like fools please.

I don't stop. I keep getting all the details about the steps and the blue and white building and the road to cross and the pitch at the back ... Finally I'm ready.

'Let's go!'

By the time we get there of course we are so late that the training session is over. The senior team is now playing. We sit in the stands and watch. I am trying to spot the man I had on the phone. I need to speak to him, at least say hello. Make the trip worthwhile (that African roasted chicken would definitely have made it worthwhile).

I have had enough watching. I head onto the pitch under the horrified look of my son. I head towards a couple of players who are standing there apparently not playing. I am careful to look around to see if there is not one of these funny shaped balls which bounce all over the place in a weird erratic way. 

'I'm really sorry to disturb you but can you point Mr G to me. I would like to say hello to him when the training's over.'

Immediately they start shouting over to Mr G that there is someone here to see him. And just because he doesn't come quick enough they start calling the other coach and other people too. I want to say hello, they are going to make sure I say hello to as many people as possible. This is good, this is what I call a warm welcome. Soon I am surrounded by a whole bunch of tall muscly rugby men all listening intently to my story of traffic jams and accidents and GPS re-routing. 

They are very sorry to hear that and they want to know my son's name who comes forward, a little shy (my son, shy? This also is worth the trip) and really this is a shame. But he can come again in three weeks time.

I am happy to have met them all but I am not sure if I am happy to have been invited again! I need to check that African roasted chicken stand opening times before I decide.

Before we head back we take a walk round the beautiful pond and around the park and chat - surprisingly - about rugby and clubs and try-outs. 

We get back in the car, set the GPS on mute and the trip back home is like a dream. The roads all to ourselves.