GRAEME'S BLOG DAY TEN

Yesterday's relaxed mid morning start forgotten, up with the lark, or at least the southern lapwing, for buses at eight o'clock. Cold, bright and sunny, as it has been all tour. About 35 minutes, said the bus driver, enough for a few more zzzz's.

The overwhelming impression of Uruguay so far is of woodsmoke. It was the dominant smell on the coach last night and now the morning dawns with a haze across the city of Montevideo. All along our route there is evidence of a wood-burning economy. Timber yards, trucks and handcarts stacked with logs, people loading and carrying cords of firewood. And that ever-present tickle in the nose and catch at the throat.

We barrel along the ramblas, the coastal strip. High rise apartment buildings face onto the shore, the precious sea view divided into as many expensive fractions as the local realtors have managed. There are a couple of municipal buildings and a golf course to break it up, and then back to the sky again.

Turning inland we pick up the Avenida de Italia, the road that leads 150km straight to Punta del Este, the famous seaside resort, playground of the rich and famous, etc. We are not going that far, however, branching off into a well-heeled suburb and then up a semi-private road for a few hundred metres beside well-kept sports fields. Turning right then right again we arrive at the Carrasco Polo Rugby Club, a pristine pitch sparkling with hoarfrost and international brand advertising. Not this entrance, a gnarled attendant tells us, down there, right and right again. Sent to the tradesmen's. This turns out to be a semi dirt road up the middle of this huge private sports complex. Bumping up back towards the hallowed turf, we cross a narrow bridge, the coach roof fouling an electric cable above. We stop when the track becomes so narrow that we can go no further and offload the boys and the bags (these buses are not waiting for us, as the boys will be in billets). We stand around for a few minutes, scouts sent off to the rugby pitch, but no-one seems there to greet us and the rugby ground is deserted. “Where's Ricci?” Ricardo, our local liaison man, an ex-Puma like everyone in Argentina, makes a furtive phone call or three. Um, wrong ground. We should be 2km down the road (“four blocks”) at the Seminario Loyola. Load up the coaches, laboriously reverse and turn, off we go again.

The Seminario is heaving with young hockey and football players. Our coaches can't get past all the parked cars so we offload in the turnaround of the Coca Cola factory opposite. Silent on this Saturday morning, the only visible activity a large articulated truck full of firewood. Presumably the local Coke is specially flavoured with woodsmoke.

Into the dusty carpark we wheel the boys and their bags. At last we meet the Uruguayan RFU representatives who will be our hosts. There is a little club hut and some concrete changing rooms and a wood-fired grill offering chorizo rolls. Every other adult is carry a mate gourd and a thermos and we supporters are offered a mate. Er, could we have a coffee? Yes, certainly, but this will take fifteen minutes. Some of us taste the mate, but some of us have tried it before, and wait for coffee. It is a friendly welcome, and some parents are there and strike up conversations, but English is noticeably less common than we have found in Argentina.

Soon enough the B team are changed and running away towards the one rugby pitch on the site. We follow across wet grass, the frost melting in weak sunshine, past the Under 7 footballers and the Under 9 hockey players. No giggling teenage chicas here.

Watching the boys warm up is Jorge, an ex prop and international referee. Jorge was at the Uruguay-England game in the 2003 World Cup. England scored more than 100 points but he very much enjoyed the game because he drank nine pints of beer before the final whistle. He very much hoped to drink some beer with us later, he said, although he preferred scotch. His younger son was playing for the Uruguay U16s today. His elder son did not like rugby, he preferred flying. Jorge explained that this was a pre-selection trial and that the coaches and selectors would be refining their squads on the basis of what they saw. Would I introduce him to Stephen Jones, the famous rugby journalist? I introduced him to Michael O'Flaherty and, just for a moment, considered causing some light-hearted confusion for both of them, but relented and pointed out Jones the Pen. Off he went to drop some more names which Stephen had more chance of recognising than I did.

Quite a crowd had gathered by now, not surprising when 60 young men are trialling for their country. Maids' support was fewer in number but held its own in volume, as usual.

After the games, the players and supporters were offered a burger cooked over wood flames and the players introduced to their billet partners. No sign of Jorge, or a beer.

The bus we were expecting to take us to the international game was nowhere to be seen so we borrowed a school bus and piled on with Frog, the URU U17s coach, and drove off the 15 minutes to the Charrua Stadium (Charrua were the indigenous people of Uruguay). Round the back to the VIP entrance we went and our bags were quickly found a guarded room. Up to the stand and easy to find a seat on the concrete benches. The game was about 20 minutes old and Uruguay were leading 3-0. They eventually won 44-7 and thus qualify for a playoff against Romania for the last place at the RWC 2011. Everytime they scored, firecrackers and a mortar firework went off. Uruguay TV were there and Jonesy did an interview for them, making sure his Maidenhead jacket was in shot and just happening to mention the club in every other sentence. Of course the same TV reporter had earlier interviewed Will Thompson and Sam McCarthy, so Jones will probably stay on the cutting room floor.

Jorge showed up and told us where the bar was. Coke or Fanta. Beer later, he said.

Somehow, Dennis Orchard got himself accredited as an official URFU photographer and spent the match inside the security cordon. Legend.

After the game most of us grabbed taxis to the hotel. The boys went off with their hosts and Josh Edney was seen waiting at a bus stop with his. When asked the next day how his billet had been he said it had been the best. There were three well fit older sisters and the mother was tasty, too. Travelling has broadened his horizons.

The Uruguay RFU very kindly asked four adults and our three injured players to the official after match reception. Mingling with the players and officials, the players got the RFU President (one of the survivors of the Old Christians Rugby Club Andes air crash) and the captain of the Uruguay team to pose with the Bushbaby. The Kazakhstanis were apparently too busy drowning their sorrows in Johnnie Walker.

The other staff and supporters passed the time before dinner investigating Uruguayan beer. Jorge showed up for this bit, bless him, and a jolly time was had by all. Out to dinner at a wood-burning grill restaurant with a very happy crowd of ghost riders in the sky and an impromptu bilingual edition of Blind Date. Never to be forgotten. Although I can't remember the name of the restaurant or what I had for dinner.