Part 1

Why do all airport lounges look the same? Industrial carpet lit by hundreds of fluorescent strip lights and drinks from machines at exorbitant prices. Weary people slump on unyielding plastic seats trying to fill time until their flights; trying to stop the kids from killing each other or pacing aimlessly round the duty-free shops.

Not so with us - even though it was 5am, adrenalin kept things moving. We had been up since midnight, met in the rugby club car park and had been taken by coach to Stansted airport in Essex for a 6am flight to Carcassonne in the Languedoc in southern France.

Who were we? Well, we were 18 members of a Norfolk youth Rugby Union team with our coach/manager Mr. James - that is Fred to the parents and 'boss' to us. There was also a couple of mums to keep everyone clean, happy and healthy and Fred's daughter Janis who was about to finish her B.Sc. degree in Sports Physiotherapy at Loughborough University. We rather looked forward to her laying her hands on us - you know, to ease those troublesome groin strains!

The team looked good - Blue blazers with team badge, team tie in blue and cream stripes (our strip colours), grey trousers and black polished shoes - the team travel kit in other words. We looked a bit more together than the average traveller at that hour of the morning, although the ties were already at half-mast on some of forwards whose bull necks didn't take kindly to collars and ties.

Why were we there? Oh, didn't I say? Well we had won our league in the Under-16s Competition during the winter and one part of the prize was a series of fixtures against youth teams in the Rugby playing part of France which occupies Perpignan right round the coast to Narbonne and Montpellier. It also included a Rugby 7's tournament over the weekend.

Why 18 of us? 15 made up the first team and three reserves who would play in the 7's tournament, but not otherwise unless there was injury amongst the first choice players.

Who am I? The name's is Jeff, by the way. I was reserve three-quarter and had a couple of months to go before my sixteenth birthday. Generally on the left wing but capable of filling in wherever. I hoped to make full-back eventually, but at 5ft 5 inches I was just too small, and anyway - there wasn't as vacancy at the moment! Josh - blue-eyed, blond haired and six-two was likely to remain in post for some time to come before we entered adult teams.

I had had to save up the £250 pounds the trip cost. It took me 4 months of gardening, baby-sitting and the like to get it and all that work bought was an early morning flight on an economy airline. At least I would fit comfortably into the economy class seats for the two-hour flight - which was more than some of the forwards would!

The flight was uneventful - April gloom and drizzle in East Anglia gave rise to patchy cloud over the central highlands of France and then to glorious April sunshine glistening from the fish scale tiles that coat the roofs of La Cité, the fairytale castle of Carcassonne that we flew over on the final approach to La Salvaza; Carcassonne's small airport.

All tiredness seemed to evaporate with the sunshine. Animated chatter surrounded the carousel as the bags reappeared promptly from the belly of the aircraft.

Boss's curt instructions kept us all together as we moved through the small terminal building and loaded our belongings into the coach to take us to our hotel, where a late breakfast was to be followed by a shower and some kip before the first practice session that afternoon.

Arriving at the hotel near Agde was uneventful but the double booking of the hotel rooms left us all gobsmacked. What in the hell were we to do now? No rooms, a holiday weekend coming up and nowhere to sleep or rest!

I am sure Boss's French had seen better days, but he seemed to convey the impact of the moment with what sounded like fluent invective to the unitiated like myself. Phone calls followed to other hotels that also had no spare rooms available, by which time the French contact from the local Rugby clubs who had made the bookings turned up. I never really understood what had happened, but I understood the consequences well enough. We all sat in the hotel lounge surrounded by baggage; tired and bedraggled whilst numerous phone calls took place. The hotel did, at least, come up with a very good free lunch to compensate for their part in the cock-up of the bookings.

By 3pm the practice session had been abandoned and the news was that 22 families of local rugby players would put up one player or adult each for the duration of our visit. By 4pm cars started to arrive at the hotel and rather uncomfortable looking team members were driven off to who knows where, by the local rugby supporting families.

The group sitting in the lobby had shrunk to five or six by the time my 'family' arrived. They had had to wait until the father; the local First team's lock forward had come home from work with the car before being able to come for me. His huge proportions made the handshake a bit painful, but his welcome was warm. We left with clear instructions to be at the training ground at a local lycée by 10am the following morning.

The journey was punctuated Monsieur Gatti's introduction to the area in broken English and my brief responses in minimal schoolboy French. Soon we drove up to a modern villa on the outskirts of a large village. The wonderful beds of spring flowers made a wonderful backdrop to the blue water of their pool and the mountains of the Pyrenees in the distance.

As we drove up an attractive blond woman of about 40 came to the open door, walked over to us as the car was garaged, and offered her hand in the normal way. This was Madame Gatti. Sophie to her friends and family. After a polite introduction Monsieur Gatti; Pierre as I later learned, shouted up the stairs to bring down the third member of the household, their daughter Sylvie.

Sylvie was the material of teenage boys dreams. About my height, but with long blond hair, slim and athletic; but showing curves where it mattered. Dressed in a strappy top that finished just below her breasts, and miniskirt she had my jaw dropping. She seemed to glide down the stairs to shake my hand in French fashion but the handshake was firm and the smile was both self-assured and welcoming. "Bienvenue à notre maison. Je suis Sylvie et vous?" This girl was no decorative adjunct to a dominant French male. "Je m'appelle Jeff", I said haltingly. "Je joue au rugby. Je suis un l'ailier." This seemed to satisfy her for the moment.

Madame Gatti... Madame to me and Maman to Sylvie and Sophie to her husband had better English than her husband, so she explained that they had offered Sylvie's sister's room for my visit with the emergency. Michelle was studying at the University of Toulouse and would not be at home during my visit.

Sylvie was asked to show me Michelle's room. I wondered how she would show me what was what in the room, but I needn't have worried. Sylvie attended the International School in Toulouse and some of her classes were in English. The room was a bit girlie, as was to be expected. Ceramic tiles on the floor with a couple of scatter rugs, a vanity unit, fitted wardrobe and chest of drawers in pale coloured wood. The bed was a single with pink bedspread and a clutter of furry toys.

I found Sylvie's French accent fascinating - particularly with the Occitan accenting of the words. Someone, it seems, had quickly emptied a couple of drawers for my use and made up the bed. Under the circumstances I thought I had come off rather well with a pleasant family and a comfortable bed.

"Dinner in ten minutes" or was it "Le dîner sera en dix minutes". I cannot remember now, but it sounded good whatever language it was in. A quick wash was in order, but ten minutes was enough.

On going downstairs I followed the sounds of talking until I found the dining room. Sylvie was already there, having laid the table. She waved me to a place next to her.

I was comfortable with the mixture of French and English that was used during the meal but was encouraged to use French when I could. I had to be shown how to eat the fat leaf bases of artichokes, but the steak slipped down well. The goat's cheese with local honey smelling of the garrigue, was unusual to British tastes, but good The créme brûlée made a fitting end to the meal.

After the meal, tiny cups of strong black coffee allowed the family to chat about the English visit, our opponents and French rugby in general. I was surprised how easy it was to fit into this family and talked more than I would thought possible about my widowed mother and much older sister at home in Norfolk. They also queried my size in getting into the team as well as my ponytail of mid-brown hair. My speed and lithe figure explained my place in the squad and I was surprised how much Sylvie knew about the game, but then she had watched her father playing in many many matches from the age where she could walk.

After the dishwasher had been loaded I was pleased and surprised to be invited to Sylvie's room. She wanted to show me her CD collection and was interested in what I had on my MP3 player that was round my neck on arrival. It had helped to while away the hours of waiting in the hotel.

She put on her current favourite; a pretty girl who was the lead singer of a group I had never heard of; but was surprised and pleased to see that our tastes otherwise in New Age music were very similar. "J'aime beaucoup Vangelis' El Greco, Jean Michele Jarre et Yanni". When things got too difficult to explain we typed what we wanted to say into her computer and got it to do the translation with more or less hilarious results.