A lifelong interest in sporting venues took me recently to that most quintessentially English of test match cricket grounds, Trent Bridge Nottingham , and its renowned library.

I was met by Mr. Peter Wynne Thomas who has presided over this, one of the largest Cricket libraries in the world with loving care in his capacity as archivist and librarian for more years than he cares to remember.

As a man of Neath (actually Tonna) it is a special place for me, for it was at Trent Bridge in the 1934 test match against Australia that a former pupil of Neath Grammar School-Cyril Walters- became the first Welshman to captain England.

Remarkably, in the long history of cricket, the only other Welshman to captain England was a product of the same school-Tony Lewis-who was also a rugby player of some distinction for Cambridge University , Gloucester and Neath, and who was later to become president of the M.C.C.

Peter Wynne Thomas, an architect by profession whose father was born in Wales , showed me some of the books, scorecards and documents gathered and stored in sequential order in polished wooden bookcases among the memorabilia of centuries.

I told him, although I suspected he knew, of the bat and ball which was displayed for years at Neath Cricket club after the match in May 1868 in which the redoubtable W.G Grace famously ‘bagged a pair’. A brief search ensued until the details were unearthed. The United South of England eleven versus twenty two of Cadoxton with Howitt. A splendidly Victorian footnote recorded that Howitt ‘cyphered’ Mr Grace, and that one of the umpires (doubtless impartial but mindful of the town’s roman origins) was called Julius Caesar!!  

Sadly, there seems little likelihood of anyone succeeding Mr Wynne Thomas when this most gentle and articulate of men decides to end his labour of love. His view, as mine, is that cricket, with its history and tradition has a quality of literature which is perhaps over and above all other sports.

Close by, and almost overshadowing the cricket ground are the two football grounds, Notts county, the oldest league club, and closer still, Notts Forest . Bigger, brasher, but lacking the timeless charm that is Trent Bridge .

When the next test match is played at Trent Bridge we have arranged to meet again. Until then, I left him to do what he has done day after day, year after year in his quiet vocation, studiously researching among the artefacts in that hallowed room. Perhaps only cricket could produce such a place, and such a man.

“Inside ropes please, one for me and one for the boy”. With those words, spoken by my father, I first entered the Gnoll, to begin, like him before me, a lifelong devotion to Neath Rugby Club. In that first game (against Richmond of all people), we took what became our usual place at the Union End, away, my father reasoned, from the more raucous elements among the crowd. Thus, was I inducted.

After that first game I wanted him to take me again, to every game in any weather. I was smitten. He couldn’t get away with saying he was tired after a morning shift, because being an odious little fellow I demanded that we go.

At half-time there were the autographs. Too shy in the early days, I was soon leading the pack towards the half-time huddle, towards the Neath team of course. However famous and illustrious the opponents it was always the Neath signatures I wanted. As the years passed and he became too old and ill to accompany me, I started to go to the away games as well, eventually to every game, anywhere, often on my own, to all parts of the country, wherever the all blacks were playing.

One of my first   favourites was Cyril Roberts, that most powerful of wings for Neath and Wales. I still see him in Neath these days, looking fit, healthy and tanned, a testimony to the way he has lived his life. In those days he was a coruscating runner who thrilled the Gnoll crowd with his touchline dashes.

Years passed, chiefly of mediocrity, until one day there came, for me, a seminal moment. It was the arrival of a full back, his name was G.T.R Hodgson of St Lukes College, Exeter and Neath – Grahame Hodgson – and he was the most complete player I had ever seen.  

Everything he did was immaculate, even his kit seemed perfect, an unsubstantiated rumour had it that even his bootlaces were ironed. 

For years, for me, he was Neath. There was, as ever, a fearsome pack, but it seemed to me then, that whilst he was there, as that last elegant line of defence that everything was going to be all right.

The history and traditions of Neath are known all over the rugby world, the list of achievements endless-first cup winners, first league winners, first treble winners, World Record holders (still) for tries and points in a season, among them. It was in Neath after all, that the Welsh Rugby Union was formed. Essentially blue collar, it has never been a club of glamour, thriving rather on a siege mentality, an esprit de corps which has been their enduring hallmark over the years.

None of this mattered to me then of course, nothing mattered much at all, as long as there was Hodgson at full back. He played fifteen times for Wales (it should have been thirty). He was a thorn in the side of whoever Neath played. Coming from the ground the opposition would bemoan the fact that they made him look good by “Kicking the ball down his throat”. The reason of course, was that with a sense of positioning that was uncanny, he was to be found wherever they kicked the ball. His catching was faultless and his screw kicking perfect (he was later recruited to coach J.P.R Williams in the art).  

Years later, when, in rugby terms he was old and I was young I actually played against him.

I have always regretted not telling him on that day what an influence he had been on me, but a combination of shyness and embarrassment meant that I let the moment pass. It didn’t seem to me, in those days, to be the right thing to do.

When I recreate the scenario now, I wish I could have sought him out in a quiet corner, just to say how much I had enjoyed and appreciated his career. As it was he never knew he was my hero, and I lacked the moral fortitude to tell him.

He had spoken to me only once, in the showers after the game, “Hey mate, chuck over the soap”, it was the only pass I ever saw him drop.

It began at the side of a railway track, close to my home in Tonna, near Neath in the late fifties. My father and I, on a morning walk, had come across a book, lying in the undergrowth on a disused line which once ran through the picturesque Dulais Valley . Not just any book, but a huge, beautifully illustrated leather bound volume, a first edition no less of Ancient Ballad Poetry.  

Embossed on its cover, in gold, was the crest of a school, not just any school, but Rugby School, one of the most famous and prestigious schools in all of England. 

 Written on the fly-leaf, in what appeared to be a classical hand, were the words Rhys Powell Morgan-Christmas 1860.  

 We dusted it, polished it, and cherished it. I couldn’t have imagined it then, but poetry was to become a source of enjoyment and fulfilment in my own life, in particular that of the late R.S.Thomas, whom I met just once, and who remains the man whose work I most admire.  In the bookcase at home the book remained, in quiet repose for almost thirty years, until the opportunity to seek its history was presented.

 My eldest son, much to his chagrin was sent to public school, (his brother had successfully resisted the offer). I had somehow managed to bring them up alone, aided by my father, whose earthy practicalities contrasted with the more aesthetic virtues of my late mother. Unhappy at boarding school and homesick at first, my son had nonetheless eventually settled happily into the somewhat insular world which was now his, and there was, as ever, rugby to be played.

 As a child he had watched Neath, with me of course, and was later to win representative honours in athletics and rugby, playing full-back for the Welsh Public Schools against England .

 In the rarefied atmosphere of public school rugby I was an unlikely parent, and because of my dishevelled appearance and lapses into swearing, I had been gently advised to steer a course well away from the more well to do among the assembled throng. “That’s Rupert Digby Penfold’s dad just there, he’s on the board at Lloyds, with Henry’s aunt Lucinda, a circuit judge in Kent ”. Consequently, at the games I became a shadowy, peripheral figure, not least from his own team-mates, who, on hearing me shout the odd obscenity would tease him mercilessly at evening prep.

 I settled into a rhythm, attending all the games in which he played, at all the famous public schools throughout the land, until eventually, the final fixture loomed. It was to be an away game, and it was to be against Rugby school.

It was the chance for me to take the book from its resting place at home, and seek its history from whence it came. The game was to be his and the teams last, before dispersing, and moving, as it were, into a man’s world, and of all the places where it could have ended, it would end where rugby began.

 I decided to stay overnight, and took a room near the school. I explored all of the places for which Rugby School is famous, I visited the statue of Rupert Brooke and the chapel immortalised by Matthew Arnold. As a preparation I had re-read Tom Browns Schooldays, the classic tale of life at Rugby , and the evil deeds of  Flashman.

 Outside the school is the statue commemorating William Webb-Ellis who, “with a fine disregard for the rules, picked up the ball and ran with it”. Thus was rugby born, on that field, at that school, at that place, all those years ago.

 Of all the famous seats of learning that I had visited, it was Rugby , with its history, its charm, and its traditions that was the most beautiful.

 I took the book into the library and was met by a kindly, studious, elderly and bespectacled man, in a faded tweed jacket with leather patches sown onto each elbow. He was of course, the archivist.

We discovered that the book had been presented to Rhys Powell Morgan as a prize for latin in 1860, by the headmaster at the time, who was later to become Archbishop of Canterbury.  A census some years later revealed that Rhys Powell Morgan had become a solicitor in Neath.  

 Not that it mattered, but the match was won, a full-blooded affair that was in the best traditions of the sport. The symbolism of the moment was largely lost on my son, but for me there was a poignancy in seeing that last encounter unfold. They weren’t men quite yet. Drinking, smoking and sex had probably entered their lives already, but they weren’t men yet, and it was possible then, to feel, to perceive, in the simplistic honesty of those last admirable endeavours, just the remnants of innocence.

 After this it would be university, and, well, yes, more drinking, smoking, and sex, but that was for another day. My son had enjoyed public school and was sorry to be moving on. In those years he had made his friends for life, and even I had made a mark, presenting a prize which is now awarded annually.

 As for the book of Ancient Ballad Poetry - when I came home I returned it to the bookcase, where it has been ever since.

 Should there be a descendant of Rhys Powell Morgan, a scholar of latin who was at Rugby school in 1860, and was presented by a future Archbishop of Canterbury, with a classically beautiful book, which was thrown into a railway ditch near Neath a hundred years later, they can get in touch. Until then it will be at home with me in Tonna.  

 Perhaps, but only perhaps, where it belongs.   

The year was 1866, the scene was a remote farmstead nestling in the Irish countryside near Dungarvan, a small unremarkable town near the coast in County Wexford, a land of undulating pastures, peat bogs and mists.

A greyhound bitch called Lady Sarah gave birth to a litter of seven pups, the smallest and weakest of which was a black dog. He was named after the Orphan boy who looked after him. The little black dog's life would be short, before he died of pneumonia in 1871 having lived for only five years.
In those five years he was to have songs, poems and books written about him, and they named pubs and restaurants after him in Britain, all over Ireland and as far afield as America and Australia. His image was embossed onto the backs of coins, and the Queen of England, Queen Victoria ordered that a private train be provided to transport him to Windsor Castle where he was presented at court.
In Ireland they built a monument, a statue which stands to this day in his honour, for this was Master M'grath, ''the most Celebrated dog in the world''.

The sport in which Master M'grath was peerless was the ancient one of hare coursing, no longer practiced in this country due to the hunting ban, but still hugely popular all over the Irish republic. Master M'graths first attempts at coursing during his trials were so poor that his trainer, James Galwey and owner Lord Lurgan ordered that he be given away, but the orphan boy and another kennel hand sensed a latent promise, and it was decided to give him a reprieve. 

He duly won his first official event, against all the odds in the visitors cup at Lurgan, and was victorious again soon afterwards in a sixty four dog competition at Creagh. He was now beginning to turn heads and was the topic of excited speculation among the greyhound fraternity. After more victories it was decided, still in his puppy season of 1868 to enter him in the sports blue riband, the Waterloo cup, held each year at Altcar near Liverpool in the North of England. 

First contested in 1836 it was recognised the world over as the sport's supreme prize. Master M'grath and his entourage duly sailed to Britain to take on the aristocrats of the sport in the English heartland. He won every round, and in the final defeated Cock Robin, a hitherto renowned champion with many victories to his credit. News of his triumph was greeted with riotous acclaim throughout the republic, he had become the first Irish dog to win the Waterloo cup, the most coveted and prestigious prize in the greyhound world. 

He returned to Durgarvan and his homeland, now a national celebrity, before going back in 1870 to defend his title at Liverpool. He again won every round, before, at the last, and in one of history's greatest contests he defeated the celebrated bitch Bab at the Bouster in an epic final battle. A crowd of over 90,000 had attended over the three days, many of whom had travelled from the republic. Remarkably, he had defended his title, and his fame knew no bounds. He became known as the immortal black, ''the most celebrated dog in the world''. 

He returned to the scene of his triumphs in 1870 to defend yet again the ultimate prize. This time, in the first round, against a fine bitch called Lady Lyons, and to the horror of all who watched, he fell through the ice in the frozen river Allt, and nearly drowned before being rescued and pulled to safety by one of the crowd.

It was the only time in his entire career that he was to lose. 

His defeat was regarded in Ireland almost as an injustice, and the great dog became thought of as something of a martyr to what was perceived to be an English air of superiority in sport and in life. Thus it was, that in 1871 he went back to Liverpool for what was to be his last attempt at the championship that every Irishman believed was rightfully his. He carried the hopes and aspirations of a people fuelled by a sense of oppression, which had seen the horrors of famine and beleaguered by insurrection. They needed a hero and they yearned for a champion, and they found one in Master M'grath.

Amid scenes of unparalleled fervour he won the supreme prize again, defeating Pretender in the final. He had won the Waterloo cup on an unprecedented three occasions. The victory news was relayed to Dublin and the other large Irish cities where the celebrations were unbridled as the nation rejoiced.
In England Queen Victoria asked that he be brought to her by private train, to be presented at court at Windsor, the only time in history that a royal audience was granted to a dog. 

He would never compete again, and in 1871 after a short illness, at twenty minutes to ten on Christmas eve, he died. 

They buried him at Lurgan in the grounds of a house called Solitude. He had united a nation and a people as never before. They preserved his heart after a post mortem in Dublin, where it was found to be almost twice the size of a normal dog's heart. In Ireland they put his image on the back of the sixpence and his obituary in the Irish Times ran to three pages, almost unprecedented even for humans. At the junction of the Clonmel road, in Durgarvan where he was born, they built a monument, a large imposing stone obelisk which stands to this day in his honour, the only statue in all of Ireland which commemorates a dog.

Having researched the backround of this story in and around his homeland in Dungarvan and Waterford, I decided to finish it, on my way home (not untypically) in a pub, in the centre of Wexford, that rather quaint but somewhat ramshackle town in the Irish heartland. There, I found, quite unexpectedly, in a place of prominence above the fireplace, and over a century and a quarter after his passing, a large oil painting of a small greyhound. It was Master M'grath of course, the immortal black, ''the most celebrated dog in the world''