Welsh dragons breathe fire into Six Nations rugby union epic against Scotland.

 Welsh dragons breathe fire into Six Nations rugby union epic against Scotland. 

Rugby union hadn't really seen this one coming. It had hoped that at one point that the annual Six Nations tournament would explode into life but it wasn't quite sure when that moment would come. Earlier on in the day England had quite obviously steamrollered all over an Italian side who had the audacity to score the opening try at Twickenham but then succumbed to superior English fire-power. 

For those impartial obsevers who still regard the oval game as something of a mystery and far too complicated to understand at times, this was the one match that had you gripping onto your sofa and wishing it would last well until the early hours of Sunday morning. It wasn't so much a match as a brilliant and breathless game of rugby union which left most of us totally enchanted and fascinated. In fact it had to be one of the best games of international rugby union you could ever remember. 

It was one of those ding dong, end to end, relentlessly exciting matches that perhaps we thought we'd never see again on a rugby field. For those unfamiliar with the technicalities and finer points of the game, it was a cracking, electrifying and magnificent confrontation between two teams who just wanted to entertain the masses. 

Scotland against Wales used to be one of those finely balanced, intriguing rugger contests between two seemingly gifted sets of players, players who could dart, hop, skip, weave, hop-scotch and generally exude a permanent air of genius and ingenuity. Scotland once had the peerless Andy Irvine, a natural ball carrier who would drop his shoulders before jinking, shimmying, swerving and swaying past the opposition with an imagination and cunning that had to be seen to be believed. 

Back in the 1970s Wales of course reached their very peak and often played the dreamlike rugby that still sends a warm glow through you. When Phil Bennett, Gareth Edwards, JPR Williams and Barry John got together on a Saturday afternoon with Bill Mclaren as the BBC commentator par excellence you knew you were in for an afternoon of education, compulsively watchable rugby, splendid improvisation and that delicious air of the unpredictable. It was rugby at its most inventive, rugby at its most off the cuff and rugby to rejoice in. 

Yesterday the latest class of Welsh dragons breathed fire and brimstone on a freezing February afternoon at Scottish headquarters Murrayfield. Scotland, of course were still beating their breast and bragging from the highest Grampians and Highland glens after last week's dismantling of the Auld Enemy England. But this was not to be one of those intoxicating afternoons in the land of the resounding bagpipe. Oh no, those whisky distilleries would have to keep on hold another Scottish celebration since this was not their day or time. 

There have been more pleasurable and perhaps more gripping afternoons in the world of the Six Nations but it is hard to think of them. Scotland and Wales went at it hammer and tongs, throwing the proverbial kitchen sink at each other, growling and sneering, grinning and contorting their faces at each other, revealing the very latest in gum shields in each other's face. This was not a game for the faint- hearted or lily-livered, not for those who simply believe rugby union is only about pushing and shoving, grabbing and pulling almost incessantly. 

Of course it is a game of red-blooded masculinity and invigorating virility. It is a game where brawn collides with muscle, various parts of the bodies are subjected to the most ruthless of batterings and violence hovers threateningly in the air. Scrums are rather like military battalions where huge armies of players lock horns, linking strapping shoulders together and then rumbling forward like Sherman tanks as if determined to rip off each other's ears and poisoning each other's tea given half the chance. 

Scotland went off like an express train, powering and marauding their way into the Welsh half with a vigour and intelligence that has rarely been seen on the big occasion. This was Scotland at their most businesslike and fearsomely aggressive, Robert the Bruce warriors with steel and iron in their weaponry, navy shirts crashing rumbustiously at a wall of red Wales shirts. This was a barnstorming Scotland, in the mood for humiliation perhaps and just intent on getting one over Wales. 

By the time Darcy Graham had rolled over for the Scots opening try it looked as if Scotland were on a crusade, a mission to dominate this year's Six Nations. The oval ball was being flung from one hand to the other with an effortless impudence, navy shirts hurtling themselves against the red Welsh barricade as if this was a military battle for real. It was all very earthy and authentic from a Scottish team who must have had several bowls of porridge before this game. Finn Russell, a fly half from the finest Scottish lock would easily convert all of Scotland's penalties but how the Scots strutted their stuff. 

When the superb Stuart Hogg, an immense figure, stretched Scotland's lead with a delightful pick up from his own kick. it was clear that here was a Scotland team with its very own distinctive identity. Then Hogg came up with the same formula, a scurrying, urgent and positive presence both in possession of the ball and without it. It looked for all the world that the Scots had the Welsh exactly where they wanted them, buried under a mass of Welsh shirts, a massacre on the day before Valentines Day. 

Then a young Welsh man going by the name of  Louis Rees Zammitt emerged from the heaving, heavy breathing rucks and mauls, a player so outstandingly talented that in years to come he may well think back to the likes of Barry John, a player of frightening speed, suppleness and wonderful anticipation. Rees Zammitt seems to have come up straight from the Welsh coalfaces, a player of nimble feet, sharp thinking and memorable movement. Here was a born a Welsh star. 

After a Leigh Halfpenny penalty had arrowed home his penalty for the Welsh, a comeback was on and forthcoming almost immediately. Shortly into the second half Rees Zammitt revved his way through the gears with a deceptive turn of pace, a sinuous wiggle and wriggle of the body before planting the ball firmly over the posts for a lead in the game for the first time. It may well have been a disguise of Gareth Edwards from another era but comparisons should not be made. 

Wales were now driving forward, winning their mauls, creating strategic scrums and making Scotland's lives a constant misery. Now the Scots looked to be running out of steam, sucked horrifically into the Scotland trap. Now the likes of Dan Biggar at fly-half,  Liam Williams, Alan Wyn Jones, Ken Owens barrelling into the Scots half at will, a hooker in his element and Nick Tompkins were shifting the ball away persistently away from any sight of a Scotland shirt with adroit handling of the ball and a passionate Welsh heart. Then fellow midfield builder Owen Watkin bundled his way through challenge after challenge, an ominous and bullish figure who seemed as though he could have run all day. 

Wales had now edged in front for the first time in the match and with minutes to go, they established a vice-like grip on the game. Louis Rees Zammitt, a man now uncontrollable and unstoppable, was tearing large holes into the Scottish defence, steam pouring from his nose and pounding his way towards the try line as if he'd been born to score tries. Now he would jink his way cleverly in for a decisive try after another cinnamon-scented, free-flowing Welsh move, dunking the ball down gleefully.

Now Wyn Jones, Callum Sheedy and Zammitt were just picking their moments to exert their unmistakable influence. When Zammitt thundered forward from a dazzling sequence of  a cross-field handling manoeuvre, the game was up for Scotland.  Zammitt burst towards the try line, left a slight shoulder droop on his way and scored the game- winning try. The Scottish magic touch had been applied. 

Wales had won a remarkable, basketball of a game by 25 points to Wales 24. It had been a game for the connoisseur, a good wine to roll around the mouth and a game the missing Murrayfield crowd could only kick themselves for not being a part of. Still, in years to come, Scottish grand and great grandchildren may well tell their offspring that they were there, in spirit, after all if not visible.  There are days when rugby union does excel itself and yesterday was another exhilarating example of the game as it should be played. Sport does hit the jackpot from time to time and here was the gold plated evidence. Bravo, Wales.