MY FATHER USED to say to me, ‘If you’re not into sport, you’re not really Welsh.’ It was not something he ever said to my sisters, with its connotations of manliness; just me. However, at thirteen, the only sport I was devoted to was surfing. But surfing was not a sport he could recognise. Not a team game, nor endemically Welsh – it looked to him effeminate, and the deeper I got into it the more he distanced himself from me.

I couldn’t understand his objection then. His values of manliness seemed to be values in motion. On the football field and cricket pitch, in the boxing ring and on the racing track. In lifting a pint to your lips. Surfing too was about motion, but crucially it wasn’t competitive in its soul, didn’t need competition to exist. I once tried to explain all this to him. What he said in reply was: ‘Do you know why the All Blacks never lose, son? Because they put fifteen men out on the pitch, who are willing to die for a victory. That’s the trouble with Welsh rugby. No commitment!’