Forget the Old Firm, around here the glorious Six Nations rules

Up the path they come, with carrier bags clinking with bottles of wine and gin. If they don’t start out speaking Welsh, the floodgates soon open, and we could be in the Senedd Cymru rather than the tight-lipped Borders.

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These are no ordinary rugby fans. I’ve spotted them on TV, amid the adoring Cardiff throng, clutching Alun Wyn Jones’s hand – and not, by the looks of it, for the first time. They think nothing of travelling to New Zealand or Japan to follow the British and Irish Lions tour, planting a little piece of Wales wherever they go.

Whenever we watch a Welsh game, we try to spot them in the stand; we’ve yet to do so, but my husband is convinced he can hear Ann cheering when they score a try. Last weekend, when Ireland raced ahead, she seemed uncharacteristically subdued. As the final whistle blew, we pictured their commiserations lasting long into the night.

Although I’ve only once been to Murrayfield – too cold for comfort – I’ve always looked forward to the Six Nations, or the Five Nations as it was called when I was young, before Italy joined in. I’d watch with my dad, who had been a fly-half in his prime, in the cause of which he lost several teeth.

While rain lashed the pitch or gales howled around the stadium, early spring weekends came alive as the roars of Scotland fans and the dirge-like Flower of Scotland summoned us to the sofa. After the skirl of the pipes faded and the ball was kicked into play, the afternoon was spent more in hope than expectation.

Being a Scotland rugby fan is a serious test of loyalty and endurance. It is a mark of character not to drop your head into your hands when we allow success to be snatched from us; when, with alarming frequency, we manage to turn a promising lead into another Flodden.

At such moments I fear my husband will have a heart attack, yelling so hard he sets the village dogs baying. He's even louder when we’re on the charge, as when Van der Merwe worked his magic last weekend during the Calcutta Cup, moving like a snipe between the English defenders and giving the country one of its happiest hours since Elvis landed at Prestwick.

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In the days since, I’ve lost count of the times we’ve watched the highlights. Such moments are to be savoured. No matter what happens in subsequent matches, Jamie Ritchie and his team have already done us proud.

Understandably, there was a sharp intake of breath when, in an interview after that match, Van der Merwe said there’s no reason why Scotland can’t beat every other team in the tournament. He’s right, of course, but many of us have learned the painful way that there’s no place for optimism in this game; it’s all about managing expectations.

Despite what you could euphemistically call the ups and downs of following Gregor Townsend’s squad – the agony and the ecstasy might be more accurate – as soon as the calendar turns to February, things look up.

In the Co-op, the fish van queue or the butcher’s – especially the butcher’s – for several weeks there’s no other topic of conversation. This is Doddie Weir country, after all, where toddlers are dressed in rugby shirts and handed a ball before they’re quite steady on their feet.

Football supporters are a rare breed; the fortunes of Celtic and Rangers are of no consequence to most folk around here, whereas Townsend’s selection for the Scotland side is debated more closely than a political manifesto, everyone – and I mean everyone – having their opinion on individual players’ weaknesses and strengths. As a consequence, during a game the entire region suddenly feels deserted: roads quiet, streets empty, as if there’s been a bomb alert.

Although horses come a close second, in the Borders rugby is king, as seen by the number of players in the national squad drawn from Hawick and environs. When we play the English, there are unmistakeable echoes of the old reiver heydays, when clans fought their enemies across the Tweed with eye-watering ferocity.

In modern times there might only be a ball in play, but for the space of 80 minutes it feels as if historic hostilities are not far from the surface. That said, whatever team we’re facing, the hardscrabble, pitiless nature of the sport, and what it demands of players, is a reminder of punishing yesteryears.

'When we play the English, there are unmistakeable echoes of the old reiver heydays, when clans fought their enemies across the Tweed with eye-watering ferocity' (Image: Newsquest)

Electricians, plumbers, painter-decorators all have their rugby stories to tell, sometimes in the form of metal pins in their legs, or weeks off work to recover from head injuries or fractures. A friend, who does not follow the game, was speaking to her son’s sports teacher recently.

Was he concerned about incidents of concussion during school matches, she asked? Not at all, he replied. After a couple of weeks’ rest the lads (and lassies) would be right as rain. But wouldn’t it be better if concussion could be avoided altogether, she suggested? He looked taken aback, as if this was a concept he had never considered.

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The Scotland squad might need hard heads, but those of us who follow them have to be emotionally tough. So far, there has been only a single – albeit joyous – victory. Who knows what lies ahead, although you can bet that some of it will not be pretty.

This year our Welsh guests are arriving shortly after the Scotland-Wales contest, and the first evening will, inevitably, be spent in a post mortem. Forensic is too laid-back an adjective to describe it. The perfect host would be hoping they arrive in the best of spirits, enjoying every minute of their trip, and with a win under their belt.

Not me. I’d rather be in the position of cheering them up than feeling sore and aggrieved while pretending it’s all of no consequence.