They come in their hordes. Caerdydd, divided by three rivers, unites under the Red Dragon flag that whips about in sleety frenzy. Past sounds of Roman and Norman invaders that once surged towards the rivers Taff, Ely and Rhymney, it seems, are still shouting their war cries in an attempt to conquer the rebellious Welsh tribes.

Today the castle looks down with benign strength at its people as it has done so for many centuries. The Taff still races past its walls, slapping against its sides, heading towards the sea and, if you listen, you can almost hear the ghostly, blood thirsty cries of Elizabethan pirates wielding and thrusting their cutlasses in dark extinct alleys that now boast modern, glass fronted apartments overlooking a marina crowded with expensive craft.

‘Oggie! Oggie! Oggie,!’ Full of Brains Bitter, Clark’s Pies and courage, the battle chant begins stirring up inbred passion and patriotism. Loud strains of Delilah merge with Cym Rhondda and Bread of Heaven, filling a cold afternoon’s gloom. Grown men swallow lumps in their throats in anticipation. Below them, inside the Millennium Stadium, the ceremonial goat has walked its circuit, the band has left the pitch, and battle is about to commence.

Now young Welsh men charge, kick, scrum and swear. Blankets of sweaty steam rise in white clouds amid churned up earth and grass. Expectant faces from above, bellow and cheer their zealous and loud encouragement that resounds upwards and across St. David’s Centre to Caerdydd Bay, Penarth and beyond.