When I talk about pedigree, it doesn’t come much better than young Minogue’s. Mum Rosie Foley was an outstanding second row with Munster and Ireland, much like her dad Brendan alongside whom I made my debut for province and country, while his late uncle Anthony, Axel to most, is revered in Munster for good reason. A lot for Oisín to live up to there. Prior to the kick-off in Edinburgh, I bumped into Lansdowne stalwart Enda Bohan who informed me his son Billy was starting for Ireland. By sheer coincidence, I was staying in the same hotel as the victorious U20 side, chatting in the bar when they were clapped into the hotel by many of their parents and extended families. It was lovely to see. I ended up adjacent to a woman who tapped me on the shoulder and said “it’s a long time since I met you”. There’s always a slight nervousness when someone says that. “Who have I got”? She smiled and said “I’m Mick Doyle’s daughter Amanda, Enda’s wife”. To a younger generation of readers, Mick Doyle was coach to an Irish side that in the mid 1980s completely altered the mindset and the way the Irish teams went about their business. His catchphrase “we’re going to give it a lash” became synonymous with the 1985 Five Nations championship-winning team. But for a 15-15 draw against France, we would have won a first Grand Slam since 1948. The memories came flooding back as I was introduced to Doyler’s grandson, a strapping loose head prop who had a fine game against the Scots, and his two brothers. With a game against Wales to come, young Billy retired to bed. In his absence, their mother encouraged me to share stories about their gregarious granddad with the remaining two lads. After a while, one of them asked me about a photograph he’d seen in Doyler’s house of that Irish team standing side by side, linking arms, at Cardiff Arms Park. The picture remains cemented in my mind even if my copy is gathering dust somewhere in my attic. I really have to get up there sometime soon. While Irish teams stand in line, some with arms around each other, before all games these days, it wasn’t the norm then and I explained the thought process behind the photo to the two lads. Back then when Ireland played away from home, we didn’t have an anthem. Due to the political situation at the time, and with rugby representing a 32-county Ireland, Amhrán na Bhfiann was only played in Dublin with no anthem for the visiting team. For away games, that was flipped on its head, the host nation’s anthem the only one performed on the day. You felt cheated, especially in the electric atmosphere that was part and parcel of playing against Wales in Cardiff. Also at that time, every stadium had significant amounts of terracing with supporters tending to gravitate towards their favorite vantage point more than an hour before kick off to secure their spot. Lansdowne Road was no different. My generation of rugby players grew up in the 1970s watching a vintage Welsh back line, sprinkled with Lions stars in scrum-half Gareth Edwards, Barry John or Phil Bennett at out half, Ray Gravell and Steve Fenwick in the centre, with possibly the most potent attacking back three of all time in Gerald Davies, JJ and JPR Williams. Forget about playing, such was the magic of the Arms Park in those days, even standing on the terrace was enough to set the hairs standing on your neck. Playing there was special, the fulfilment of childhood dreams. As a player sitting in the away dressing room in the bowels of the stadium - warming up on the pitch wasn’t yet in vogue - you could clearly hear the inspirational singing of the Welsh crowd. You knew all the songs. Hymns and Arias, Calon Lan, Bread of Heaven or Delilah, performed by a mix of Max Boyce and Tom Jones. In the minutes before kick off the Welsh anthem, Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau - Land of our Fathers to the rest of us - set your pulse racing immediately. Ireland fielded a young and inexperienced pack with Phil Orr, captain Ciaran Fitzgerald and myself the only survivors up front from the side that played there two years previously. In the intervening period we lost some all-time great forwards to injury or retirement in Ginger McLaughlin, Moss Keane, Willie Duggan, Fergus Slattery and John O Driscoll; Lions all. By comparison our forwards that day were a bit callow but packed with athleticism, hardened ball players that complemented a very talented back line, a combination that inspired Doyle to play a completely different, open style of rugby. In advance of our opening championship game against England in Dublin, a game postponed due to heavy snow falls across the country, Doyle had boldly promoted this new style of attacking rugby in all his interactions the media. His English counterpart Dick Greenwood, whose son Will was part of England’s 2003 World Cup winning side, famously declared in advance of the postponed match that “Ireland would need a brain transplant” to play the type of rugby Doyler was espousing. That didn’t go down particularly well with the Irish public. How that throwaway comment come back to haunt him. By the time we got to Cardiff, not only had we displayed the capacity to execute the exciting brand of rugby we had committed to, we were getting better game by game having beaten Scotland at Murrayfield and drawn with tournament favourites France in challenging circumstances at Lansdowne Road. History was against us given that Ireland hadn’t won in Cardiff for 18 years. Back in the dressing room, with the singing reaching a crescendo and clearly audible as we sat in solitude, left to gather our thoughts prior to a final collective warm up. Out of the blue, someone broke the silence. What was said has remained with me all these years later. Basically we were encouraged to sit back for a minute, to take in the singing with the clear understanding that once we arrived on the pitch, one of two things could happen. The unique surroundings could either intimidate or inspire us. There and then a decision was made. With no anthem of our own, we’d stand together, link arms and allow the spine tingling rendition of the Welsh anthem to become a source of inspiration. When the photograph emerged in the Sunday papers the following day, it meant even more given that we won 21-9. On the 40th anniversary of that game, it felt entirely appropriate that one of Doyle’s grandson’s should enquire about it. The sad demise of the Welsh regions means that circumstances have changed dramatically for both teams when they take to the field at a completely revamped Principality Stadium on Saturday. Irish rugby has never been in a better place, our national team is world-class. Not so for our counterparts. The game in Wales has reached crisis point, a far cry from when I was a youngster. Having once reigned supreme, Welsh rugby has reached rock bottom. There’s bound to be a reaction.