OK, confession time! I have never been particularly sporty.


When listing off sports, many would raise their eyebrow at the mention of dance. This is despite the fact that dancers have just as rigorous training regimes as rugby players do, for example.


Squash has always been a sport close to my heart; my dad taught me to play aged 14 and since then I have always found friends or a club to play with.


British children generally learn how to ride a bike at a young age after being taught by their parents. I am an exception to that rule.


I have been in Limoges for a month now. Since living here I have tried to integrate into the local community and one way I have found to do this is by following the local rugby team. 

Running is free, it’s easy and now it’s becoming cool as well. Many people do not have enough time to play a team sport, so instead they have started going running.

The town where I live in France (St Amand Montrond)  is a little like stepping back in time.


We Brits love rugby. Don’t let people tell you football is our national sport; any decent person will tell you that our hearts belong to the wonderful sport of rugby.


Skateboarding, sport climbing, karate, baseball and surfing – all sports given the go-ahead for the 2020 Olympic Games to be held in Tokyo.

In this post I would like to tell you about a strange and sad football experience that I had many years ago.


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