Brace yourselves. For the next six weeks we’ll be locked in a scrum, half-blinded by a fug of steam from the ruck around us, someone tugging on our waistband, another elbowing us in the eye. No doubt about it, there’s a bumpy time ahead. There will be pain, and plenty of it. We’ll emerge limping and bruised, muscles tenderised as if pummelled on a butcher’s block. Ice baths, physio and counselling will only do so much to heal our wounds. These blows are as much psychological as physical, leaving mental scars that will never fade.

It's like this every year. Scotland’s opening match of the Six Nations Championship is a definition of bittersweet. Even those whose hearts are made of granite secretly allow themselves a moment of optimism as the ref’s whistle starts the game, daring to hope that this might be the year when we manage to pull it off.

Rugby is one of the reasons I love February and March: they bring not just intimations of spring, but unmissable weekend fixtures, as France slugs it out against Wales, or England tries to bloody Ireland’s nose – something we’ve been doing rather successfully ourselves of late – and Scotland proves that, while we are a small country, we have players worthy of the world stage.

Read more by Rosemary Goring

It’s also the only time we see our Welsh-speaking friends, who turn up from the Vale of Glamorgan whenever Wales play at Murrayfield. More like fanatics than fans, they follow their team around the world, even during its present doldrums. Ann roars so loudly we’re sure we heard her last night during the Six Nations opener in Paris. She was once seen on TV,........

© Herald Scotland