More than three hours before kick-off at Murrayfield every route into the old place was lined with blue, white and red, the streets full of French colour, the air full of French song.
Approaching the stadium, you started to question the numbers you’d been given about the scale of the visiting support – 15,000 they said. It felt like 20,000 and more.
At the back of the West Stand, they lined the road waiting for the French players to arrive. They climbed the steps normally occupied solely by Scots and waited in their lofty vantage points for the Grand Slam champions-to-be.
French flags, French scarves, French fans with tricolor wigs and cockerel hats. They were everywhere. When Les Bleus appeared, you’d have sworn we were in Paris. They’d all come for a party but instead attended a wake.
In the sanctity of their own (extremely spacious) dressing room at the break in this 13-try, 90-point epic, the question for Scotland was how they could finish what they’d already started.
How they could keep playing relentlessly and clinically; rugby from another dimension, creative, clinical and utterly exhilarating.
When you’ve been through the wringer with this team you learn to erect protective walls guarding against excessive bouts of optimism, but there was something different about all of this.
It felt strange – faith had entered the building. Scotland looked completely and utterly convincing.
Sione Tuipulotu, their outstanding leader, spoke on Friday about the nature of psychology. Scotland should not be afraid if they fell behind, he said, and they should not be afraid if they were ahead.
What he wanted was “us being us”. Keep playing and keep believing, in other words. His players didn’t just take his words on board, they lived by them.
