View from France: Seamus Martin spent a difficult morning with his fellow villagers of Puisserguier.

The French have a word for that first half . . . merde. Bad enough to watch Ireland being trounced from the comfort of your living room. There's some comfort in exchanging the odd sheepish look with a friend or neighbour as France display their class and take full advantage Ireland's errors.

But there were few small consolations in the Café des Arts in Puisserguier. Not even the weather - a day of drizzle in a region that averages 320 days of sunshine each year - gave cause for hope. Even the thought of decent Vin de Pays at €1.18 per litre failed to lift the gloom.

Here's the geography: Puisserguier is a village of 2,400 souls. It lies in the very heartland of French rugby. Here the game is everything, except in summer when bullfighting is the passion. The local youngsters, Les Cadets, in a combined team with the neighbouring villages of Capestang and Quarante, are the reigning champions of Languedoc and of France. Beziers, the scene of Munster's triumph against Castres, is 20 minutes away. Narbonne, half an hour's drive from here, is the home of the Spangheros, those great forwards of yesteryear.

So those who gathered in the early morning at the Café des Arts knew their rugby and were fiercely committed to a French victory.

They were apprehensive all the same. They had, after all, lost three of their last four games to les verts.

But after Olivier Magne planted that first try after four minutes and Frederic Michalak converted, the old rugby men of the village smelled blood.

"Ils sont papier" (they're paper), one of them cried as the lighter French pack pushed their Irish opponents around the park.

To be the only Irishman among them during that humiliating first half was a pretty rough experience. That word merde kept coming to mind. I whispered it under my breath as things went from bad to worse.

There was no sympathy whatsoever from the locals as the hammering continued, except, as half-time approached, from old Monsieur Sylvestre, and even that was a small mercy.

There were worse things than being 27-0 down, he assured me. I knew what was coming. Monsieur Sylvestre is proud of his age. He does not hesitate to remind all those who will listen that four of those 89 years were spent in a German prison camp near Krefeld for his part in the resistance.

As the Irish resistance crumbled, the crowd in front of the screen grew larger.

On a stroll through the village at half-time men could be seen leaving their houses, the smiles on their faces beaming through the grey mist.

At the Finn's, one of the village's five Irish-owned houses, a forlorn Irish tricolour hung limply from a window.

In the second half I imagine it must have fluttered briefly with pride as Ireland saved their honour against a truly formidable side.

All three Irish tries were applauded by the audience at the Café des Arts, with particular appreciation for that splendid effort by Kevin Maggs. But then they had little to worry about at that stage.

There was criticism of the Irish too, especially for Paul O'Connell's activities in the rucks. They called for the yellow card and for the red card too, but to no avail.

Mind - the locals know a bit about rough play. It's not all that long ago since one player from the village, who shall be nameless, was punished even more severely than the laws of the game allow. No yellow or red for our man: his offences were considered too serious for that type of punishment. The gendarmes were called and he was arrested on the pitch.

Rugby can get tough in these parts.