It was pig iron and a man called Jeremiah Homfray that changed the fortunes of Ebbw Vale, transforming it from a sleepy farming community into a European giant of steel employing tens of thousands. Until it wasn’t. Now, the only Steelmen left in the valley can be found at Eugene Cross Park every other Saturday.

Prague suffered more than most during the Second World War. Invaded and occupied by the Nazis, it was bombed by Allied forces in an attempt to release Hitler’s stranglehold. But, as the war drew to a close, the RAF began to drop Red Cross supplies. Amid the medical and food parcels was one unique package of a rugby ball and four distinct black and amber jerseys. In less than a year, the finders had formed a rugby club and, 70 or so years later, the club made a pilgrimage to the original owners of those jerseys: Canterbury RFC.

As the German bombers flew overhead, the Moss Lane anti-aircraft guns burst into action, firing perhaps in hope rather than any certainty of hitting anything in the pitch-black night sky. Once the war was over, the station was dismantled but the weekly battles commenced, and, despite trials and tribulations, in the colours of St Helens RUFC and now Liverpool St Helens Football Club, they haven’t stopped since.

When Berkshire was a lawless place, the picturesque village of Sonning was a hideaway for the infamous outlaw Dick Turpin and his fabled steed Black Bess. Just under 300 years later, Rams RFC are attempting their own form of highway robbery by stealing the National One title from the rugby aristrocrats of Richmond.

Nine miles north of Leeds, just off the A660 to Otley, is an affluent village called Bramhope. Thousands fly overhead every week from Leeds-Bradford airport, heading to or from sunnier climes, rarely thinking what lies beneath. There’s nothing especially remarkable about this place of roughly 4,000 souls. Aside from the rugby that is. Specifically the local ladies rugby team, who have their sights set high, to be among the big guns of the Tyrells Premier 15s.

Southend RFC’s 150th anniversary is testament to many things. The commitment of volunteers down the generations, fiscal responsibility spanning two centuries, plus the resilience to ride out a pandemic or two. But most of all, it underlines that, in Essex, watching a joy-riding lion taking on a vertical ‘wall of death’ at 50mph isn’t as entertaining for the locals as a simple game of rugby.

Around the corner from Jeff Stelling’s house, in a town famed for hanging a monkey dressed as a French sailor – a town that, ironically, 200 years later voted for a monkey as mayor – is a rugby side that’s lived quite the life. Almost a decade of being a Premiership yo-yo club, ended in four relegations. They lost their home, their coach, their players, their fans and came close to extinction. And yet, somehow, West Hartlepool are still with us.

In 2014, owner Mike Gooley sent a letter to club members to clear up a few misconceptions about his involvement with Ealing Trailfinders.

In the shadows of Snowdonia, a town that declared independence from one of history’s most feared kings more than 700 years ago, is now home to a rugby club that’s powered by farmers, inspired by an archdruid, and has a girls’ section that’s the envy of Wales.

The daily life of Matt Williams used to involve deals with Hollywood execs, launching girlbands across the planet, making movies with the Harry Potter team, and helping the Hannah Montana soundtrack go platinum. Today, it’s much harder. Finding rugby refs for friendly fixtures and helping to get Chinnor RFC promoted from National One.

Frontrower Vez has been targeted, victimised and bullied. He’s had blood spat in his mouth after a tackle; and had rugby ‘fans’ shout everything from, ‘get the fat bastard man off the pitch’ to ‘put her face in mud, let her drown’. And that’s before the endless stream of social media abuse. Vez has considered, ‘not being here’ many times. This is what can happen when you’re a transgender rugby player. And, he says, it needs to change.

In 1492, Henry VII held a month-long tournament with minstrels, stilt-walkers, jesters and rope dancers, with revelry spilling from palace to Richmond Green – all to the sound of splintered lances and men crashing to the floor as jousting took centre stage. Less than 400 years later, a football club named after the town started playing ‘rugby’ on the very same ground. It was then that things got interesting.

“If nothing else,” probably thought Catherine of Aragon as she was handed her divorce papers in the castle, “at least I’ll put this lovely town of Ampthill on the map”. Sadly, she didn’t. That job has now been left, almost 500 years later, to four Tongans and a Welshman called Paul.

The beauty of the Yorkshire Dales has a tendency to lull people into a false sense of security. ‘What are we doing here?’ the opposition are often heard asking. It’s then, they know they’ve got them, and the tweed-covered faithful of The Avenue start to roar.

On an island famous for speed, the seeds are being sown for a new national rugby side. Helping them grow are Portuguese, Kiwis, Namibians and, for one weekend only, Bryan Habana.

Gareth Davis hadn’t expected to be told he was blind. He’d played county-level rugby, he loved the game, but his sight was going. He knew it, but didn’t want to acknowledge it. When he read it in black and white, that was it. What was he going to do next?

The chip van man at the Gnoll is trying to make things work. He’s going to give it another season and see what happens. The £14 electricity bill isn’t helping, margins are tight, but he’ll persevere, for now. Besides, it’s Neath v Pontypool today, so there should be a good crowd.

Just four games into the London Welsh revival, they lose 17-7 to UCS Old Boys on a ‘small, slanting, pitch’. It’s not in the script. Coach Cai Griffiths is philosophical about defeat: “I wanted to rip people’s faces off.” The journey back is going to be a long one. 

One-by-one, the councillors stood up to say their piece. Twenty, thirty, maybe forty of them. Some were for, some against. Some eloquent, some, less so. Then, the vote. All 123 councillors, a single vote apiece, to decide the future of Cornish rugby. It started with a single ‘For’, but then, one after the other, the ‘Againsts’ rolled in.  

It’s survived World Wars, industrial collapse and royal insults, but Coventry has always shrugged its shoulders and got on with it. Its rugby club is no different. Once, only hours from extinction, it now turns over £1.6m, regularly pulls in crowds of over 2,000 (in the third tier), has internationals both playing and coaching, and has run away with the league title. And that’s before we mention UB40 and Steps.