Euros diarist HUGH MACDONALD watched a vibrant Tartan Army entertain the tournament ... now he sees them take their curtain call

The  retreat from the fanpark at Stadtpark was desperate. The genuine anguish of thousands of Scots was exacerbated by meeting the celebrating German fans emerging from the Schlosspark nearby where they had been watching their side qualify for the knock-out phase as group winners. There was the odd forlorn rendition of No Scotland, No Party. My conversation with a German fan included the observation: ‘There may be no Scotland but the party will go on.’ It was hard to argue. Frankly, it was hard to do anything rather than jump on a metro and head for bed.

THERE were further reminders of how victory might feel as I walked the long stretch up Heilbronner strasse. German drivers sounded horns incessantly. One could understand their reaction. But on Saturday night my pre-prandial reflections were interrupted by a convoy of Turkish fans zooming up the road, with horns blaring. I know there is a considerable Turkish community in Stuttgart but the noise was slightly odd because their national side was playing in Dortmund, some 260 miles away, and they had just been pumped 3-0.

IT ill behoves a Scotland fan to criticise any team or player. But I am behooving any way. Can anyone get Romalu Lukaku, a cow’s behind and a banjo in a room? I have a theory I want to test.

MY attempts to slip away occasionally from the considerable but overwhelming charms of the Tartan Army have led me to some exotic spots. The miniature railway museum in Stuttgart lured me in as the rain fell. Surprisingly, there were a number of Tartan Army footsoldiers looking at what I heretically deemed toy trains. One gave me a gentle lecture on his passion before adding: ‘You cannae just drink all day.’ Outside, tens of thousands of his compatriots were proving that argument to be false.

THE joy of loitering around fanzones hours before kick-off includes meeting punters from all over the world. Everyone has a story to tell, some stranger than others. Connor Henderson, 29, has one of the most unusual tales. He has cycled from Melbourne to Germany to take in the tournament. His practised reply as to how he managed to cycle from an island is met with a weary: ‘I used a pedalo.’ He has not tallied precisely the amount of miles completed but did admit he had only suffered one puncture. Asked why he did it, he replied: ‘Just for the craic.’

THE Stadtpark fanzone was a curious confection. There were the inevitable signs of modern capitalism. Six quid for a small bottle of coke anyone? But other traditions prevailed. A bar on the very edge of the park was offering ‘a bag of cans’ for 20 euros. Who says Scottish culture does not travel? There was also the Caledonian staple of falling asleep in the park. Many of the fans’ exertions during the day had left them unable to keep their eyes open for the entire match. To be fair, this was a herculean task for even the most sober observer.

IT is 6am on a Monday morning on the Heilbronner strasse and your diarist is disturbed from his slumbers by an infernal machine cranking up. The noise is extraordinary. A peek out the window reveals that the clean-up of Stuttgart has begun. A huge vehicle revs up. The traces of the Tartan Army are being swept away. It was a painful watch, a reminder that the Euros are only over for some. And most of them wear kilts.