The Welsh air was damp and heavy, a stark contrast to the glamour of Monaco. This was the bread and butter of the Premier League.
The gritty, unglamorous away day where seasons are quietly won or lost, where champions are separated from pretenders not by the spectacular victories but by the ability to grind out results when your legs are screaming and your body is begging you to stop.
I blended the rested stars with fresh legs. Nick Pope was given his Crystal Palace debut in goal the third goalkeeper used in three matches.
Rebecca had recommended it; Hennessey had played ninety gruelling minutes at the Etihad and needed the rest, and Mandanda had played Thursday. Pope deserved his chance, and I wanted him sharp for the weeks ahead.
