A long way, still, from a first English title maybe, but Bristol stared down their darkest demons in the sunshine at Ashton Gate. No, no, not again, all but the most phlegmatic of a raucous crowd must have been thinking, as Harlequins threatened to overturn Bristol’s early lead in all-too-familiar style, midway through the second half.
Memories of that extraordinary semi-final here four years ago were at the forefront of everyone’s minds, including, surely, those in blue out there on the greensward, lungs burning, minds twisting. Had they succumbed, the entire Pat Lam project might just have gone up in smoke, so yawning the flaws would have seemed.
