Dublin was turned into a deserted city the day Pope John Paul II arrived in Ireland. Everyone, absolutely everyone, it seemed, was up in the Phoenix Park, apart from a handful of heathens and some tourists who hadn't heard that the Pope was in town.
Myself and my friend Eamonn Slater were returning from a three-week trip to the US, on an Aer Lingus flight from New York which, in those days, had to make an obligatory stopover at Shannon, at a particularly ungodly hour of the morning.
After reboarding the jumbo jet, and somewhat bleary-eyed, we learned from the captain that Aer Rianta had decreed that no other plane - ours included - could come in to land at Dublin Airport within an hour of the Pope's arrival.
So we spent at least 45 minutes flying around in circles over the Midlands. I seem to remember passing over Athlone and the Bog of Allen several times before the air traffic ban was lifted and we made our final approach to Dublin Airport.
It was then that those of us lucky enough to have window seats on the right side of the plane saw the sight we will never forget; a million people coralled in the Fifteen Acres, in front of the papal altar and its towering white concrete cross.
Later, we heard that the Pope had seen them all, too, when his jet flew over the Park. There were reports that everyone cheered and many broke into tears at the sight of his arrival, recalling ancestors in the hunted era of the Mass rock.
Apart from the three or four hundred of us who had belatedly flown in from New York, there was almost nobody at the airport. The normally bustling main terminal had a really eerie feel about it, as if Aer Rianta was unconsciously mimicking the Marie Celeste.
Some taxis were still operating, but not many. Eventually we got one and headed home through a city all but denuded of traffic, pedestrians or any other sign of urban life. It was as if there had been a mass evacuation because of some public emergency.
The following day I was issued with a papal visit press pass to join the Irish Times team covering the Pope's visit to Knock, Co Mayo. With his very presence there, one could feel that Knock had now joined the great Marian shrines of Lourdes, Fatima and Guadalupe.
The parish priest, Monsignor James Horan, certainly thought so. He had spruced up the place by getting rid of the tacky roadside sheds selling saintly kitsch souvenirs and building a religious goods shopping mall. His "foggy, boggy" airport came later.
Monsignor Horan was emboldened by the Pope's visit - indeed imprimatur - to pursue his vision of the new Knock. The adulation of the thousands of pilgrims had drowned any voices of dissent, despite the innate conservatism of the Pope's pastoral message.
The Pope also gave an audience for journalists at the Nunciature in Cabra. He was so genial, relaxed and witty when he addressed us from a balcony that even recovering Catholics took his blessing.
That same weekend of the Pope's visit, fire ravaged Gill's religious goods shop in O'Connell Street, Dublin, destroying silver chalices, ciboriums, monstrances and post-Vatican II vestments.
The site, in Ireland's main street, has been derelict ever since.
