Gerry Thornley travelled from the Millennium Stadium to Shannon with the Munster players on the joyous journey home

The outpouring of emotion had been swelling up for eight years or so, reaching a crescendo in the last 10 minutes of Saturday's day of destiny. Twickenham and this same Millennium Stadium, Lille and Lansdowne Road: so many times they all had to pick themselves up and start again.

When the moment arrived, and the explosion of relief as much as joy was released, what to do? It was impossible for any of them to absorb it all. Anthony Horgan sensed the game, and the crusade, was about to end as Peter Stringer lined up the last penalty into touch and sneaked in toward his team-mates.

Stringer himself briefly screamed and laughed with joy, quickly embraced Ronan O'Gara, then sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

So too the great man himself, Paul O'Connell. One of the abiding memories is of the backroom staff and replacements and those substituted rushing like a swarm of bees toward those in red jerseys. Never has the normally reserved Declan Kidney lost it in public like he did here.

As their injured colleagues forced their way onto the pitch, the dancing and hugging picked up again. Then came a few of the former players, Peter Clohessy beating his way through the crowd to be confronted by a steward who insisted the Claw's pass was not the correct colour for access to the pitch. Though the steward may never know it, his life was assuredly saved by Dewi Morris, who slipped his Sky TV pass to Clohessy.

Whether past or present, how much this meant to them is easy to comprehend, if hard to describe, even for them, and as they emerged they already seemed drained. John Kelly, his voice quivering a little, admitted he couldn't find words to convey his feelings.

"There's been a few of us who have been around for a long time. It hasn't really sunk in yet. For me the only way I can describe it is relief. I just feel relieved that it worked out in the end. There were a couple of shaky moments. I know it sounds weird but I don't feel overjoyed. I did the minute the final whistle went, but now I'm just blown away. I just feel absolutely shattered. But I'm sure tomorrow it will sink in."

The dressingroom euphoria having abated, interviews having been conducted, the squad slipped away from the Millennium Stadium along with a close retinue of friends to a private reception at a golf club en route to Cardiff Airport. As they disembarked, spirits were still high, Anthony Foley carrying the cup as if it were a new-born child and gladly posing for wannabe snappers.

Happily they mingled with friends, families and supporters. It seemed everybody knew everybody. A long-delayed departure and an unscheduled hitch in the seating arrangements meant the players were scattered along the Air Greenland Airbus A330. That perhaps tended to dilute spirits. Most likely they were just drained.

Eventually the squad arrived at 1am in Shannon, over an hour late, and were escorted through to the upstairs balcony, past lines of screaming supporters to a waiting crowd estimated at 5,000.

This was the chance to share reaching the holy grail with the extended Munster army. And appropriately, they had actually played a pivotal role in the day's triumph via the Millennium Stadium screen.

We thought we'd heard it all but the cheers and screeches from the 5,000 or more congregated in the airport concourse were truly deafening.

Foley thanked them all for coming and ventured, "Some people think this is the start of the journey, but I've news for you - this is only the beginning."

That, needless to say, fairly raised the roof.

Declan Kidney, his voice broken like never before, commented in trademark style: "People say that it's a great day for Munster. Well, every day you awake is a great day to be from Munster."

Amazingly he led them all in yet one more rendition of The Fields and then Stand Up And Fight. Could this really be the normally reserved Kidney? Even some of his own players could scarcely believe it. But his joy was unconfined. As much as any of the players, he had been through the ringer with Ireland, and flirtations of varying brevity with Ulster, the Dragons and Leinster.

Back in his spiritual home, he had led his native province to their promised land. He talks about merely being a facilitator, that the players coach themselves, but he sells himself short there. He knows when to draw the line with everybody in the operation, at times forcefully, and is respected for that.

Helped by a Garda escort, the squad were whisked back to their base in the Clarion Hotel, where a jammed foyer was waiting up for them at precisely 2am, and into the synergie room for a semi-private function.

It would be a late one.