It was 60 years ago today, at noon on Sunday, September 3rd, 1939, that the prime minister, Neville Chamberlain, made his famous declaration to the British House of Commons: "This country is at war with Germany."
But on that same day here in Ireland, minds were concentrated on a confrontation of a different kind. Even as Chamberlain was on his feet, 40,000 people were converging on Croke Park to see Cork and Kilkenny battle for victory in the 1939 All-Ireland Hurling Final.
The first half was played in relatively good conditions. Early in the second half, however, when Kilkenny were leading 2-6 to 2-2, a shower-cloud settled over the north Dublin suburbs; a first flash of lightning was followed by a loud and prolonged roll of thunder, and seconds later the heavens opened and torrential rain descended on the pitch.
The game continued, despite the appalling conditions that lasted to the end. Eventually, with the two sides level and seconds to go before the final whistle, Jimmy Kelly sent the ball surging through the downpour towards the Cork goalposts. It went over the bar to leave the score 2-7 to 3-3. Kilkenny had won what has come to be remembered ever since as the "Thunder and Lightning Final".
But meanwhile, Europe was at war. As far as meteorology was concerned, the mutual co-operation that had been freely given previously broke down. Weather observations on both sides were given only a very limited circulation; there was no question of exchange across the military divide, and reports by telegram or radio were transmitted in top-secret ciphers to prevent strategically useful information from falling into enemy hands. Even in neutral Ireland, any mention in a newspaper of the current state of the weather was forbidden.
But there was a lighter side to all this secrecy. Dr John de Courcy Ireland tells of one such episode during the years of the Emergency: "I remember a particularly hilarious issue of The Irish Times around 1943. In this issue there were columns and columns of reports of people falling into the Liffey or into the canals, inexplicable collisions, and other remarkable happenings in Dublin. They would have caused a casual visitor to the capital to suppose that at least 50 per cent of Dubliners had been drunk the previous day. In fact there had occurred the worst fog I ever remember in Dublin - but any mention of that fact had been rigorously suppressed to satisfy the censor."