RTE set the mood with the opening sequence. Not content with the metaphorical scenesetting that preceded Munster's latest drive for glory all last week, they opted for a panoramic vista that framed Thomond Park and the surrounding parish of Munchins.

"The most epic shot in Irish sport," declared Tom McGurk with due reverence and it undeniably was, offering a wonderful salute to both the province's fine sporting fortress and Michael Cimino.

It left us in no doubt that this was, despite all the hype, an occasion of grandeur. Oh, they may have been partying on the terraces and in the stand but on the outdoor wall thingameejig that the RTE team broadcast from, the attitude was distinctly solemn.

George Hook, in particular, looked troubled and not too many seconds passed before he shared his woes with the nation.

"My concern here is that nobody thinks Munster is gonna lose," he began before screwing his brow into a determined little knot that suggested he was on the verge of delivering a telling and highly technical lecture on the pitfalls that lay ahead in the province's European Cup quarterfinal with Biarritz. "I also don't like the fact that Munster are playing in blue," he lamented. "I wish they were wearing red."

We might have expected to fret about many things over the afternoon but hardly colour schemes. He also made another few worrying observations before the first ball had been kicked. Biarritz, he reminded us, also quite fancied the notion of playing in a European Cup semi-final and might not be so enamoured of the notion of another storming Munster performance.

"I don't think they are here for the beer," Hook cautioned morosely.

This was a startling and, to put it bluntly, silly attitude for our visitors to be taking. The idea of 30 lads heading to Limerick for a weekend and not going on the beer seemed like a perverse and frankly wasteful sort of expedition.

But the French, of course, are nothing if not unpredictable, particularly in matters of the oval ball.

They quickly set about dispelling the Thomond myth with an early try, one shimmering with flair that was undeniably Gallic. After scoring the first try, Christophe Milheres signalled the home crowd to hush by bringing his finger to his lips. It is the type of gesture that Nigel Starmer Smith lives for but it obviously disturbed our broadcaster, Jim Sherwin.

"Did you seek that incident thing," he gasped, clearly appalled. But it didn't matter if we missed it; there were plenty more incidents ahead.

Munster, persisting with their courteous if somewhat foolhardy tradition of allowing their opponents at least one score before they started to play themselves, looked in a bit of trouble early on. Tempers began to fray in the early heat, particularly after visiting winger Phillippe Bernard Salles appeared to allow his fist to roam, incensing both Ronan O'Gara and Peter Clohessy.

"He is not happy with the punch that was thrown," observed Ralph Keyes, without clarifying for viewers if it was the actual blow that the Claw found objectionable, or the aesthetics of the deliverance. One senses that the idea of a visiting French winger raining blows on Munstermen in Thomond Park is one that clashes with all of the Claw's more dearly held principles.

"They like to put the slipper in now and again," noted Brent Pope at half time, with Munster leading by 17-15. The mood had changed because in the closing minutes of the first half, it was apparent that the home team had begun to rumble with the potency that carried them through previous European cup ties. So it transpired.

The game was thrown open with with a passing movement that was delightfully Irish: our number six at scrum half, our number four at outhalf and our number eight as winger.

"He's going at 200 miles an hour," cried Jim Sherwin as Anthony Foley began his gallop for the corner.

"What a dive. What a try. The crowd has gone mad.'

From then on, it was a matter of waiting for the final whistle. Even when Biarritz came back to within six points, there was a feeling they could try for the next six months and still not get ahead in Thomond Park. After all, Munster had not lost a European tie there before yesterday's game.

Munster prevailed and the feel-good factor echoed around the stadium for the last time this year afterwards.

Alan Quinlan took the man of the match award, despite the hat-trick of tries from Foley.

"He fell across the line for a couple of them," laughed Quinlan as Foley guffawed beside him. Everyone was happy.

The analysts again tried to make sense of the Munster phenomenon.

"It's a local team, it's a Munster team . . . it's the parish against the world," declared Tom McGurk like a man selling a pitch to Hollywood. This one just might work.

Determined not to let romance overcome him, Hookie steeled himself and cast a wise eye forward. He declared that if Munster had to play away in the semi-final, he would like to see the parish go to the town/hamlet/borough/vale/ of Gloucester.

"But should this team fear anyone now?" wondered Tom McGurk.

"It's not about fear," thundered Hookie. "Pragmatism."

Brent Pope chuckled benignly in the shadows. Like Irish rugby, the trio has travelled a long way in a relatively short space of time. While still basking in the warm and, lest it be forgotten, epic afterglow of Thomond Park, they contemplated next week's sojourn to Italy, to follow the Irish international team in their opening Six Nations encounter.

"In the quiet of our studio," sang Hookie, gaily.

"In the eternal city," cried Tom McGurk.

"And on the beer," roared the Thomond faithful.