Sideline Cut: It may be grim up north, posh in the east and sunny down south but by God, it is certainly wet in the west.

There was widespread consternation at Jim Fahy's news report during the week, showing the plight of a herd of cattle fleeing a field that was completely flooded.

It was a miserable sight and it was impossible not to feel very moved by the discomfort of the poor animals and the evident worry of the farmers.

Of course, once people remembered they were stuck under the same cloud, all bovine sympathy disappeared and most of Connacht screamed: "Forget the bloody cows, Jim. What about us?"

Oh, it is wet over in the west all right. There was a story doing the rounds during the week of an American tourist standing on a bridge and taking photographs of the torrents of water below him before exclaiming to a local: "Wow, I have waited all my life to be standing above the broad black Shannon."

"Shannon, me arse," sniffed the local lad, "that's the N feckin' 17."

All roads were the same last Sunday. At around noon, word was received from a pessimistic Clare man about the state of affairs down in Limerick.

"Bring a dinghy," he advised. He is a cautious fellow at the best of times, known to carry his own LPs into dance halls in case the music is not up to scratch. But he was right on the money in this instance.

As Frank McCourt made it painfully clear 10 years ago, the heaviness and density of rain in Limerick is in a league of its own and the city was in the mood for showing that much off on Sunday last.

Even a local man, who revealed it had been raining constantly in his part of the city since 1957, was moved to declare he had never seen rain like it. The roads around the Gaelic Grounds were deserted, except for a couple of dejected entrepreneurs selling colourful hair braids and paper hats, who knew it was not going to be their day.

They intend selling county-coloured armbands and lilos for the remainder of the championship.

Most of those intent on braving Limerick versus Clare in the flesh took shelter in the nearby saloons, most of which seemed to be showing a repeat of Munster's historic win in Cardiff. Although Munster had been declared champions of Europe almost 24 hours previously, the anxiety was too much for one strapping fellow wearing an absolutely drenched Limerick shirt.

"Don't blow it now, boys," he bellowed at the television and his fear was beginning to rub off on those around him, some of whom were clearly wondering if they hadn't simply dreamt about the previous day of sunshine and euphoria and history made in Cardiff.

But for the second time that weekend, Munster became champions of Europe and the gargantuan Limerick lad broke down and wept. That seemed like as good a signal as any to head up towards the Gaelic Grounds and a small band of Clare and Limerick folk, huddled together like pilgrims, made their way up for the match.

In a strange way, Limerick versus Clare was reassuring. As the GAA zooms ahead into the age of image rights and sophisticated television advertisements and the awe-inspiring sight of 80,000 fans turning up to watch the high point of the championship, it was comforting to see that in many ways, the championship remains small and local. Both these counties have produced reasonably strong football teams in the past 20 years and neither are strangers to playing in front of decent crowds. Yet just 1,250 people paid into the 50,000-seater stadium. Four fans braved the torrential rain and stood exposed in the open stands. They deserve medals. The rest of us cowered down in the shadows of the Mackey.

And when tea, sandwiches and a delicious Swiss roll were produced in the press box at half-time, it appeared as if a small and plainly ravenous section of the crowd was about to turn nasty.

It was nice to imagine that at least one person in the crowd was some poor, bewildered foreigner, a sports fanatic from Japan or Senegal who had heard about the wonders of our Gaelic summers, with festive crowds and music on the streets and fast, brilliant games, sitting there trying to peer through the driving rain for some glimpse of the magic.

Less pleasing was the thought that the occasion might have been a snapshot of the future for the GAA.

Despite the association's attempts to make the do-or-die nature of the championship a little more user friendly, the system is still stacked towards the elite counties and arguably, the majority of teams are further away from the big prize than ever. In 30 years' time, if and when the volunteer coaches have disappeared, when finding sporting outlets for kids is a difficult and expensive business and when supporters begin to tire of seeing their county go only so far year after year, then the great summer championship could suffer.

Yet it must have been a source of perverse pride for traditional GAA people that while the fashionistas were down on O'Connell Street in droves waiting to greet the heroic Munster rugby men, the association stuck to what was a bread-and-butter programme on a particularly miserable day. It was a straight choice: take it or leave it.

To their credit, both Limerick and Clare managed to produce passages of good football but it was a shame that their commitment was compromised by the extremity of the weather. Watching the players trying to make their skills matter in conditions that teetered on the clownish brought to mind another famously wet GAA day, the 1993 Ulster final in Clones.

Donegal were the reigning Ulster champions that afternoon and Derry, the victors in a rugged encounter, would take the championship that September. In other words, two of the best teams in the game were taking centre stage on a field that was ankle-deep in water. In the minor game, Derry's Cathal Scullion suffered a broken leg. Once players hit the turf, they skidded for 10 and 15 metres: staying upright was a feat in itself.

The one thing that match did provide was the iconic image of Anthony Tohill, then in his magnificent prime, tramping through the driving rain with Glen and Kilcar men bouncing helplessly against him. Things were equally hazardous on the other side of the line, where the steep grass hill in Clones had become a morass, leaving thousands of spectators soaked and mud covered and constantly slipping.

As was often remarked, it was a blessing that neither team managed to score a late goal because the reaction would have led to serious injuries. And as memory serves, Donegal were threatening in the last couple of minutes of the game. It was crazy that the game was played that day and given the scenes that were broadcast from Limerick, Portlaoise and Belfast on Sunday, it was apparent that some things do not change.

And for those who missed out on Clones 1993, there will be an opportunity to do it all again. Those All-Ireland championship teams are to meet for a special charity match in aid of the Adams-McConnell ward in Beaumont Hospital next month. McEniff and Coleman will patrol the line, Downey and Molloy will captain the teams. No word yet about the rain. Bring a dinghy.