Like all perfect hours in sport, it passed at a supersonic rate and left us reeling in its wake. "Did that really happen," must have been the refrain as the legions around Ireland stumbled away from the television and into the early evening sun.

It was heart-warming that an occasion which has already been elevated to the realms of legend was communicated so truly on television, without the plastic hype and pounding hyperbole which now seem an unavoidable hindrance to almost all sports broadcasts.

In many ways, watching the Munster team remind us of everything that is glorious and worthwhile in sport was like a throwback to a day that already seems quaint; the match against Italy at Giants Stadium during the fleeting 1994 soccer World Cup odyssey.

This was, perhaps, due to the searing sunshine and the twinge of envy mixed with admiration you felt whenever the screen flashed with images of the Irish souls actually in the stadium. Most Irish people will remember this great Munster win as a television spectacle and as such will have felt a strong degree of empathy with the faithful who made the journey, as if they were our representatives. Now it should be acknowledged that we are not, as a nation, given to handling an afternoon in the hot sun with any great degree of sophistication. And so while the Toulouse crowd were cut from the Alain Delon fabric of cool, all pressed shirts and Gitanes, the Irish posse grinned sheepishly at us from ever-reddening mugs, happily heedless to the onset of third degree burns.

It was, we were assured, devilishly hot and that was just one of element of adversity facing the Munster crew. On Network 2, the usual suspects brought our attention to various issues which were discussed almost covertly. "The revenge factor" referred to France's desire to atone for Stade de France. "The Fleming situation" concerned referee Jim Fleming's unhappy history in dealing with Peter Clohessy.

It was all very Frederick Forsyth in tone and when George Hook referred to Brent Pope as "the man with French blood", the afternoon was suddenly filled with the promise of mystery. The general feeling in studio was that Toulouse would shade it and, quite possibly, run riot. There was, however, one notable spanner lying in the midst of that prognosis. It was an old and oft-used tool, mostly to tweak at the flaky continental temperament.

"In the words of Dad's Army, the French don't like it up 'em," declared Popie. It was roundly agreed that the very men to put this obscure principle to the test would be the Irish front three, described for television purposes as "the Bull, the Claw and Woodie".

When the Bull, known to his family as John Hayes, struck an early and perfect note of rebellion by crashing over the Toulouse line, it became evident that Munster were not simply there for the cheap wine. The sun blazed, the French at times looked imperious but Munster clung in there, landing the vital penalties and retiring at the break leaving the French fans looking quizzical but still impeccable and expectant.

Perhaps the image which cemented the suspicion that we were on the brink of beholding something unforgettable was the replay of Peter Stringer's endline sprint with Lee Stensness. The entire match seemed to rest on that sprint to the death and it was Stringer, combining manic urgency with cool presence of mind, who did just enough.

During the break, the lads on Network 2 maintained their penchant for exchanges which bordered on the surreal. Inflating the importance of defensive effort, Hookie searched through the ages for an appropriate metaphor. "15 fingers in the dyke," he eventually hooted, somewhat triumphantly. "Ah, you are always talking about fingers in the dyke," returned Tom McGuirk crossly. "The kid who put his finger in the dyke saved Holland," persisted Hookie with a passion that was truly bewildering, given the subject matter.

Eager to add to the debate, Popie entered uncharted waters with the bright observation that "Peter Clohessy's got his head in the dyke".

There was only so far this could go and Hookie and Tom stared balefully at one another for a second before moving on.

The sight of Keith Wood peeling off his bandages, duty all done, with a second half yet to play was hardly encouraging, but Munster seem to get high on extreme odds. After Mike Mullins was sin-binned on 44 minutes, the television jury began to sound resigned, predicting that the dyke might well burst now. Time for old craft. A brilliant shot of Peter Clohessy slowly and painstakingly tying up his boot with all the expertise of a five-year-old child. "Strange," chuckled Jim Sherwin, "how boots can become undone at times like this."

Suddenly Mullins became the talisman. Not conceding a score during his absence might just swing it. Instead, Ronan O'Gara booted over a penalty just two minutes before the centre made his return. "Perfect strike," came the yell on BBC 1 of Nigel Starmer-Smith, who had long ago abandoned any aspirations of maintaining impartiality. There was a heroism about this ragged band of Munster characters that was infectious. Still Toulouse ran at them, occasionally delivering ball with blurring speed. But always came the vital mishap or tackle.

"Oh and Stensness is through - he's dropped it . . . the crowd ooh and ahh," called Starmer-Smith with the score poised at 17-18. Minutes later, his voice rose several octaves as Ronan O'Gara almost cartwheeled across the Toulouse line, the French defence in tatters. "And that is magic for Munster."

It was, of course and after Jason Holland intercepted on the next sequence of play - shades of Denis Hickie - there was nothing to do but sit back and savour the delightful absurdity of it all.

"A sense of timing," summed up Starmer-Smith with that edgy choked reverence he normally saves for Grand Slam days, "a sense of anticipation which could be the killer blow."

Thirteen points adrift and the sun beginning to wane, the French had a desperate look in their eye and the only certainty was that they would fling the ball around like madmen. Anything could happen. "Only the French could recover a lead like this," warned Philip Matthews.

Seconds later, Michel Marfaing had sold a delightful sidestep yards from his own goal line and was galloping loose. We gulped. He knocked on. It just wasn't in the stars for Toulouse.

Closing images. Mick Galwey trundling off, his face just one big smile and countless tributaries of blood. Woodie impassive on the sideline.

"Don't let them score it lads," came a big gruff voice from the sidelines deep in injury time. Not content with the win, the visitors wanted to deny the French a try. After a five-minute onslaught, the home side crept through. Five in it and still Fleming didn't whistle. "Well, we've played six minutes. This is when you begin to get a bit uneasy," said Starmer-Smith with a swallow.

One last fumbling rush from the French and then it was over.

"We've won nothing yet," insisted Munster coach Declan Kidney immediately afterwards, his voice breaking and eyes afire with pride. But he knew it wasn't quite true. His team had won a showdown for the ages.