Another season over, it’s always lonely at this time of the year. It makes you reassess your own campaign, where do you stand in the greater scheme of things. Another year older, and what have I done?

Last Sunday we saw the completion of a hurling championship that many have proclaimed as the greatest this century. Although that point can be debated, it certainly was one of the most entertaining for years. There is yet plenty of time to look back over the season as a whole – for now, we will content ourselves with a review of the day itself.

De Scribe was still without a precious ticket on the Friday, with the plan of action being a scout of the usual spots on Sunday morning. But that was never required as thanks to source who knew of his appetite for the game, two tickets were provided - and so this writer was making his sixth successive visit to the Sunday of Sundays.

There is always a sense of anticipation ahead of these things, a sense of being part of something special. It has been described as being akin to Christmas - waking up that morning with a feeling that something momentous is to happen that day.

Making our way down O’Connell Street, we saw a phalanx of Limerick supporters, some hanging off the statue of The Liberator in the fashion of pigeons in a loft. They were singing gustily, getting the atmosphere started, battling the grey skies and spitting rain. Kilkenny? Their supporters must be the most nonchalant in the history of sport, treating success with an attitude bordering on laziness.

The entire colour and all the hype, was coming from one side. Entering the stadium, and finding my seat, perched high among the gods in the Cusack Stand, there was a perfect view of the Hill. It was populated by roughly twice as many Treaty men as their Marble City counterparts, and they were making their presence felt.

When Limerick entered the arena, the welcome they received from their supporters was magnificent. The roar was one of hunger, and the sight of thousands of green and white flags fluttering around the stadium was something to behold. It reminded me of the welcome that the Clare footballers received in 1992 for their semi-final against Dublin. Here were Limerick, being welcomed back to the big stage, an 11-year wait finally over.

The pre-match parade is one of the traditions of our games that must never be altered. It allows the mood of the occasion to be set, the atmosphere stoked, the pot boiled. This parade was probably the highlight of Limerick’s day – the noise and sound was far superior to anything we have heard for a hurling final for a long, long time. Passing in front of the Hill there was a crescendo, mayhem amongst the hordes, flares being lit, klaxons sounding.

Then it went flat.

Kilkenny were utterly ruthless in those opening ten minutes. They went straight for the jugular, keen to give their prey an early death. 2-3 to 0-0, it looked as if we were in for a massacre not witnessed since Tipperary tore Antrim apart in 1989, Nicholas English plundering 2-12.

Limerick did make an attempt at a fight-back, following their nervous start they settled down and gained some respectability by winning the last hour of the contest by two points (but such stats are really mere bunkum, for Limerick must have known deep down that the Cats were never going to let them get close enough to upset the final result).

One thing that the new, improved Croke Park seems to contribute to is the ‘prawn sandwich’ culture that Roy Keane so riled against. With the first-half still on, a Kilkenny fan near to this writer decided to head off to the bar at the back of the Cusack Stand, inviting his friend to join him. Granted, his side were well ahead, but surely an All-Ireland final is to be savoured in all its minutiae, no matter how often your county gets there?

It’s a far cry from my younger days (how old I sound), when the stands would be packed, children sitting on their father’s knees, the older, tighter construction of Croke Park lending an extra element to the atmosphere. There was no slipping off early to get your pint/ tea/coffee/cappuccino or whatever you were having yourself.

Maybe we’ve lost something in the modern building that is Croke Park. Elevators, corporate boxes, talk of a roof being put on – have we gone too soft? It’s amazing, if you look around during any match at Croke Park, to see the hive of activity as people leave their seats while the action is ongoing – just where are they going? Surely they can wait until half-time/full-time? It seems that many have come just to witness the stadium, to be part of the occasion, rather than paying any real attention to the action unfolding before their eyes.

Returning to last Sunday, and the second half of the match; with the skies so grey, the wind lashing in, it was almost lonely being in Croke Park. It didn’t feel like there were 82,000 people there - a sad way to concluded championship that had brought many highlights with it along the way.

Ollie Moran’s goal did provide a brief glimmer of hope, but Kilkenny quickly cancelled out its value. The final few minute were played out in almost a murmur, the Kilkenny fans greeting their final few points with an air of inevitability.

The final whistle was almost a relief. At least the tradition of the pitch invasion was maintained, and Henry’s speech was a mark of the man he is. But it was overall an unedifying experience.

Another season is over - no more twists and turns, goals and points, controversies and clashes. February in the league does not seem very enticing today, the hurling man will have to go into hibernation, feeding on a diet of club matches that will be played in conditions reminiscent of the trenches in World War One.

This hurling year deserved a better send-off – but it wasn’t Kilkenny’s fault. Once again, the Cats got the cream.