It was quiet around.

Where was RTE's kaleidoscope of colours, cacophony of sound? We marched on up Gardiner Street, early on Sunday morning, desperate to get to the hotel. We are walking in circles, the streets that we once called home now unfamiliar and confusing. We are just minutes away from seeing the family… home for the weekend, home for the All-Ireland final; home for an unexpected stop in addition to the yearly visit.

The anticipation had quietly been building all week: would we get tickets after flying all this way? Would the family get tickets? Who was coming up to meet us in Dublin? Would we make the flight Monday, or would we be Castlebar-bound to see Sam Maguire being lifted in McHale Park?

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The grey clouds above us started to drizzle lightly as we reached the hotel. Armed only with our Mayo jerseys adjusting to a temperature drop of 20 degrees, it was the expectation keeping us warm.

Suddenly we hear a gaggle of screams and giggles as the nieces and nephews come charging down the street towards us, full of excitement to see their auntie and uncle, home from the Caribbean.

Inside the hotel, coffee cups are pushed aside as we are greeted warmly by brothers and sisters, Mum and Dad. Tickets are being divided; which nephew was grown up enough to take a seat alone? The kids clamber over us, each desperate to tell us their tales, show us their flags and jerseys. It has only been three months but subtle differences are clear: nephews that little bit taller, haircuts a bit sharper, nieces old enough to show us their newly painted nails in red and green.

We head towards Croker and as the rain begins to condense so does the crowd. We don’t get this sideways rain in the Caribbean; we almost miss it. We stride on, as the street sellers sing out their sales, and the smell of the onions crispening at the burger van ahead fills the damp air.

The two flights over had been filled with green and red colours, each wearer with their own tale of travel and hope for the weekend ahead. Where did you fly from, but more importantly where are you from? Ballycroy, Swinford, Westport: locals names are banded about the rows, "do you know them?" intermittent with a few bars of song. The air hostess does not revel in this debauchery and firmly warns the noisier of the vocalists to pipe down and be quiet.

Sure, the press had been quiet, the fans at home had been quiet; the infamous hype was somewhat missing this time. But we had our own hype. Here we are, on the road to Croker. The sea of colours thickens ahead, blue and navy mixed with green and red. There is nothing quite like it. No matter where we live now, no other game, no other fans in the world are like this, marching in as we all journey together towards the magnificent stadium.

Some journeys were longer than others; our own a 16,000km roundtrip. “Did you hear Jenny is home from London, Colm from San Fran?”... “Sure yer man had to divert through Finland on his way from Denver...” Passers-by shout out our names; some are not sure you have even ever left, some are not sure it is really you.

Obligatory drinks are bought at the Hogan Stand, and we sup on warm bottled Corona huddling in the ever increasing wet. Expectations are damp and quiet, much like the weather, and we applaud the one brave soul standing alone holding his soggy “Any Tickets?” paper sign. Finally, it is time to head in, time for our fate to be decided; time for our well-travelled herd to scatter to the four corners of Croker for the 70 minutes ahead.

As we take our seats we warmly greet those around us, Mayo or not. We are outnumbered by the boys in blue but everyone is as one as the first chords of Amhrán na bhFiann ricochet around the floodlit pitch.

A roller coaster of emotions lies ahead. And we open with two points! The joy! Quickly drowned out by two own goals: the curse, it has to be! Half time sees us six points behind of our own doing and a few of the younger lads in blue jeer as we climb up the steps, feeling disheartened and suddenly very aware of the cold.

Five points scored as we open the second half and this is it! We can see Sam coming home to Mayo! Cancel the flights, we are off to Castlebar! Dejection comes then, as the dream slowly is snatched point by point from our grasp… and finally, hope, as we climb the adrenaline equivalent of Croagh Patrick, each step is one closer to equalising the game. Every minute of extra time is agonizingly slow, yet still over in the blink of an eye.

And Cillian O’ Connor sends us level! I am up on Paul’s shoulders and we are cheering like our lives depend on it! We can see it. We can feel it. We can taste it!

The clock crawls on, and we all wait, not a breath taken in the stadium. We wait. We wait for the almost inevitable blow of the whistle to render it a draw…

…render it a wasted trip? The whistle goes. Tears come to my eyes. Our Dublin neighbours ask us will we fly back for the replay. Our hearts are pounding, our mouths dry, and our throats hoarse. We cannot come back in two weeks. The heartbreak of anticlimax becomes a reality.

There is an eerie echo of emptiness around Croker as no one wins the All Ireland.

Blue and Navy, Green and Red. We all shuffle slowly towards the exits in silence.

It was quiet around.

But we were there.

And NOTHING beats being there.