WHAT a week it has been for the blue and white half of East Lancashire, with Rovers bringing home their first major trophy in 74 years.

Like many of the 30,000 or so travelling fans, this time last week I was getting ready for Cardiff. Also like them, I returned with a tale to tell.

I was deemed lucky enough to be plucked from the pool of Telegraph reporters to cover the game. While our more than able sports desk had all the football side of it covered, I was there to mingle with the fans. Get a taste of what it meant to Uncle Jack's Barmy Army, which had invaded the former port, historically more used to infestations of pirates and smugglers.

For such a delicate assignment, I wanted to become one of them. Not a total undercover job, but I wanted to immerse myself in the whole final experience.

I'm not a Rovers fan by birth but I wanted to eat what they ate, drink what they drank and feel like they felt. I wanted their hopes and expectations to lie heavy on my shoulders.

The first thing to do was to book into a B&B and savour the carnival atmosphere of the weekend. This was obviously a masterstroke. Judging by the 'no vacancy' signs that dominated the windows of every type of accommodation facility in the Welsh capital, a bulk of the Rovers fans would be doing the same.

I could spend the Saturday with them, arming myself with anecdotes, meeting people who were at the last major final -- the 1960 defeat to Wolves -- or even meet somebody who saw Rovers lift the FA Cup in 1928.

But such hopes were dashed. The hotel the Telegraph team eventually booked in at was in Neath -- some 40 miles from Cardiff. It wouldn't be fair to describe it as a ghost town, but it wasn't exactly a hive of activity. A creaking sign above a long-closed pub yards from our hotel pretty much summed it up.

We felt like the kids from Scooby-Doo come to solve the case of a mysterious haunting (my money was on Mr Jackson who used to own the theme park).

What hammered it home was the reply from the girl at the hotel, when our photographer asked the direction of the town centre. "You're in it," she growled, her steely gaze fixed on her table-cleaning duties.

Trying to find civilised life -- let alone a Rovers fan -- was like trying to find a Burnley fan looking forward to the game.

What would a Rovers fan do in my position, I thought. So we went to the hotel bar.

Under the protective stare from the menagerie of stuffed animal heads, we helped ourselves to the local brew.

After a while, Welsh courage saw us venture out on the Neath streets. Avoiding tumbleweeds, we made our way to a friendly hostelry where its inhabitants were a mixture of burly rugby players and contestants for the world's tallest man. We didn't stay long.

It was back to the hotel and a different bar, which at this time was playing songs out of the charts. Most of them, in fact, had been out of the charts since 1987.

It had been more than 10 years since I had heard Tiffany delight me with I Think We're Alone Now. By the time I had crawled to my room (after sampling The Only Over 25s Disco in Neath) I had heard it four times.

The music was over, the well of alcohol had long since dried, but the merriment continued. Much to my surprise, I persuaded our photo-monkey in residence to "check something out on the landing".

As soon as he stepped outside the door shut behind him, leaving him stranded -- in just his boxer shorts.

Like the character Spike in Notting Hill, he was left at the mercy of anyone passing by. Good job this was Neath and the next passer-by was not due until 2005.

How we laughed.

As for the game, well you all know the result by now and the atmosphere was fantastic. Here's to doing it all again in Europe!