IT was one giant hug-in. Red-shirted faithfuls danced and sang and wept together. The most astonishing, exhilarating, mind-blowing football occasion had climaxed in the only way befitting such a heart-stopping season. Lancashire Evening Telegraph sub-editor and Manchester United fan PHILIP BOOTH fulfilled a dream by being there. But a trip that on the surface seemed straightforward proved something quite different.

YOU need a spur to fend off the nagging doubts in times of such outrageous planning. Mine was the reply from the weary Old Trafford ticket clerk as he slid the European Cup Final match tickets through the grille.

"Not often you see that," I'd quipped when his marker pen had inscribed my voucher sheets with the initials ECF beneath the earlier, fading letters FACSF and FACF.

He gave a crooked smile and said, "Every 31 years."

Those words pounded like a mantra for the subsequent three hours as I methodically plied the ticket desks at Manchester Airport seeking a flight, any flight, to Barcelona.

It has to be admitted that my experience of European football travel was nil. Forget Oporto and Volgograd - I never even made Dundee or Wrexham. . .or Plymouth. In the early days the barrier had been fear of violence - I'm a writer, not a fighter. Then came cost and family commitments. They applied still when Rotterdam '91 happened. But as Hughsie's angled drive clinched the Cup Winners' Cup and the Reds celebrated in tens of thousands on the terraces, I vowed to myself never to miss such a party again. First came the dreams: Munich '97, a poignant return to that city synonymous with United tragedy; chance to lay the ghosts once and for all. But Dortmund had other ideas. Then it was Amsterdam '98, easy for distance and a fitting stage for European club football's biggest show. Monaco put paid to that.

Finally, almost inevitably, it arrived. I had the season tickets, the match vouchers, the cash. And by the Thursday before FA Cup Final week, I had the match tickets. What I still needed was a means of getting there.

Those family commitments dictated policy - my poor football widow has borne the brunt of my euphoria in this unprecedented season and I owed it to her to eschew the laid-back, cheaper alternatives of five-day packages in favour of the nearest thing I could land to a day trip. "It'll be no worse than the cup semi-final replay at Villa Park," I'd assured her. (In truth, I dearly hoped it would be better - vandalised power lines that night forced Virgin Trains to send us home via Rugby and I staggered in at 4am).

The travel agents, when I had inquired provisionally a fortnight before match tickets went on sale, tapped their keyboards, shrugged politely and gave their stock answer: "The whole thing's been chocker for weeks."

After United's own day packages were swept up in the first few hours of sales, the airport was my final hope.

I started at Air France. Anything via Paris? Nice? Toulouse? "Sorr-ee, but all ze flights into Barcelona zat day are full." Aer Lingus didn't fly there, KLM initially raised my hopes with "there is something, via Amsterdam" but only one seat was available and I watch United with my father, an Old Trafford veteran from the 1948 cup winning era. This would be his trip of a lifetime.

Sabena had nothing via Brussels. An ominous pattern was emerging. Every flight from every European city to Barcelona that day was fully booked.

Then came Mr Ian White, a softly spoken giant of a man behind the desk of SwissAir, to whom I shall remain eternally indebted. He tapped away for 25 minutes, occasionally raising his face to murmur things like "two here, but - no, Barcelona to Basle is full for the return."

Finally, gloriously, came an opening, a chink, like you get in certain European games when for an hour the opposition's defence has stifled your every attack. "We can get you there via Zurich. The snag is, there's only Business Class for the return." Every 31 years. . .

My cheque book was out. At first came the staggering estimate of "just under £800 each." The book trembled in my hand. I thought of my wife and my baby daughter and wondered how I'd explain, justify it. Then, a few more keys later, I heard, "There's another just come in." He wrote the total cost on a slip of paper and I counted just three figures. It was only marginally below, but it was three figures. The trip would be via Zurich and include a 6-hour stop-over in that fair city.

Spain, via Switzerland. That's great travel.

The cup final against Newcastle was my 20th trip to Wembley (we fans call it Old Trafford South) and I've never journeyed the same way twice. Coach, train, car; via Northampton, Banbury, Amersham, Greenwich; Metropolitan, Jubilee, British Rail; Wembley Park, Wembley Central, Wembley Stadium. One year we drove to Didcot and caught a Paddington train (it was packed with Swansea Reds). I once went via Cornwall during a holiday in Looe. This year we hit Richmond, then did the North London Line.

But Barcelona via Zurich. That was something else.

BY 3.30pm on match day the euphoria began to seep away.

Until now it had been a doddle - swift train into central Zurich and an agreeable stroll in warm sunshine alongside the fast-flowing river, through the old quarter, to the tree-lined lake (Windermere with trams) and back along the Bahnhofstrasse shopping area to ogle the gorgeous Eurobabes in their designer clothes.

However, our onward flight, like several listed to the Iberian peninsula, was delayed "due to air traffic problems in the Barcelona area". Having observed the row of 747s at Ringway that morning, it came as little surprise.

Departure was due at 4.05 but by 5.25 our Airbus remained stationary at its gate. The German suits packing the plane were getting edgy. The flight captain then announced his name - Martin Stam - and added, "We've got clearance and are pleased to inform you we will get you all on time to this famous game."

A SWIFT taxi ride (overpriced at £21) ended the anxiety. The coaches, the colours, the chants signalled a dream fulfilled. Wembley times ten. The first thing you notice about the Nou Camp Stadium on approach is its lack of a roof. After visiting English stadia for 33 years, this giant headless bowl somehow jarred preconceptions. Three vigorous security checks and a daunting crush through the perimeter gates later, I discovered the Nou Camp's second surprise: it isn't so much its height which takes the breath away, as its depth. Since they lowered the pitch to accommodate more seats, to enter at ground-level is find yourself halfway up in the stands. Three rows from the very back, where our comically-priced £12 ticket landed us, the rows cascade vertiginously until, deep inside the chasm, lies a playing surface where your heroes will enjoy the day of their own lives.

IF you're going to visit one of football's legendary venues on a day trip to match anything you're likely to experience again, it may as well be for the most memorable club final in history, to watch the world's biggest club pull off the greatest coup English soccer has witnessed.

Every 31 years. . . When they ask in another three decades, I can say: Yes, I was there.

As the big screen clock signalled 90 minutes were up and the strutting Bayern players mentally rehearsed their victory party-pieces, I began to wonder what all the effort, the travelling and the cost had been for. A swivelled shot from Teddy and a hook-in from Ole was all it took to solve the puzzle.

Thirty-one years, a thousand pounds, 2,340 miles and 36 draining hours on our feet all added up to one thing: 112 seconds of pure ecstasy. No price can be put on that.

Topping it will be some feat. Personally, I don't believe they will. All ABUs (Anyone But United) will be relieved at that. But the trophies are there and the images etched in the memory.

Next up is the Charity Shield. Wembley trip number 21. I fancy we might take the plane this time, perhaps to Heathrow, then the new airport link to Paddington, a walk to Marylebone, then the Chiltern Line. . .

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.