Some day Northern Ireland politics will settle down and become sedate, predictable and pedestrian. Backbenchers will doze through long ministerial speeches in the Assembly, the North-South Council will rubber-stamp yet another cross-Border tourism project and young reporters will sit in wonder as grizzled veterans tell them one more time about how Belfast used to be a war-zone.

But at the moment the political scene still resembles a delivery room in a maternity hospital. The new democracy is about to be born, with the two governments acting as midwives while family members wait in anticipation and apprehension in the corridors.

The scene inside Hillsborough Castle on the long night leading to the Famous Declaration was described by eyewitnesses: "It was pretty hectic. The whole thing was quite disorganised and one of the hardest things was finding a room for people to meet. A lot of meetings were held in kitchens, corridors and photocopy rooms."

It was a strange, almost surreal experience. You could watch at close quarters as Tony Blair walked up and down, chatting to people. Why, you could have a chat with him yourself. Although there was a free bar, nobody overindulged. One observer said it was striking how much "respect, admiration and gratitude" the politicians evinced for Mr Blair. There was an obvious appreciation of the fact that, despite being caught in a tricky situation over Kosovo, he was nevertheless devoting the bulk of his time to resolving the impasse in Northern Ireland.

Blair's staying-power was also impressive. "The man's stamina is something to be seen. He just kept going through the night," sources said. Just as well he didn't need any sleep because Ken Maginnis was asleep in the Prime Minister's bed. Although Mr Blair took time out to have a shower, he managed to avoid waking the MP for Fermanagh-South Tyrone. John Taylor slept in the bed intended for Mr Blair's chief press secretary, Alastair Campbell.

It was a night of "rolling meetings". A typical example was Blair's session at around 4.30 a.m. with a dozen members of the Ulster Unionist Assembly team. The group included leading sceptic Billy Armstrong, and the Prime Minister went out of his way to have a long discussion with the Mid-Ulster Assembly member.

It was not a happy night for Sinn Fein. About 10 p.m. on Wednesday, the atmosphere seemed quite positive, and both unionists and SDLP members sensed a deal was attainable. But fairly quickly the Sinn Fein mood seemed to darken.

Earlier in the day it was the unionists who showed signs of apprehension, as was seen when they left for Stormont having indicated to the media the talks were about to be adjourned for a week or two. News of the unionist briefing caused some displeasure in the Blair camp. "The talks are continuing. There is no adjournment," was the instant retort.

As he left on Wednesday morning, the Taoiseach gave the impression that there was agreement on the principle of decommissioning, in words that cannot have pleased Sinn Fein. "Surely we should not lose out because two of the parties could not agree on times and dates," he said. For its part, Sinn Fein is adamant that it consistently made clear it could not deliver IRA weapons.

While reports of a verbal confrontation between Sinn Fein and the SDLP have been flatly denied, there was a frank exchange of views - decibel level unknown - between the republicans and Mr Ahern. It helped to "clear the air", sources said, and the Taoiseach at least indicated he felt Sinn Fein's pain even if he did not intend to deviate from his chosen course.

The two prime ministers returned fairly sharpish on Wednesday evening. The politicians settled into a long night of negotiations.

Outside the gates, loyalist protesters heckled, waved flags and sang The Sash. Inside, Sinn Fein delegates were having trouble using their mobile phones. From time to time leading republicans went out on to the front lawn to get a better signal. The loyalists chanted: "If you hate [named Sinn Fein member] clap your hands." The Sinn Fein group amused itself by watching to see who got the most abuse. But the clear winner by far was none other than David Trimble who was spotted by the loyalists using his phone at an upstairs window.

Signals of a different kind were coming from Mr Blair's spokesman, who told the waiting media at around 1 a.m. that "real progress" was being made, but by 6 a.m. this had become "substantial progress". The message from the unionists and Sinn Fein, however, was relentlessly downbeat. Reporters had the difficult task of divining which was the correct "spin". The message from the Blair camp at 6 a.m. was that the two prime ministers believed key elements of a deal were falling into place.

Hillsborough Castle is Queen Elizabeth's official residence in Northern Ireland, and there are thrones for the use of the royal couple. On this occasion the throne room was used as a coffee area with the thrones discreetly screened off, whether from respect for their royal personages or to avoid offending republican sensibilities is not entirely clear. At John Taylor's suggestion, Blair went into the throne room and busily "worked the crowd" as they queued for coffee. It was all very informal: Seamus Mallon and others lit up cigarettes.

As morning broke and time dragged on, word filtered through to the journalists that unanimous agreement had not been reached, Sinn Fein was holding out on decommissioning, the talks would be adjourned for about 10 days but what was initially called a "communique" would be issued by the two governments.

There was said to have been some debate about the wisdom of releasing this document. Senior unionists reportedly took the view that it would be used against Trimble by his enemies in the party, but the two governments reportedly argued that its contents would be leaked to media in any case.

When Trimble brought the document to a meeting of his Assembly team at lunchtime on Thursday to "talk them through it" he was greeted with a round of applause. John Taylor quipped that asking the IRA to decommission its weapons at Easter was a bit like the UUP's best-known Catholic member, Sir John Gorman, asking him to attend Mass on the Eleventh Night, the eve of the Twelfth of July celebrations. His witty remark brought the house down, with Sir John joining in the merriment.

It was all a bit of a rush at the end. Reporters and camera crews pressed against the barriers before being admitted to the castle's well-manicured grounds for the press conference. A politician emerged with a copy of what was now being called a "declaration".

Sneaking a glimpse of it one detected new language on the thorny issue of weapons disposal. It would now be called an "obligation" instead of a precondition and the guns would be put "beyond use", whatever that might mean, in consultation with Gen de Chastelain.

There was also a proposal for a day of reconciliation, when guns would be disposed of, security installations would be closed down and semi-official ceremonies of remembrance for all the victims would be held.

Trimble was being offered a post-dated cheque on decommissioning but, if the cheque bounced, Sinn Fein would be bounced from the list of ministerial nominees. The UUP leader was seen laughing and joking, although some of the journalists wondered about the small print. It was not a satisfactory outcome for Sinn Fein, who stood by their mantra of "no decommissioning".

A leading constitutional nationalist commented that decommissioning was now a "genetically-modified" precondition. The talks would resume on April 13th, but there were ominous signs that the republican camp was less than enthusiastic - to put it mildly - about selling the declaration in its present form to its grassroots.