It was like a pageant from the medieval era. Lansdowne Road, the oldest rugby cathedral in the world, is the only place it could have happened.

Australia prepared themselves for the peculiarly Irish cauldron of mist and bone-crunching passion that is the stuff of folklore. They had mastered it before and expected to again.

But Saturday was a maelstrom that combined the oldest elements with the newest intensity. The world champions, bedraggled by injury and a long, jading week in Argentina, met an Irish team that was primed to reclaim the sorry history of loss that stretches back to 1979.

They met an Irish team that dared to believe that it could not only threaten to win but actually win. The 18-9 result will not be penned in the international annals as a classic but is of huge consequence to the evolution of Ireland's rugby fortunes.

"We felt this day had been coming for a while," noted Eddie O'Sullivan, as temperate and reflective after his finest hour as he has been after the setbacks.

"And going down to Australia next summer, I'm sure they will be lying in wait for us and in different conditions. But again, we have to build towards that and try to come out with a victory again. It's a process. It's not the be-all and end-all. Doesn't mean we are going to win the World Cup."

But for a few minutes in that murky afternoon, it was as if we already had. Ireland is not celebrated for its blue skies but Saturday was like a curse from the age of the druids. It was half dark by three in the afternoon and a wind drove endless sheets of gauzy wetness towards the Havelock Square End.

The pitch was sodden and treacherous. It was a day as raw and demanding as anything asked of the century of international teams that graced the field before. And for the Irish it was heaven.

"Mate, I think it was fantastic," admitted the Wallaby coach Eddie Jones on Saturday evening. "You come to Lansdowne Road and that's how you are going to play. You don't come to Lansdowne Road to play in 15 degrees with the sun burning on your back. I am not making excuses. The Irish were much too good for us."

It was a measure of Ireland's performance that for once Keith Wood, the bright shining light for Irish rugby through all the dark years, was hardly missed.

Brian O'Driscoll, Ireland's superstar for the new millennium, threw himself into the role of deputising captain in a kind of beautiful fury. He ran and tackled his lungs off and, behind him, 14 others followed. He is a curiosity, O'Driscoll, at once youthful and impetuous and yet utterly mature to a degree that is frightening.

"We will enjoy this tonight," he said, as thousands milled around Lansdowne Road unsure of what to do with themselves. "But for want of a better word, it's just a friendly."

Perhaps, but one upon which careers have been restored and enhanced. Big Victor Costello and Keith Gleeson raged into the Australian pack as if their lives depended on it.

Denis Hickie threw himself face first into Wendall Sailor, the Queensland juggernaut of whom much was expected. The Irish wing took a knock to the head that retired him early - but notice had been served.

All day long, the tackles flew in but this time they were underpinned by composure as opposed to the defiant desperation of old. Australia's imagination withered as Girvan Dempsey smothered high ball after high ball. When they almost broke through for a try in the frantic closing period, it was Shane Horgan that reacted fastest. And in the six long minutes of injury time, nobody froze.

Right at the coalface, Ronan O'Gara delivered a perfect performance, nailing perfect six penalties and reading the vicious elements like a sage. He made the gifted Stephen Larkham look lost in comparison.

"It's right up there, I suppose," O'Sullivan said of O'Gara's stunning theatre. "There was severe pressure on him at times in the pocket, but just to catch that ball and hold his footing and deliver onto a sixpence was incredible. He has that ability under pressure, he's a very cool customer."

While O'Gara soared, Australia floundered. The visitors saw strange sights. They saw the legendary Matt Burke fumble a simple catch and rush a simple chip ahead that skidded off his boot as if he were a novice.

The livewire George Smith got into a war of wills with the referee which, as ever, was won by the whistler. Owen Finegan trudged off after just 10 minutes with a ruined shoulder. Adam Freier, making his debut at hooker, will remember Lansdowne Road as some sort of rugby netherworld, dismal and unforgiving. Twickenham will surely seem like a saner and more comfortable dwelling in comparison.

"There is a little bit of history building up that we are struggling in these conditions because we are not used to them," noted Eddie Jones before taking his leave. "This lesson just reinforced what we already learned."

A lesson from the Irish. It was a long time coming. Little wonder then that O'Driscoll led an emot ional dance around Lansdowne Road in the rain. Green flares lit the gloom and U2 boomed out and, for all its decrepitude, it was clear there is no more evocative stadium anywhere in the world.