'Cnoc 16" said the sign on the turnstile. The famous Hill welcomed Ireland yesterday, welcomed the Methody boys, the Blackrock College lads, the big man from Bruff, the publican's son, the professionals.

Even the rail bridge that straddles the lane leading from Griffith Avenue to the Croke Park terraces had a mix of graffiti for the rugby guests. "The Fix." "One Love." "Up The Dubs." There was no getting away from whose home Irish rugby had come to visit.

As the line of would-be Six Nations Championship winners straggled onto the pitch from under the Cusack stand and made their way along the famous sidelines to the dressingrooms in the belly of the Hogan, you couldn't help feeling this was where they belonged. This is a stadium worthy of their presence. This is a team worthy of Croke Park's grandeur.

The pitch had changed its face and rearranged its clothing for the meeting. But this was the cathedral of Irish sport as it should be. Some might say submissive and acquiescent, even bullied out of its unique, historical point of view. But yesterday with the little rugby pitch dropped into the acres of green and bathed in a thin, wintry wash of greys and pewter, its mood was one of benevolence and accommodation.

The first three players to break from the locker room and put studs into the firm turf were the Ulster trio of Andrew Trimble, Neil Best and Isaac Boss. Surely right there was a first. A Wellington College boy, Best, running the sod at GAA headquarters, a Coleraine Institute lad, Trimble, working the angles and purchase at the Canal End.

All around oval balls and water bottles dotted a pitch that was marked almost 20 paces from the first row of sideline seats. Yes, Croke Park is grand, towering and imposing. Its span across the Dublin skyline is strident, its appearance prosperous and capable. Definitely new money.

It is everything the ailing Lansdowne Road - with its old-country-house feel, its wellington boots in the porch and its damp, flaking walls - is not.

Among those present are French faces, French voices. Wrapped for polar temperatures, they marvel at the manly stoicism of Jamie Heaslip and John Hayes, both in shorts and T-shirts. They are aware of the historical resonance, of Ireland and of England, of the tragic past - but in reality it is, to them, just another stadium of Europe. They pick at the grass trying to find what is plastic and what is real, then they point and the photographers train lenses on the small man with the shaven head.

In a corner, scrumhalf Peter Stringer, his fractured right hand heavily strapped, is going through a routine of tackling with the Irish trainers. He bangs against the tackle suit, his fingers ripping at the shoulders looking for grip. Nearby, Gordon D'Arcy is zig-zagging to staggered cones, his groin requiring deference but not now a worry. He too is given quality, personal attention.

By the corner of the Cusack Stand and the Canal End Brian O'Driscoll has come to a halt. The captain's lonesome warm-up around half the pitch has been a study in detachment and anxiety.

In the corner he aggressively stretches the troublesome hamstring as Dr Gary O'Driscoll and Brian Green look on with proprietorial intensity.

The outside centre, vacuum packed in black Lycra and gloves, strides out and bounds down the infield swinging arms and knees, high. But the body language is neither light nor optimistic, neither cheerful nor expectant.

At this point O'Driscoll is still not certain it will be Paul O'Connell leading out the Irish side for the historic match. But his decision to finally bow to what his body tells him is only an hour away.

Inside and far from the prying eyes, Stringer is beginning to assimilate the same visceral disappointment O'Driscoll will have to endure.

They have digested all the issues: the tackling, the stretching, the medical opinion, the maybes, the bone, the damage, the England match in two weeks' time and maybe even the thought of Sebastian Chabal wading through Irish bodies just for a chance to yank the damaged hand of the scrumhalf.

The ifs and buts have all been swirling around to the background of the team grunts and chants, the piggy-in-the-middle with a soccer ball, Denis Hickie running hither and thither, the chain of players squealing with delight the farther the winger is forced to run.

Among them all stands Eddie O'Sullivan and his generals, impassively casting their eyes around, the sun now casting a weak shadow, and all dwarfed by the steep terracing of the coliseum.