The punters also gave off an agricultural whiff. They moved in the long strides known only to golfers and farmers, and many among them also boasted serious holdings, albeit in prime real estate rather than acres of arable farming. Welcome to Ireland, sir. Ignore the soggy turf, darkened skies and pending arrival of Gordon's tail. This is the Ryder Cup and this is going to be epic.

The week began like it was going to deliver a uniquely Irish smack in the chops to the Cup. On Monday, the European captain Ian Woosnam was ensnarled in a traffic jam on the M50. Taxi drivers threatened strike action. The Tiger was dissed in the local media. Windy skies delayed practice play on Wednesday. And Gordon hovered offshore, primed to shake Mick Smurfit awake from his long cherished dream. A disaster of epic proportions loomed.

In the end, fate agreed to play ball. Gordon came and went as we slept, and the main event got underway without a hitch. The Tiger recovered to swing sweetly, and the opening ceremony was only the cat's pyjamas.

The visitors will take home tales of amazing organisation and if the prices appear to be a rip-off, a quiet word with locals could confirm that they're par for the course.

A better class of punter was to be found at this shindig. At sports events, the average fan these days wears the jersey of his or her team. At the K Club, punters togged out head to toe, as if they themselves were taking to the fairways. From the white golfing shoes, through the slacks, Pringles and weather gear, these boys were a careless quip away from declaring: "I'm Tiger Woods."

Apart from the golfers, there was a galaxy of sports stars from times past with whom to rub shoulders. Boris Becker, Michael Jordan, Ian Botham and Keith Wood have all been to the pinnacle of greatness and back, and here they walked among the mortal punters, adding a frisson to the epic battle.

Golf is the focus, but beyond the actual fairways, this bash represents a corporate bun fight. In the tented village, the largest eatery advertised itself as "Champagne and Seafood".

"We seat 464 and it's been busy everyday, " the maitre d' explained. Deep pockets are required for a bit of grub at this caff.

The lunchtime lobster platter retailed at 42, and a bottle of bubbly started at 38 but rose rapidly to Moet and Chandon for 130. You could then stagger out and grab a piece of Irish culture in the Ireland Pavilion. The only culture within is on the walls, replete with images of hurling and cailini deas, but the main thrust of the pavilion was to show off local corporations, Waterford Glass, AIB, and Bord Bia.

Maybe it was because so many Yanks were in attendance, but there was no getting away from food. Even the Cup itself wasn't left alone. On Thursday, it was displayed on a table outside the K Club hotel, roped off and guarded by a battery of security guards. And weighing down the table were enough vegetables and fruit of every loom to keep your average obese teen happy for a day or two. Bord Bia were in spasms of overdrive. In front of it, punters lined up to have their photos taken with the Cup of grub.

This event might be the preserve of the comfortable classes, but even here a hierarchical structure pertains. A few temporary buildings were constructed around the course to house corporate boxes, three-storey elongated beasts, sitting there like Mississippi steamers of old, bobbing around in undulating seas of green, as the good burghers within looked out at the golf from an elevated vantage.

Inside the hallowed boxes even the waiting staff were togged out in Ralph Lauren gear. Meanwhile, down on the course, the greenkeepers worked merrily, happy that the Labour Court had given them a 50% pay increase to bring them into line with industry norms. Let's hear it for the rich men who agreed to throw some crumbs from the table.

But what about the heroes at the vortex of all the hype? On Thursday, Woosnam graced the media tent to give his pairings and answer soft questions. When asked whether this event meant more to him than winning a major in 1991, he replied in the affirmative. "Here, I have responsibility for all of Europe on my shoulders. (If we win) it will be as emotional as I'll ever be in my life." Tales of emotion foretold as Europe's citizenry leans on Woosey's broad shoulders.

His opposite number Tom Lehman was asked by a compatriot what he had said to his players "in terms of emotion and faith". Thankfully, the captain's bland reply didn't refer to the man above or being born again to return to earth as resident evangelist at the K Club. The hype was surpassed only by the horse manure.

Friday brought the real thing. The Tiger and Padraig Harrington were among the first out, swinging for world domination, Tiger representing the stars and stripes, and Harrington the stars of Europe, that flag that incites passion among Europeans from Cork to Cracow.

Darren Clarke appeared an hour later, and was greeted by a roar to help him through the tragic loss of his wife last month. As he lined up to tee off, silence fell on the course. The only sound was the crackle of circling crows above, the tenor of which suggested they were engaged in an intense natter. After Clarke shot, two punters who, like most, couldn't properly witness the players, debated the drive.

"It sounded good, " one said to the other.

"Yes, " came his friend's reply. "You'd know by the way he bent down to pick up his tee that it was."

Many years ago, golfing great Walter Hagen declared that golf was given its name "because all the other four letter words were taken". He was referring to the frustration inherent in the game, but he could have had in mind the quality of commentary offered by its followers.

The fare on Friday, according to those in the know, was fair to middling. But beyond the hype, and past the contrived nature of this competition, serious sportsmen were at work. Even to the uninitiated, there is a sense of wonder in observing the world's finest competing against each other.

When evening fell, the punters left, spent but happy, a day in the life as it was meant to be lived. And as they filed through the gates, some among them could be heard muttering under their liquered breaths: "I'm Tiger Woods, and that was epic."