Pilgrimage to Madrid

Like every other red, the planning for Madrid started the day after the night before as in that night V Barca. Nursing the injuries suffered from the plastic seats on the Kop, it was well worth it of course, and the search for flights began. I think as soon as the final whistle went another whistle was being blown across the airline HQ of Europe to put their prices up as quickly as possible as the reds were on the march again. God forbid someone getting some value for their money. It was pure madness and it soon became apparent that any flights were not going to be near Madrid as the prices were just too expensive. So Santiago airport in the northern half of Spain was the chosen destination. At this stage we had four travelers, two were guaranteed a ticket with the home and away games sorted that season, the other two had a nervous wait for the ballot. But it was a gamble worth taking.

Come ballot day and sadly no luck for the second year in a row, we had a few irons in the fire however and as we were three weeks away yet, there is always hope. The time ticked onwards and again the prices of tickets were way out of our league as they were for thousands of ticketless Liverpool supporters. Then, good fortune for one of our party, a miracle ticket arrived thanks to a good friend who couldn’t travel, leaving us with one to find.

Come departure day and off we went to Santiago, around 20 reds on a plane full of pilgrims who were undertaking their own adventure, the Camino walk, which for some can be a 500 mile trek.

We were on our own adventure and we headed towards Valladolid, a mere four hour’s drive away across some breath-taking countryside. A wrong turn seen us mount the pavement in the city centre and we found ourselves driving towards some slightly worried looking locals sipping on their beers. We were lucky perhaps none of the local police were around as it may have turned a bit nasty in this day and age. We quickly gathered ourselves for some much needed liquid refreshment, not too much as we were away early for the two hour journey to Madrid the next day. Not too many, well enough, as the Karaoke belted out and there is always one who will do the needful, not so sure that the Bananarama version of Venus was the best song choice. However it was a good end for what was now European Cup Final day.

I’m sure the day itself has been well covered in these pages, the scenes were magnificent, and the city was also perfect in welcoming us all. That’s what you get when you treat adults like adults, everyone having a drink and in good mood, not being herded here there and everywhere like second class citizens. Sadly no ticket materialised so it was just the three of us that got into the stadium, the train journey out was bouncing, I’m surprised the train stayed on the tracks, the mood was of confidence, and it was like that all day to be fair and why not.

Gaining entry to the ground was an ordeal, it was never going to be easy, but we were there in good time and we were in. The usual pre match shite ensued – who were these people. I had a seat, not in the Liverpool end as such but close enough and pretty close to the TV boxes. Game on and of course we didn’t have to wait long to get one hand on the cup, bedlam, I looked up and good old Jose was standing a few yards behind watching the game protected by bodyguards, have a good look Jose as it’s coming home.

Again, we all know the outcome, we had won our 6th European Cup, only relaxing when Divock does what Divock does, and soon we were bouncing around the ground, not wanting

to leave, and we didn’t for near 90 minutes. So much going on, so much joy. By the time we did make it out, we were too exhausted to even celebrate properly, and also mindful of the six hour drive the next day to Santiago for the flight back home.

A nice journey it was, waking up to the news, the countless videos etc, stopping off at a remote café where a Diego Costa look-a-like served up a great meal to send us on our merry way back to Dublin and then another three hours onwards to the North West and home to Donegal. A pit stop at the John McKenna plaque was a must, we cannot forget the founding fathers of our great club, we wouldn’t be what we are today without them.

A few weeks on, and all is still fresh in the memory, it doesnt take too long for next season to enter the mind, fixtures out, trips planned, waiting on TV companies to sort themselves, it all starts again. Anyone booked next year yet?