The decision to televise the final winter solstice of the century made a sacred ceremony more public and certainly less atmospheric than usual at the mysterious megalithic tomb of Newgrange, Co Meath.
Pilgrims made their way to the site anticipating an experience which is both spiritual and daringly pagan, defying the passing of centuries and leaving us to wonder at the inspired engineering which created the tomb's dramatic corbelled ceiling.
Dank swirling mists clear from the Boyne and the dark skies of the year's longest night brighten.
Most years, the scene possesses an eerie grace; spirit forms slowly emerge from among the standing stones and scan the east like wise men in search of God, or at least, tell-tale traces of golden light which signal winter's departure.
This time, however, television cameras, outdoor broadcast units and busy RTE ground staff added an element of a military operation. Parking became an issue. Exactly how many cameras? How many more floodlights? Faces looked raw with cold. The gardai are also present; big, nodding sergeants rubbing their hands, looking out of place and admitting, "I've never been here before." None are as out of place, though, as Joe Duffy, who does not give the impression of being particularly at ease and is clearly more in need of a caller at the other end of a phone - a voice desperate to attack some injustice, if only full headlights.
Droning half-heartedly about "our ancestors", Duffy looks cold, and sounds lost. Meanwhile, the two TV sets on the ground switched to the scene keep the watching Druids guessing.
Only those moderns among us directly in contact with their druidic inner selves could hope to tune out the media age completely. Yet 5,000 dignified years of Newgrange easily upstage the brashness of the 21st century.
On to the scene walks Bertie Ahern, smiling like the only man on Earth holding tickets for the World Cup final - up the steps and down into the sand-floored passage soon to be warmed by a defiant sun.
Across the valley a tiny sliver of gold appears on the hillside. As the waiting crowd spot it, polite applause begins. The light quivers and recedes.
The yellow rim becomes denser. It illuminates the bare trees flanking the ridge. It begins to gather momentum, the orb takes shape, shrugging off ribbons of gauzy cloud. The horizon is on fire. A couple of archaeologists yelp. Most observers look towards the tomb as the rising sun strikes the roof-box and begins to light the passage.
Cameras are aimed in the general direction. Seldom have so many aspiring photographers clicked without actually seeing anything. A small child in bright colours makes a determined effort to scale the wooden fence facing the tomb. Ever higher the sun climbs.
The passageway remains lit, the sun illuminating the large passage orthostats flanking the route to the chamber and the back wall which the beam finally strikes. All present are moved by the perfection of the light, the genius of the ancients.
A lone voice remarks, "it's a pity about the crane", on which a cameraman perches, apparently communing with the sun itself.
Winter is dead. Nature has won. Again.