Ah, the incomparable beauty of a Keith Wood smile. We have seen him in all his guises over these past two weeks, from the bleak figure in blue mezzotint standing ruined in Lansdowne Road to this grinning, pale headed colossus, gamely stoking the masses at the end of a sporting hour which will undoubtedly be remembered as Wembley's finest by everyone except, possibly, Geoff Hurst.
"The try was irrelevant," Woodie beamed afterwards, airily dismissing the move in which he left Welsh centre Scott Gibbs for dead with an audacious jab step. "The win was everything," he said, by way of affirmation.
So the jinx has been lifted. In a sense, it was almost anti-climactic, to know that these Ireland players are spiritually capable of familiarising themselves with victory, because midway through the second half, it seemed as if there was definitely some unearthly force working against them.
Life, see, was just too beautiful. Ireland, so long portrayed as the likeably insane if ultimately ill-fated family of the Five Nations branch had suddenly transformed themselves into smooth advocates of total rugby. We moved it wide with carefree panache. We killed in loose play. Hell, we even caught consecutive passes. Drops at goal - how many would you like?
It was infectious stuff and the delirium had clearly spread to the TV studios. "I think if Ireland keep the foot down here we have every chance of our biggest win ever," gushed Tony Ward moments after David Humphrey's drop kicked Ireland into a 26-6 lead. We could not have felt more queasy if Kevin Keegan had suddenly materialised to announce that only one team could win this now.
Without warning, Wales were suddenly on fire. They came at us in all sorts of demonic configurations, at least according to BBC's Bill McLaren. Here, he saw Scott Quinnell "driving like a wounded buffalo", there he envisaged Scott Gibbs as "the Welsh immovable object" and as Neil Jenkins kicked for touch, it was Bill who declared that the line-outs were "all about jiggerypokery."
Whatever, but the unlikely Welsh renaissance quickly brought memories of all those great old Irish catastrophes flooding back. The two dozen that got away, that time we hit the post, that dropped pass.
This, it seemed, would just be the latest in the litany. After the final whistle, Warren Gatland admitted he had consoled himself by imagining the most appalling of vistas.
Ashen faced and clearly ecstatic, the Irish coach said that he inevitably thought that the Welsh "would score a converted try in the last minute and we'd lose by a point". Who could question his pessimism after what had gone before?
But maybe Peter Clohessy was Florence Nightingale in a previous incarnation because for once, the karma flowed our way. It was, as all the players pointed out afterwards, just a win, however precious. Nothing more. One of the more pleasurable aspects of the afternoon was watching David Humphreys as he walked off the turf.
Two weeks ago, the player was maligned for missing a penalty which a schoolboy could conceivably have kicked. But the thing about Humphreys is that the guy still kinda looks like a schoolboy.
Slight in build and bearing a pensive expression at the best of times, he seemed to approach his early kicks at goal with all the happiness of a Leaving Cert student who has entered the exam hall still a bit unsure about who in hell Macbeth precisely was.
To recover from that miss against the French with such wonderful creativity and authority was gladdening in itself but even more reassuring was the contained and reserved manner in which he accepted Saturday's win.
Commenting on the player, George Hook suggested that "if stress affects one's life expectancy, he is in for a short life".
And he has certainly ran the gamut in terms of highs and lows. European Cup hero one week, scapegoat the next, now man of the match against the Welsh.
If the pattern is to follow suit for the remainder of the competition, we can expect Humphreys to be lashed by lightning in the early stages of the England game only to see him check out of hospital on the eve of the Scotland finale and nail a 70-metre drop at goal to snatch a Triple Crown for Ireland.
And already, there is loose talk about the likelihood of an Irish sweep of the home countries. Saturday's win will unquestionably have settled matters. Defeat would almost certainly have led to the hasty establishment of a tribunal to establish this country's best kicker.
While that debate will burn out now, there is still the issue of whether Niall Woods should be retained, thereby preserving the London Irish triumvirate along with Conor O'Shea and Justin Bishop. Before the game, George Hook (on RTE) et al wondered about Woods' lingering defensive frailties.
Warren Gatland acknowledged the existence of such shortcomings but said he hoped that they had eliminated them over the previous "48 hours". For some reason, it didn't instil confidence. Woods himself was remarkably sanguine about the subject.
"I've missed the odd tackle, but then everyone misses tackles," he shrugged. Fair enough.
In a sense, there was just as much pressure on Woods on Saturday last than had been on Humphreys the week before. His exile from international duty has been a long one, thereby prompting Bill McLaren to refer to him at various times as "yer man Woods" and, at one point, as "Chris Woods". But at least he was thrown a pass or two, a sensation which many Irish wingers have never known despite lining out for Ireland for whole decades.
While it was sunny in Wembley, there was that old grey sense of foreboding hanging over Twickenhham just down the road. It was business as usual. Heartbreak for the Scots. Grave platitudes from Larry Dallaglio. Back at home, we were merrily booting caution towards the wind.
"Bring on the English," whooped Tom McGuirk at the end of RTE's transmission. How quickly they forget.
