For the fourth year in a row, the Ulster final served up extra-time as Donegal and Armagh stood tall all the way to the last second. Michael McMullan took a walk through Ulster football’s Mecca…

SATURDAY in Clones was absolutely magic. You could see it, feel it and almost taste it.

As for the football and Donegal’s epic win over Armagh, TV couldn’t have done it justice. Not in the slightest. It was a privilege to be there. A forever memory.

In poker terms, both went all in. All-Ireland champions Armagh craved their elusive Ulster silver. The pain of penalties already talked to death.

Jim McGuinness had been beating the Ulster drum from a long way out. Harvest six league points and they could paint their house how they wanted.

They didn’t abandon ship, rather dropping anchor, looking across to Derry in Ballybofey. Championship champions everything else.

The only thing Donegal people love more than Donegal is showing that they do. There is the sport, the scenery, the craic and music. Daniel. The Hills of Donegal. The Homes of Donegal.

Brendan Devenney hosted his DL Debate show last Monday night in Sister Saras. A gas wee night.

Tea. Pints. Grub. All top drawer, yet still a sideshow. Football chat ruled the roost. Excitement and nervousness envelope every sentence.

Donegal hadn’t clicked yet. Armagh are in better form. Would Caolan McGonagle return to play bouncer at the back of midfield?

Which five blocks will Jim build into his wall of yellow to close in on Ethan Rafferty? Would there be enough punch from the bench if Murphy starts?

Fast forward to Saturday. A full two hours before the ladies’ final, and you’d wonder how Padraic McKeever can get the jerseys made fast enough.

A rising tide of McKvr orange with the odd tasty black away number. Horns. Hats. Sunglasses. Suncream.

The Applegreen is doing a brisk trade. A fiver gets your car parked. In some places a marker turns the five into six. Entrepreneurs eat their dinner when it’s hot

How long will we be stuck in traffic? Who knows. Tomorrow’s problem.

That’s the thing about Clones, with mobile coverage gobbled up by the masses. Like that mammoth wedding weekend, when you’re in, you’re in. The outside world can wait.

Who wins it? The main question. But, not just yet. Nosing up the gradual hill to The Diamond stretches the hammies.

The handful of supporters’ buses docked this early tells you Ulster final is a daylong pilgrimage.

The picnic tables outside Packie Willies are beginning to fill. It’s time to kiffle a few pints.

Free tables are scarce across in the Cuil Darach eating house but it’s a slick operation.

An order, a docket on the table and dinner within five minutes. Hot and tasty. Sustenance for the day. God knows when there’ll be another bite.

Down Fermanagh Street and the Creighton corner comes into view. Donegal jerseys begin to populate. This is downtown Clones. The epicentre.

The hawker who was selling a last remaining Liverpool flag on the semi-final weekend is back with a batch of red ‘Champions 2024/25’ T-shirts. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The smell of fried onions fills the air. Clubs selling tickets. There’s a Ford tractor to be won for just €10. If you’re not in, you can’t win.

The Clones below Church Hill is about more than football. It’s a social hotbed where fake tan meets GAA jerseys.

Up the hill, and it’s a different world. St Tiernach’s Park isn’t exactly state of the art, but it’s a symbol of having arrived.

Clones means big games. Finals. Mangaers planting a winning mindset tell players to imagine Ulster final day and this exact climb.

The jealousy in us wonders when our own county will be back in Mecca.

The big screen behind the Roslea end tells you it’s a final. Car passes are scarce.

Plenty were giving off about the Saturday evening throw in. It’s bickering without the facts.

A ladies double header and TV slots were part of the decision process. Even the Beeb’s North West 200 coverage.

Saturday isn’t ideal or is it just Ireland? Complaining for complaining’s sake.

By the time Aoife McCoy bags her second goal in the first game, Armagh ladies are out the gap.

Sirens tells us the Gardai are clearing a pad for the jet-black Armagh team bus as it peels behind the wall of the O’Duffy Terrace.

The pitch walk reveals an extra passenger. Rian O’Neill. Jeez, Armagh’s camp really is tight. How did they manage to keep it a secret? Is he in the 26?

The Armagh class of 2000 are introduced to the crowd. Legends of old. The fact it’s a 25-year reunion scares the bejaysus out of us middle-aged types.

When the Donegal bus pulls up, there are fewer empty seats this year.

Michael Murphy has swapped his microphone for life back in the fast lane. Eoin McHugh and Odhrán McFadden Ferry are others now on the inside looking out.

Who’s going to win? Sure everyone knows it’s going down the stretch. A draw is priced 8/1.

Everyone is talking about the chances of going to penalties without really wanting it. Except for us neutrals. Let’s have the biggest dose of drama available.

We don’t get this half enough. A seat of the pants day. A half full Croke Park has no soul. It’s the same in provincial grounds with more visible plastic and concrete that bums.

This is Clones. This is Ulster final day. This is Armagh and Donegal. There is an edge and a want. This is living.

Who is going to win? Before an Ulster ball was kicked, this column fancied Donegal. Armagh’s first half control against Tyrone brings a scratch of the head but, lookit, never change your first answer.

Fógra. Team news. McGonagle is in. Armagh will have to play around the edges. Out goes Conor O’Donnell. In comes a 2025, leaner, model of Hughie McFadden.

Jim’s cards are on the table. Rafferty will face a wall until it’s time for pace when more channels open up.

Tiernan Kelly is an Armagh curveball, with Conor Turbitt held up the sleeve ‘til later. Peter McGrane is out. In comes Forker. He was always going to line up on Murphy.

Ryan McHugh briefed to follow Rory Grugan everywhere. Bizarre but brilliant. A quiet Grugan and Armagh’s kicking game is diluted down. If McHugh can get forward the odd time, he’ll need tracked.

Ciarán Thompson kicks two missiles over, both greeted by the only orange flag Armagh detest. Donegal can play the game as they want. Efficiency and if you don’t score, by God, make sure the ball goes dead.

Rafferty’s first kick-out to Murnin is accuracy off the charts. An orange in a zonal cluster of yellow. The eye of the needle.

Patton begins to push out more than you’d expect. His more commanding presence than 2024 can ask Rafferty a question. It allows McGonagle to eat up enough kick-outs to have the Donegal fans turning up the noise. Hammer the hammer.

Oisin O’Neill is lingering around the arc, but Armagh are too slow to find him. He kicked a two-pointer but they could be doing with a couple more.

At the other end, Roarty plays a diagonal ball to Murphy who catches one handed above Greg McCabe. Wow. It keeps Armagh honest behind the arc.

Patton is human. He shanks kick-outs and Armagh score off them. The pendulum swings but he gets a hand to shave O’Neill’s two pointer into a single point.

In a game of centimetres, this was 10 millimetres. Donegal led by seven. It’s now three, but it could’ve been two.

Tae time. Who’s going to win? Nobody has the foggiest idea. Not a clue.

Galway manager Padraic Joyce and Mickey Graham are in the tae room too. I wonder do they know. Who do they want for company in dynamite of Group Four.

Back upstairs and Brendan Cawley lobs in the ball. 35 more minutes, 55 more minutes or will we be here ‘til dusk?

On the basis of the first half, Donegal to retain the title. Oisín Farrah is on his second marker. The Donegal wall is solid.

There are a few buts. It’s a only three-point margin. And, Armagh have both an underbelly and time to doctor their plans.

Rafferty has had 15 minutes of respite to plug himself back in. Jarly Óg, McQuillan and McMullen’s engines last forever. And they’ve Conaty.

Then all hell breaks loose. The green carpet under our nose turns into neo pinball machine. Bye, bye control. Hello chaos.

Donegal come with their first goal. The ball spills loose. Ping. Ping. Hughie McFadden sees the ball at his feet. Boom. Back of the net. 44 minutes. 1-16 to 0-15.

Is the Anglo Celt singing Destination Donegal? 2008 is as far away as ever for Armagh. Donegal are absolutely energised. It doesn’t stop there.

Rafferty finds Jarly Óg. Eye of a needle again. Burns opens the legs. Up the pitch. McMullen’s feet are doing what they do. Dancing around defenders. A pass or two and he has the ball again. A goal chance? What a move, but, whoosh. Wide of the post.

Donegal go up the field and kick a point. Armagh are presented with another goal chance. Jarly Óg again does the heavy lifting with another run.

The ball ends up with Ben Crealey. An even more certain goal? Not this time either. His shot hits Jarly Óg as he tries to pirouette clear. Ping. Off the post, across goal and wide at the other side. Crazy stuff.

Déjà vu. Donegal tagged on another point. A six-point margin that Moore turns into seven.

Armagh still keep on coming. Rafferty finds men and plucks two of Patton’s kick-outs. Turbo comes in. Jason Duffy comes in. Soupy comes in.

Everything changes, but Donegal are still ahead with minutes remaining. One hand is on the cup until they morph into a polar opposite of themselves. Cheap turnovers and Conaty scores again, putting the 8/1 mob into the black.

Armagh skip off the pitch. They return from the dressing rooms refreshed and nose ahead for the first time. Thompson, McHugh and extra-time sub Niall O’Donnell kick three wides. Daggers for Donegal. Energisers for Armagh.

When Ó Baoill turns down a pot shot to feed O’Donnell, the earlier miss didn’t haunt him. He still had the cajónes to wrap his right foot around an equaliser. Half time in extra time. Deuce.

Armagh edge back in front. Likely winners? Possibly. Then Patton picks out McCole. Inch perfect. Thompson and Langan probe until Langan ghosts behind the cover.  He smells the danger.

Moore, who returned for extra-time, is unmarked. Langan sees him. Moore takes the perfect pass. Bang. Back of the net. Donegal by two.

Celebration time? Not yet. Chaos has control locked in the wardrobe. Tired limbs. Cramp. Errors. Imagine being an Armagh or Donegal supporter. For the rest of us, this is total bananas. But it’s brilliant.

Seconds after being treated for cramp, McCole thunders onto a ball he has no right to win. Turnover. Advantage Donegal that lasts a matter of seconds. Five Caolan McGonagle steps present Rafferty with a two-point free. He nails it. Deuce, arís.

Nobody can take their eyes off it. This is planet Clones and we’ve yet to find a winner. Do we even want one? A replay would give us another fix.

It’s the last time the sides are level. Connaire Mackin wins the kick-out but Soupy’s fifth step is under the nose of McFadden Ferry, Roarty and McMenamin. They keep refrain from fouling. Cool heads.  A free out. Four and a half minutes to go.

Next score wins? Probably.

While he has been quieter than usual, Shane O’Donnell just keeps covering the grass. He was the injection for McFadden’s goal.

With Donegal on the front foot again, he makes the early ground. Their other Duracell bunny, Conor O’Donnell, finds another gap. Armagh are in bother.

Langan, who gave the ball away in the last minute of normal time, cushions a fist pass to Niall O’Donnell who joins the move for the second time.

Hampered by injury, five of his eight appearances have come from the bench. His only starts are the three after the safety of their six league points.

This is his time and he’s on his left foot. A shot to win the title. In the same pocket where Odhrán Doherty’s spinner sent last year’s blockbuster to penalties, O’Donnell kicks across his body. Pressure. Far from a gimme. Thar an Trasnán. Donegal by one.

Bar Ethan Rafferty setting the ball on the tee, Armagh never get a hand on it again.

There’s still another close call. From the kick-out, it’s a hop ball. Donegal snap the break but survive McBrearty’s fifth and sixth step not being punished. Armagh’s frustration is justified.

They need possession but Rafferty barges through the back of Moore. Seconds left. A free in.

Kick for an insurance point or work it short? Niall O’Donnell studies before poking a hospital pass. Nearer the grass than the breadbasket. Eoin McHugh somehow gathers. Millimetres.

Donegal ferry the final procession down the nostrils of the Gerry Arthurs Stand. Armagh hunt like dogs. Seconds remain.

The Ulster title rests on a knife edge. Of all the games of murderball at training, this is real. The ball is gold as they walk a tightrope.

Precision is everything now.  McMenamin. Roarty. Mogan. Back to McMenamin. Roarty again. They manage to keep possession.

Roarty gets it to McGonagle in space. Donegal fans can breathe. The ball reaches McFadden Ferry in more space. Light emits into the tunnel. He spoons to Ó Baoill. The hooter sounds as he takes a ropey solo run. It doesn’t matter. It’s over.

Having burled nine two-pointers to lead the Donegal scorers’ chart, the Gaoth Dobhair man unceremoniously hoofs the ball into the Pat McGrane Stand. They’re champions for a 12^th time.

Pandemonium. Flares. Fans. Elation. The terraces empty. The grass disappears just as an unsavoury incident threatens to dwarf an otherwise sporting afternoon.

A Donegal player runs across to celebrate in front of the Armagh bench, devastated from a third successive Ulster final defeat. A poor decision.

An Armagh player can’t restrain himself and lashes out. Others bail in. The temperature rises. Thankfully, between management teams, sensible heads, stewards and gardai, they pour water on it.

Thank God. On one of the greatest days in the history of Ulster finals, the sheer drama and honesty, guts and skill, they should always prevail.

Joy for Donegal. As for Armagh, the look of sheer dejection on Ethan Rafferty’s face spoke a thousand words as be trudged through the Donegal fans in the tunnel area. Your heart goes out to him.

Will they meet again when Sam Maguire is up for grabs? Probably. Both are contenders.

For now, both sets of players deserve all the plaudits they get.

Thank you Clones. Thank you Armagh. Thank you Donegal. Extra time next year? Let’s hope so.

Check out our review show with thoughts, analysis and reaction from both Ulster finals on Saturday in Clones.