Championing the cause of forlorn Ireland By Claire O’Sullivan

IT WAS as if she had walked into the arms of God. Head raised skywards, eyes closed, and arms stretched open, the Irish girl savoured every nanosecond of the moment.

She didn’t look at anyone or anything. She just breathed in the win: letting the golden moment dance upon her face like the warmth of Mediterranean sunshine, letting the exhilaration cascade through her.

Every cell and muscle of her exhausted body was drowning in the impossible joy of a win she had visualised for years, in a fight she had been told she could not have. But she had been so determined.