The football was largely forgettable, but the experience will live forever.
Travelling to Barcelona to watch Wolves play a game of football was always going to be a surreal journey, with League One reminiscing and head-scratching aplenty as we skip around Las Ramblas.
A far cry from us shuffling down Waterloo Road in arctic conditions on any given Saturday afternoon in a seemingly endless tale of Championship failure.
A dose of Spanish sun to warm the soul must be the perfect present for years of travail and in going along for the ride, I only wish every fan could have been here.
If this fixture didn’t quite bring out the best in our players, it did our fans, who reminded me why we’re such a special bunch and deserving of times like these.
From the airport to the bars around the city – and everywhere in between – a feeling of camaraderie enveloped me like medicine for my occasionally troubled soul.
Humble, humorous fans in their droves, making me smile for what felt like the duration of the trip, mingling comedy with courtesy with a sprinkling of Black Country wit.
I’d wager that each and every one of us cherished the experience more for the wrinkles etched through years of disappointment. For certain, none of us took a single step for granted as we know events like these don’t come around often.
I just wish every one of the Wolves brethren were present, as they deserved to feel this too.
Maybe this was all part of the plan, when false dawns and laughing stocks were defined by gold and black?
It bloody chafed at times, didn’t it? But throw those curtains wide my friends. One day like this a year has seen me right.