IT WAS as if the result was fated, as if some radio DJ somewhere knew what would happen and chose to play Take That songs accordingly.

On the way there it was Greatest Day, which summed up the sense of belief and expectation perfectly. On the way back it was Patience.

Shuffling onto the coach in Chippenham at 10.30am on a miserable Saturday morning, there was a distinct possibility, and a genuine hope, that Swindon Town could be playing in the second tier of English football come August.

The nasty turn in the weather had not dampened the spirits of Town fans – some had come from as far as Trowbridge, and as the coach got closer to the capital the anticipation was building and we all had itchy feet.

After some roadworks near Membury services and some congestion on the A40, we finally arrived at Wembley with under two hours to go until kick-off.

Swindon fans were out in force around the stadium and singing matches with pockets of Millwall fans sprung up at random. Chants of “come on you Reds” more than matched the south Londoners’ cries of “who are ya?”.

But while the pre-match banter was good-natured, once inside Wembley’s impressive cauldron, the animosity towards the Lions was more apparent, as each member of the Millwall squad was soundly booed.

Servicemen did a lap of honour around the pitch, stopping only to pose with Swindon mascot Rockin’ Robin, while the Town fans finished filing in after queueing for £4 lagers and £5 programmes.

As the football started, the tension was tangible and Town’s nervous start on the pitch reverberated around the red half of the ground. The players could not seem to settle despite enthusiastic encouragement from the 31,800 Swindon contingent and the Millwall fans sensed their team was getting the better of the game and stifling the free-flowing football Town fans had seen so often at the County Ground this season.

Even while watching the replay on the BBC’s Football League Show later on Saturday evening, it was difficult to pin-point the exact moment when it became apparent that it was not going to be Town’s day.

Maybe it was when Town, donning the white third strip rather than the traditional red, went in at half-time with a one goal deficit and their heads down.

Or maybe it was when Charlie Austin missed that sitter. Did it bobble or did he fluff it? There were murmurings of “if only it had fallen to Paynter” and “this pitch is a disgrace”.

Either way it was a pivotal moment. The belief of an hour earlier seeped away as frustration took over and the realisation dawned on us that victory was perhaps out of reach.

To the Town fans’ credit, none left until the final whistle, but by the time Millwall lifted the trophy, signalling their passage into the Championship, only a handful of crestfallen Reds remained.

The mood on the journey back was sombre but there was also a quiet pride. There was some friendly, and not-so-friendly, banter between our coach and a Millwall coach as we ran parallel, while trying to escape the chaos of 73,108 people leaving via narrow roads on an industrial estate.

For some who remember better days at Wembley the disappointment was clear. Brian Legg, 62, of Chippenham has been following Town since 1958 and witnessed the 1969 League Cup final victory against Arsenal.

He said: “They did not turn up on the day. Austin should have done what Don Rogers did in ‘69 and gone round the 'keeper.”

The implications of the result had just about sunk in by the time we reached home at around 8.30pm. Swindon would be playing League One football again next season.

But I think as we shuffled off the coach there was a hope that we can do it all again next year.