Outside the scene was unremittingly bleak. Grey, forbidding skies looked swollen with snow as the whole of Europe seemed to shiver beneath a cloak of bitingly cold winter weather. But inside the cabin of Flight 609 ZU from Belgrade to Manchester, the atmosphere was warmly convivial, the mood buoyant. There was the buzz of animated conversation, a familiar fug of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, banter from a card school in full swing and frequent eruptions of laughter from a group of journalists.

Several thousand feet below, shrouded in cloud, lay the great German city of Munich. When the voice of Captain James Thain came over the intercom, asking all passengers to fasten their seatbelts in preparation for landing, even he and his co-pilot, Captain Kenneth Rayment, could not see Riem airport. As they guided the plane expertly through its descent, the runway did not appear until they dropped through the last of the thick cloud enveloping the runways and buildings.

The Airspeed Ambassador Elizabethan-class aircraft was making a refuelling stop — the twin-engined propeller plane did not have the capacity to make the 1,179-mile journey in one go. The delay, expected to be a little less than an hour, was an irritant for those on board, but nothing more than that. For the young footballers, a golden future lay stretched out in front of them. The world really was at their feet.

There were 44 passengers. The crew was completed by George Rodgers, the radio officer, Tom Cable, the cabin steward, and Rosemary Cheverton and Margaret Bellis, the stewardesses. A few seats were occupied by passengers unconnected with football, including Nebosja Tomasevic, a diplomat, and Vera Lukic, wife of the Yugoslav air attaché in London, and her 22-month old daughter Venona. There were also 11 journalists, including the giant figure of Frank Swift, the former England goalkeeper who was now employed by the News of the World. “Big Swifty”, with his endless stream of anecdotes from a glittering playing career, was the man who ensured that the level of bonhomie was never allowed to drop.

Mixing easily with the press men were the players of Manchester United, the 11 who had played in the previous day’s epic European Cup tie against Red Star Belgrade — Harry Gregg, the goalkeeper, Bill Foulkes and Roger Byrne, the full backs, the formidable half-back line of Eddie Colman, Mark Jones and Duncan Edwards, the wingers, Albert Scanlon and Kenny Morgans, and the forward trio of Dennis Viollet, Tommy Taylor and Bobby Charlton — and five non-playing reserves (the European Cup did not yet allow substitutes): Ray Wood, the goalkeeper, Geoff Bent, Jackie Blanchflower, David Pegg, Johnny Berry and Liam “Billy” Whelan, who had recently lost his place to Charlton.

The club party was completed by Tom Curry, the trainer, Bert Whalley, the chief coach, Walter Crickmer, the secretary who had served the club loyally since 1919, and the man whose skill and vision had made the whole enterprise possible, Matt Busby.

Busby’s mood on that bleak afternoon was a mixture of conflicting emotions. He felt pride that the players he had nurtured and shaped into what respected judges were already calling the finest club side British football had produced had — for the second successive season — reached the semi-finals of the European Cup. Against Red Star they had demonstrated both sides of their football pedigree, devastating attacking brilliance in the first half to race into a 3-0 lead, dogged determination in the second to protect their slender first-leg advantage after the Yugoslav champions had scored three times to trail only 5-4 on aggregate.

But like all great managers, Busby’s thoughts had instantly turned to the next challenge. He had set his heart on emulating Herbert Chapman’s feat in leading Huddersfield Town and Arsenal towards three successive League championships. After winning the title in 1956 and 1957, United were trailing in third place, four points behind Wolverhampton Wanderers, the leaders. But Wolves were due at Old Trafford in 48 hours’ time and Busby knew that victory would put his team right back in contention.

Still, he fretted. After overcoming outright hostility from the Football League even to enter the European Cup, Busby knew that they could not risk getting marooned by the cold snap over Northern Europe. After their previous away leg — in Prague in December — fog had delayed their return and only hasty rerouting and a change of airline had ensured that they were home in time to fulfil their Saturday fixture. Busby had vowed that they would never again be hostages to airline schedules. The Elizabethan, named Lord Burghley, had been chartered from British European Airways (BEA) to ensure the swift and safe passage of the squad.

Under the expert guidance of Thain and Rayment, the plane glided down towards the runway, but there was an involuntary gasp from several passengers at the moment the wheels touched the ground and the aircraft was drenched in a thick cloud of slush.

At the moment the wheels came to a rest and the cabin staff levered the doors open, the players were off towards the departure lounge, most racing with scant regard to the conditions underfoot, some stopping to fling snowballs at the ground crew. Eleanor Miklos — wife of Bela Miklos, the travel agent in charge of the trip — made sure everyone had a warming drink, even though George Follows, of the Daily Herald, informed his colleagues that the coffee was “like wet sawdust”.

Colman weaved across the room with a tray, his trademark bodyswerve for once letting him down as he misjudged the gap between two tables. Another blast of freezing air filled the room as the door opened on Byrne, the United captain. Older, calmer and always a man slightly apart, he had lingered a while outside the terminal, filling his lungs with the freezing air.