Now that it is painfully apparent the political wrangling in Copenhagen fell well short of the hopes and expectations of much of the world, I have to ask myself how I feel about being there for a short time, adding my voice to civil society with Christian and Muslim friends calling for an agreement. How will I look back on this in years to come? Will I say I was a part of history? It hardly holds the set-piece spectacle of events such as Obama’s inauguration or the fall of the Berlin Wall. Copenhagen sort of fizzled out, deflated like the airbed I took with me (we were sleeping on floors in a school as good humble Christians – and Muslims, I guess – should). It’s confusing, because it was such an important occasion and it will shape the future of world history. And I was there for a part of it.

I do hope that I won’t have to say in years to come, “I was there when they failed”. With some political kicks up the backside, maybe the world can scrape its way out of this mess.

So, I was there. Whatever that means. So I’ll talk about that.

I went as a representative of the Christian-Muslim Youth Forum, an initiative of the Christian-Muslim Forum (for grown-ups, clearly!) and MADE in Europe, the Muslim Agency for Development and Enterprise. Along with my colleague Sarah, a young Muslim woman, I was honoured with representing a statement – which Sarah handed to the Under-Secretary for Energy and Climate Change – penned by members of the Youth Forum in Lambeth Palace. It expressed our hopes and demands for a climate deal and reminded world leaders of the moral duty of care for the planet that our respective faiths command.

Hosted by Christian Aid, Sarah, myself and several members of the MADE in Europe network made our way to Denmark. Sarah and I were lucky enough to take the Eurostar (remember, that thing that used to work before it snowed) as far as Brussels while others endured a coach ride all the way. Suffering servants all. If that’s not apostleship, I don’t know what is. Even with the merciful intervention of that channel hopping locomotive, we still endured a 14 hour road trip through the – ahem – inspiring mainland European landscape (i.e. flat).

We arrived in Copenhagen later than planned, an omen in hindsight for the fate of the talks, perhaps. It was cold. In true quirky church outing style, though, we were fed chilli at midnight, a bit of a kick to send us off to sleep. I shared a room with some chaps who'd come over with the Christian Aid posse and as I set about awakening my little airbed with my little hand pump and looking fairly pathetic about it, another bloke pulled out a mean-piece-of-kit electric pump to unleash on his double airbed. It goes without saying I quickly spurned my little peashooter of a pump when he offered me a use of his grenade launcher.

After such a long and uncomfortable journey we all slept soundly, despite the serenade of snoring.

It was a crisp bright morning and it promised to be a cold day. Great for marching, then. We made placards for the march and headed off to the metro station, making our way into the city centre. We arrived at the Cathedral and were sent on our way to the march with wise words – as always – from the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I’m a bit of an armchair activist at the best of times. That’s not to say I don’t do anything – it just usually involves knocking up a video or press release for some charity or other – but I just don’t usually go in for the marching stuff. Used to think it was just for hippies. It was a new experience for me and I have to say I got a great deal out of it (unlike the politicians, I guess). Bouncing emails around the world and meeting for a chinwag with like-minded people every once in a while is all well and good, but for the first time I really felt what it was like to be part of something big. There were so many people massing and moving. There was noise, a real buzz about the streets. It was crowded but exciting. It was like the morning rush on the tube, but on Prozac and without the claustrophobia. We had some folk from what I guess was the Danish Anglican Church dressed up as Oil Sheiks, banging away on oil drums and whipping our section up with chants in slightly askew English into as a much of a fervour as one can expect when you can’t feel your toes.

It was a wonderful in-the-moment experience. You seldom experience those anymore with this multiple-stress world, where you need to think about so many things at once. It was enjoyable, too, even though some anarchist nutters decided to share their pubescent angst with the police and cause the march to be diverted.

I don’t know what the marching did, I don’t know who saw it and I don’t know if the sight of 100,000 frozen activists bearing down on the conference centre inspired some political masterstroke; but within the march itself, I mean as a thing in-itself, it felt important and it was. I added my voice. If it was ignored, I guess that’s not my fault.