Roman diary of an Ulster pilgrim

Hope and history are starting to rhyme here with increasing regularity. Peace agreements. Ceasefires. Devolved government. This has been a heady period of political and social change. But these milestones, significant though they may be, have been eclipsed by the events of last week when a delegation of Ulster rugby aficionados made their first official visit to Italy.

These supporters travelled ostensibly to support Ireland in their first Six Nations game on Italian soil, but they also left their distinctly Ulster stamp on the places they visited and the people they met. The original intention was that one of the party would record a video diary to be shown at a later date on local television. That plan, however, had to be shelved when the individual concerned left his camera behind in the bar at Belfast International Airport.

What follows instead is a flavour of his written impressions of the trip. These were scribbled down on the back of his plane ticket as he went along. The identity of the compiler of this travelogue has not been revealed as he told both his wife and his business colleagues he was on a four-day sales trip in Cork over the course of last weekend.

Thursday: We arrive at the airport at 7.30 a.m., two-and-a-half hours before we were due to check in, so that we can get a head start on the G&Ts in the bar. This seemed like a good idea until we realised none of the staff would be around for another hour so we had to content ourselves with a good old Ulster fry in the restaurant.

Luckily Trevor and Geoff had brought along a little pick-me-up in their hip flasks so the sausages and bacon went down a treat. Spilled some red sauce down the front of my white Ulster European Cup replica top. I had three more in my bag to cover just this kind of situation. Hope this is not a bad omen.

By the time the bar opened the rest of the chaps (and their wives) had arrived. The party quickly got into full swing and the bar manager had to get in extra gin. Almost missed the plane and the journey to Rome is a bit of a blur. I can just about remember some lads from Munster at the airport on the other side. We wish them well for this year's European Cup but mutter it doesn't really matter because we got there first. Lasagne for dinner.

Friday: Somebody at the hotel has heard we're Irish and offers to arrange a trip of the Vatican and a private audience with the Pope. We make polite excuses and offer some half-hearted attempts to explain the niceties of the political situation at home. The difficult bit is explaining how Ulster is in Ireland but at the same time it isn't.

This is the first time so many wives have come on one of our trips away. The Eternal City has clearly tempted them along but it is difficult to integrate them fully into the drinking games and the sing-songs. As luck would have it they nip out to do some shopping. They're told to try to get themselves some match tickets on the black market. Make a mental note to push the prices up in future to try to keep the numbers down. Some of the charm of those days and nights in Edinburgh and Cardiff is definitely missing.

During the afternoon we run into a television crew from home in one of the piazzas. The camera man has the bright idea that we should all give a good blast of Ireland's Call. We agree reluctantly. It all starts well but rapidly descends into chaos as it becomes clear none of us knows any of the rest.

The Munster boys arrive from nowhere and finish it off. Show-offs. I keep my hand discreetly over face just in case anybody back home realises I'm out here instead of selling photocopiers in Cork. Pizza for dinner.

Saturday: Match-day. The general indifference of most of the Roman population to rugby makes us feel right at home. Try to engage the waitress who is serving our breakfast in a discussion about just why David Humphreys is a better player than Diego Dominguez but she just smiles back blankly. A pattern is beginning to establish itself.

After a few G&Ts in the hotel bar someone comes up with the bright idea we should get our faces painted in Ulster colours. The red and white brings back wonderful memories of those fantastic nights at Ravenhill. There is a hasty change of heart when a barman in the city centre refuses to serve us because he thinks we are English soccer hooligans. After much protestation we convince him we are Irish. Chuckle at the way you have to do the strangest things to get yourself out of a tight corner.

Imagine our surprise when we get to the ground and we're sitting beside the same Munster lads from the airport. One of them starts crowing about how many players they have on the Ireland team and refers repeatedly to the fact we only have one, Tyrone Howe. We suffer in silence.

Before the game starts we bluff our way through Ireland's Call for the second time in two days and squirm as the Munster men run the show for Ireland. At one point in the first half we get excited when David Humphreys climbs out the dug-out but it's a false alarm. He gets on near the end, along with Andy Ward and Jeremy Davidson, but it's scant consolation. Spaghetti Bolognese for dinner.

Sunday: Sore heads day. Wake up to find the phone numbers of the chairman and secretary of a club in Munster scrawled right up my forearm. Remember that at some point last night we agreed to have them up to us for a friendly and a guided tour around Stormont. In return we're going down south for a game and they're sure they can organise some tickets for the Munster hurling final. Not sure who got the better deal.

Arrive back in Belfast to hear our Schools' Cup boys have had a couple of good hard training sessions over the weekend. The future of Ulster rugby is safe in their hands. Steak and chips for dinner.