BERMUDA resident and Irish fan Peter Miller went off to support his team at the World Cup. Miller, who has been to six World Cups, flew to Japan with a couple of his mates. Here he recounts his experience of the first round. . .and of Japan.

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Security at Narita was tight. The young customs officers were apprehensive. "Mr. Meela, guns? No. Drugs? No!" He looked at his prompter notebook and smiled. "OK! Have a nice day!"

After 14 hours in the air we had finally arrived. The Japanese man beside me on the plane made golf balls outside Atlanta. He had been there for three years. His wife and children had returned to Tokyo to live after one year. She was lonely in the US. She didn't know how to drive and therefore seldom met anyone. She was meeting him at the airport and they were taking the train home. She missed him but was no longer lonely.

This was my orientation into Japanese culture. The train became as familiar to us as the family dog. It was always there for us, never late, obedient to the last second. It could become crowded but never overbearing. There was an etiquette. No cell phones ringing, no pushing and shoving - everywhere a respect for personal space. At Niigata train station on the eve of Ireland's match against the Cameroons we were met by a delegation. The Primary 5 class of Kagamituti Elementary School were out en masse to greet their visitors. These nine-year-olds giggled shyly as they handed us folded paper cranes, a symbol of Japan, and beautiful handmade cards with magazine pictures of local sites, pasted into little squares. Their teacher explained that they wanted to welcome us to their city. A camera crew recorded the scene. It felt like Oscar night at Niigata and we had won for best foreign film.

The Swan stadium at Niigata was beside a lake and looked funnily enough like a swan. It was magnificent. The Cameroon supporters were wonderful, colourful and noisy, but were outnumbered by the biggest Irish Diaspora conference I have ever seen. From Melbourne to Minneapolis and from Perth to Penzance they had turned out in force. By hook or by crook, by steamer or shank's mare, by 747 or thumb, 13,000 had arrived to sing or be sung. When Ireland equalised it was mayhem. Up went a chorus of "The Fields of Angry Roy" an anthem that has still to gain complete acceptance. It would come. A 1-1 draw was fair enough.

Outside the stadium more cameras and microphones were being thrust towards us. As, by now, seasoned performers in front of the cameras, we awaited the questions. They were handled with diplomacy and aplomb. One final question. He looked at me pleadingly. "Please don't riot!" I was stumped for a second. I was not sure such a statement required a response but suggested that he may have got his geography a little wrong and that there was no need to worry. He appeared relieved.

Onwards to a fishing village in the Ibaraki peninsula where we had arranged a stay in a Ryokan which is a Japanese-style hotel. Mr. Hashimoto and a reception committee were there to greet us. He apologised in advance for "being poor English" so we extended our deepest sympathies.

The ladies, attired in traditional dress, showed us to our raffia floored room where shoes were forbidden. Slippers were provided and they helped us into our Yakutas (or dressing gowns) which you could wear around the hotel and on the way to the communal bathing areas. The idea was you showered first, using a salt mush with which you massaged your legs whilst scrubbing. Then you got into the hot bath, in the altogether, with whoever, and discussed the meaning of life or shorting the stock of Sony Corporation. This took a little getting used to but after 10 minutes you felt totally immersed, literally and figuratively.

The room had no bed just a tea table in the middle. As night approached, the table was somehow levitated to one side and a futon was placed on the floor, which always disappeared by day, into the unknown. Mr. Hashimoto couldn't do enough for us. He removed his son from the computer in his office so we could use the internet to gain access to the outside world and he returned the tips which we had tried to press on the futon providers. He was a bit of an homme du monde. He showed us photos of himself in the Napa valley outside a winery and pointed to a certificate on the wall. "Sommelier" he said proudly. We were duly impressed and he brought out his PhD course which we were delighted to consume with the tempura and sushi.

Game time against Germany was approaching. A one-hour train ride to the equivalent of the Giant's stadium in the middle of nowhere. Hardly a German in sight. It was cold Hamburg-type weather. We were in for a thumping. The familiar one goal down at half time seemed somehow comforting. I was relieved that the inept German attack was only going to beat us one nil and we could lay claim to a just maybe. But the Duffer was causing them problems and suddenly they didn't seem so big after all. In the 92nd minute we equalised. Mayhem encore. The dream lives on.

Five days before the final match of the first round gave us time to visit Kyoto, the old capital. It is simply magnificent with wide European boulevards and nooks and crannies that will forever surprise. Geisha ladies can be seen wandering around looking, well, geisha. On the famed Philosopher's Walk, I wondered what would become of my team should we actually score two goals in the final match, a feat never achieved before. "Well, they would win you eejit" said the Philosophers, "and qualify for the next round". Mon dieu, we can do it!

The game against Saudi Arabia was in Yokomoto where we would play again when we reached the final. A keener Keane opened the scoring after six minutes and we would have been on our way but for the fact that the Saudis remembered their bonuses, the odd palace or two, and played their socks off for the rest of the half. We were lucky to survive unscathed.

With the beanpole Quinn coming on in the second half we ran out 3-0 winners and booked our place in the final 16. However, for us travellers, tomorrow was going home time. The team would be going on to Korea but our World Cup was over, but not quite. At 12.30 a.m. we stopped in a little noodle bar outside our home railway station to say goodbye to the boss who had noodled us before. He had three customers. A local man and his South Korean wife were amazed at our dropping in and insisted that we come to their apartment to see their five children and have a refreshment. We sat at her kitchen table and despite or protests, she cooked us up a storm. Their hospitality was fantastic, we had the best food of the whole two weeks. Our human spirit was refreshed by the kindness of the host country.

Somewhere on the wall of that apartment of a Japanese man and his Korean wife is hanging a used, replica, 100% polyester, Irish football shirt which had witnessed an historic win by Ireland against the Saudis. Politics is sport and sport is football. There was never a more appropriate moment to give someone the shirt off my back.