John Breen, author of the award-winning Alone It Stands, gives a fan's perspective on the day

It's 5am Friday. I wake in a cold sweat. Munster have lost 24-10. The culprit? A dodgy kick-off from Ronan O'Gara goes straight into the arms of the dreaded Dimitri Yachvili, who collects and scores beneath the posts.

How did this happen? All the hope, the 20,000 fans watching on the big screen in Limerick, all crushed. I cannot face the day.

Then it dawns on me: it's only Friday; nothing has been lost. I Try to get back to sleep but cannot. Have to be up and at 'em. We have a ferry to catch at 8.30.

Friday, 9am. Despite rumours of impending gales the crossing is smooth. They play the Leinster-Munster semi-final on a giant screen on the boat. Every time Rog takes a penalty there is a hush in the bar. The game may be done and dusted but you can't be too careful.

My travelling companions and I have known each other since we were boys. When we meet up we revert to our boyhood roles and antics. I do a live interview from the car for The Last Word on Today FM. While I'm on the phone to Matt Cooper my middle-aged friends grab my underpants and try to give me a "wedgie". I remain remarkably composed given the circumstances.

Our drive from Holyhead to Chepstow takes six hours. We pass through majestic Snowdonia and near Tintern Abbey, but by the time we arrive we are exhausted.

We have a few drinks and an Indian meal and get an early night. We share the feeling we are part of a great expedition and it is right and proper we should suffer. We offer it up for the team.

We drive to Cardiff. Every time a Munster car passes us we all wave at each other. We arrive at our lodgings and are greeted by the heroic husband-and-wife team of Ryland Teifi and Róisín Clancy. They have welcomed eight Munster fans into their home to sleep on the floor.

Róisín is a daughter of Bobby of Clancy Brothers fame, so I suppose she is used to offering hospitality to wandering minstrels. In any event, she and Ryland couldn't have been kinder. Mind you, we have arrived with flowers, whiskey and a spare ticket, so Ryland becomes an honorary Munsterman for the occasion.

Cardiff is thronged with Munster fans. It's clear we make up 90 per cent of the crowd. The atmosphere before the game and the roar as Munster take to the pitch - you had to be there.

Then it starts, badly. A knock-on from the kick-off and then out of nothing a try. Well a dodgy try, foot in touch, ref! Are you blind?

I look at the Biarritz players. God, they're big! Number 11 Bobo has the build of a secondrow. Our boys look smaller. Biarritz are swaggering. Five minutes in and I'm already exhausted.

Then Munster go to work and chip away at the lead. Rog starts to mix it up: little chips, a crossfield kick. If Biarritz thought they had his number they were wrong. A penalty, then the try. Then Stringer's sublime dart for the line. Where was Bobo? What were they thinking?

It's 17-10 at half-time. Are Biarritz heads dropping?

A penalty after the restart. And now we enter dangerous emotional territory. God, they're going to win. I really think they're going to win. But then of course three penalties are knocked over and Biarritz are back to within a point.

Then the screens in the stadium show the crowd on O'Connell Street in Limerick . This provides a massive lift. There is the sense of the two crowds waving at each other.

This is it. This is the Battle of Kinsale, the quarter-final of the World Cup. One missed tackle, a bad decision, a lapse in concentration and the French will spring their trap. I dread it.

Foley goes off, then O'Connell. But Munster open the gap and grind them down.

Then it's over. Delirium. We are leaping, hugging, screaming and crying. The relief, the joy. We sing The Fields and There Is An Isle. My voice is gone.

I leave the ground. The sun is shining and all is well with the world. We assemble at a lovely pub called Y Mochyn Du (The Black Pig) and watch a recording of the game on TV.

At the end it cuts back to the crowd in Limerick and we see two loopers jumping up and down on top of a phone box.

We are still amazed by Stringer's try. It's hard to know what it takes to make him crack a smile during a game. I would have thought that ought to do it.

I tell Ryland's Welsh friends all the Paul O'Connell jokes.

Later, on St Mary's Street, two hen parties dressed as nuns and nurses strut their stuff in front of thousands of young Munster fans, who literally gape and point. The Munster lads try to flirt with the girls but haven't the energy. We arrive back at our hosts at midnight to bacon sandwiches and tea.

We have to be up in five hours to drive to Holyhead. It has been worth it. I can say I was there. Up Munster!