The Four Points of Ireland in a single day.

The good news is that our man Hill has just become the first journalist in the universe to ride to the most southern, western, northern and eastern points of Ireland on a motorbike in a single day. The bad news is that he will be walking like John Wayne for a while!

Personally, I blame my mate Paul. Two months ago, he and his wife Sharon had come around for our traditional Sunday night curry, video and wine.

After his second glass, he had paused suddenly and said: You Know, I've been thinking. Wouldn't it be a great adventure to see if we could do the four corners of Ireland in a day?

Now, most adventures conceived over a couple of glasses of wine are conveniently forgotten over breakfast the next day, but a couple of days later, Paul rang me at work. Right, I've plotted the route. Its about 600 miles, give or take a few, from Mizen Head in West Cork via Slea Head near Dingle and Malin Head in Donegal to Portavogie, he said. We can ride down to Mizen on the first day, then start from there at dawn. If we do it around midsummer, there'll be 20 hours of daylight, so if we get up at four, we'll have until midnight before it gets dark. I cant do it. My kits in the wash, I've got a sick note from my mother and I'm sure I'm doing something else that day, whatever day it is, I said. Nonsense. You know you're a man who likes an adventure, he said, and hung up. I sighed, and called Jim Hill at BMW in Mallusk. I don't suppose you fancy lending me a bike to do the four corners of Ireland in a day on, do you? I said plaintively.

Absolutely, said Jim cheerily. Give me a ring a couple of days before, and I'll see what I have available on demo. Which is why, on a Monday morning some time later, I found myself standing with Jim looking at a brand new BMW K1200LT motorbike, although when I say motorbike, I mean more house on wheels. To give you an idea what I mean, if you sit on the saddle, there are The knobs and buttons in front of you, from left to right: cruise control, headlight switch, hazard warning lights, indicators, horn, electric windscreen up and down switch, toggle switch for the on-board computer which gives you air temperature, average mpg and mph and distance before you run out of fuel, radio volume and channel, six-CD auto changer, GPS, electric centre stand, heated grips, ignition and indicator cancel. To the left of your seat is the reverse gear knob, and to the right, the switch for the heated seat. Tragically, I spent so long making myself go up and down on the centre stand that it was almost lunchtime before I arrived at Paul's house to find him waiting beside his Honda Africa Twin. ˜That's not a bike, its a mobile home, he said. I know. And watch this, I said, spending another 10 minutes going up and down on the centre stand. Its amazing how much fun you can get out of simple pleasures, it really is. We set off for Mizen Head in West Cork, 350 miles away, with the BMW gobbling up the motorways and A-roads it was designed for, and yet proving surprisingly agile on the smaller stuff. It was a bit like a baby whale, really: huge and sleek, but still wanted to play a bit when it got the chance. We finally arrived at Mizen at about 9pm, and climbed off the bikes outside the stylish and minimalist Barley Cove Beach Hotel.

This is as far south as Ireland gets, and I could tell we were close to the equator from the palm trees in the garden and the dusky serving maidens. However, on closer investigation they turned out mostly to be Slovakian. Aye, I know, said Charlie Costelloe, the owner. I spent hundreds advertising for staff in the Irish papers and got no response, yet from one ad in summerjobs.com, I got pages of e-mails from people in Central and Eastern Europe. That girl behind the bar, for example, will go back home at the end of the summer with as much money as her parents earn in a year. Here, would you lads like a pint? He didn't have to ask twice. Fortunately, I had been holding the throttle for so long that day that my hand had frozen into exactly the right shape to hold a glass of Guinness. Spooky, or what? The next morning, I woke at half past four, just as the first lilac tendrils of dawn crept over the headland. We had bacon butties and mugs of tea on the deck, looking down at two insomniac seagulls walking along the beach, then shuffled into our gear and walked out to the dew-covered bikes. We rode the mile down to the edge of the world, carefully avoiding several suicidal bunnies, took a photograph, set the trip meter to zero, and set off. All of Ireland was asleep as we swept along the winding roads and down to the sea at Bantry, an idyllic sight in the early still, with a bay dotted with boats mirrored in the perfect water. We climbed away from the sea into the mountains of Kerry, which seemed to be composed entirely of rocks and sheep and dripping caves, and plunged down into the lush forests of Kilkenny, tilting north through long tunnels of trees then bursting into bright sunlight.

When we reached Limerick at 12.30, I realised to my horror that we had already been on the road for six and a half hours, had only covered 250 miles and still had 350 to go. There were only two possible explanations for this: a) the roads were terrible b) we were terrible. Rather than think about such a terrible dilemma on an empty stomach, we decided to have lunch, and since Paul had treated me to a KFC in Newry the day before, I retaliated with a Little Chef. That'll teach him. Afterwards, to keep his spirits up, I pulled alongside from time to time and shouted gaily things like: Only 213 miles to go, Paul. That's like Belfast to Dublin and back twice then down to Craigavon. Why would anyone want to go to Craigavon? he would shout back. At Sligo we filled the tanks at a little filling station run by an ancient, wizened grandmother who fingered my euro coins suspiciously. I cant take this one. Its not one of ours, she said, handing me back a French euro. But it's still a euro. That's the point of them. I don't know, it still looks different, she said, refusing it again. The miles swept by, and with them the milestones, like the signpost to Rossnowlagh, where I had spent many happy summers as a child, sharing a damp caravan with several hundred earwigs, which left me with a lifetime fear of both. We passed the 400-mile mark at Bundoran, which meant about 200 to go. It seemed like a doddle, after all we had been through. Great rain clouds swept over us, then blazing sunshine, dousing us in such an alternate chiaroscuro of shade and light that we felt like extras in an Ansel Adams photograph.

Near Letterkenny, the rain came, christening my new boots thoroughly and forcing Paul to climb into his waterproof trousers. Here, your bum looks big in those, since you ask, I shouted above the sound of the torrential downpour. He seemed to take it well, in the circumstances. The sun came out again as we neared Malin Head, the most northerly point of Ireland, which by a wonderful piece of irony is in Co Donegal, and therefore technically in the South.

We reached it just before 9pm, up another winding road replete with suicidal rabbits, and crested the rise to the sight of a glorious sunset. As I took a photo, Paul looked at his watch. If we're quick, we might catch the last ferry of the day from Greencastle to Magilligan. We did, and as I stood and watched it pull in, I wondered briefly what I was doing in Donegal at 9.50pm on a Tuesday evening, when I could have been at home having supper with Cate on a nice warm sofa.

But then, if it was easy it wouldn't be an adventure, and soon we were roaring down the Coleraine road, noticing in passing how rude northern drivers were compared to their southern counterparts, who would always ease over to let you slide past. At Glengormley, we refuelled and I phoned home. Hello dear, I said. The good news is I'm only a few miles away from you. The bad news is we still have to get to Portavogie. That's all right, darling, she said. I've made some chicken casserole, if you're hungry when you get in. No wonder I want to marry her, I thought as we got wearily back on the bikes and sped off east. We finally arrived at the most easterly point of Ireland, down an nsung and rutted lane, at 12.25am, 625 miles and 18 and a half hours after we had set off. We shook hands, and took a photograph in the headlights, then Paul headed back to Comber and I rode back through the black night to Belfast, where I fell immediately into bed and slept the sleep of the truly knackered. The Sunday after, Paul and Sharon came around for curry again. That was a grand adventure, now that I can walk again, said Paul after a couple of glasses of wine. You know, I was wondering the other day how many countries in Europe you could do in a week. I reckon about 20. Now, if we set off... I sighed, and went to open another bottle..... and get an atlas.

Overnight accommodation was supplied by Failte Ireland, 53 Castle Street, Belfast, 028 90 327888, http://www.failteireland.ie. It was at the very stylish, friendly and perfectly situated Barley Cove Beach Hotel at Mizen Head, 00 353 (0)28 35100, e-mail stay@barleycovebeachhotel.com, website http://www.barleycovebeachhotel.com. It also does a bar food menu which is casual but excellent. Geoff Hill's boots were supplied by Alt-Berg of Richmond, Yorkshire, which makes classic British motorbike boots by hand. They performed flawlessly on their first outing, and much more importantly, looked great. For a brochure, call Tara or Mike Sheehan on 01748 850615, e-mail sales@altberg.co.uk or visit http://www.altberg.co.uk.