Nancy has been playing around with my wireless dongle here in the caravan in Ardfert, but to no avail. Ergo, I hadn’t much opportunity to trawl the emails.

I love Kerry. I’m coming down here to the same caravan since 1945. During the day, we park the car at Banna Beach. I stretch out across the front seat, one leg out the door, and read a book. Nancy does the same out the passenger door.

This year, I’m enjoying 120 Years of the GAA in Passage by Matt Aherne, while Nancy’s re-reading Dr Eamonn O’Sullivan’s The Art & Science of Gaelic football. "Can’t believe you’re not in the credits," she said over high tea in Kate Brown’s. "You were like a NASA astronaut with all the tests he did on you. Those distractions definitely cost us the county final in ’57."

I love Kerry. People recognise me, of course, but keep their distance, just the occasional ‘Noel, how’s things?"

Over the years, the local club have plagued me to do a few sessions. I was the man in the stand when they won the All-Ireland Intermediate championship. I kept out of the limelight, as always, apart from a two-page spread in Kerry’s Eye and a slot on Brian Carthy’s Championship programme.

They were tricking around with young Flah at midfield. He was the closest I’d seen to Sean Murphy. I put him back wing-back. He had a mighty year.

Evenings, we take to the road. Killarney to see the training. Maybe over to Waterville to visit Dwyer, the old rogue.

Paddy Bawn Brosnan, God be good to him, was a great friend. We often snarled at each other on the field, and once shared a hackney car back to Dublin after a tournament game in Templenoe, but we had never spoken before I met him walking on the beach near Dingle one evening.

"Noel," he said, "you were the roughest, toughest, hardest, wiriest man that ever crossed my path – but you had the lovely touches, too, that set you apart."

It was nice of him to acknowledge my best attributes.

Out to the island to see Connell. The three of us often while away four or five hours kicking a ball off the gable wall, aiming for a black spot up near the eave gutter.

Kenmare to chew the cud with Mickey Ned, a cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg cake.

In Blennerville I made the decisive breakthrough with Sheehy – I told him that shake of his head, side to side, could be a tactical innovation for Kerry. I got him to try it out on the windmill, although it was gone to rack and ruin at the time.

It had an immediate impact on his game, and for years he repeated it in Croke Park. Just ask Padraig ‘Oxy’ Moran of Galway about it. He got windmilled by Sheehy’s dummies in ’84.

I love Kerry. Last night, I gave a talk to a few local Heglian philosophers who reflect on hurling, which remains strong in north Kerry. I delivered a paper on the Influence of Pre-Christian Thinking On The Cack-Handed Grip.

As you read this, we’ll be on the train up with the Bomber, Weeshie, Rosey, and Murt Murphy. Nancy’ll have the phone on, though. "Make sure I can get you at all times, Noel," were Pat Shea’s last words in Killarney the other evening.

Kerry by five, by the way.

Noel gets it into the scoring zone first time. Email This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; Skype (knowledgeable.noel); and Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)