"Well if it isn't Mr Know all himself ," spat the cross- legged seer, and he naked but for his beard and tablet.
His cave was high up in the mountains of Kerry. Too much altitude there for even eagles, in a place so remote, the water tax meters hadn't yet reached his residence.
The seer was untidy and dirty as seers tend to be. There was the makings of a wildlife programme under his fingernails.
He lived alone. As seers do. For as he explained "it's next to impossible to do your bit of seering with herself buzzing in your ear like a blue bottle looking for an open window."
I'm irked at being branded a know all.
"There's a difference between being a know all and knowing everything and I am the latter," says I without any pretensions of modesty, at the same time wondering why I'm here at all when I know so much myself, but then again the seer has looked in to his heart and forecasted the winning of 37 Kerry All-Irelands.
I know that would make him an impossible age .The seer is certain he has been reincarnated, having spent a previous life as a pitch and putt professional in Djakarta in Indonesia. And that reminds me.
My frequent correspondent, the loquacious Ronan Loughnane, has produced an excellent history of Templemore Pitch and Putt Club.
Colin O'Riordan from JK Brackens, just a chip away from the pitch and putt, has just been awarded the Eirgrid under 21 player of the championships. Templemore is rightly bursting with pride.
Colin plays against Kerry in Semple Stadium tomorrow. Tipp are well up for it and we're missing half our team. The very same Tipp would win the Ulster championship, handy, if they were fitted with ear muffs.
Newspaper columnists are like racing tipsters. We are judged on results. The seer is as awkward as the lad with the hump at the AGM who says the club's warm-weather training trip to Amsterdam in January was wholly unnecessary.
We ask for advice.
"Kerry hath no chance," quoth the seer. "Cork are like the trainers who pull their horses. They haven't been off a yard."
Seers talk in riddles, as a rule. Here's what he said about Dublin.
"When the sibilant swans of the jingle jangle canal doth ogle the wild wildebeests of yon savage Serengeti only then, no bother, shall the coddle curdle."
Aside from the fact that the seer useth a th at the end of a word to make himself sound biblical, and is very much aware of the impact of assonance and alliteration, I can't make any sense out of this prophesy, but maybe, just maybe, he doesn't fancy Dublin at all.
Then again it wouldn't surprise me in the least if Dublin take a literal interpretation. The Dubs might ship a couple of swans out to Africa and spray the birds with female wildebeest allure. Dublin leave nothing to chance. Last year the seer reckoned the Dubs had a plan for every contingency, except surprise.
A raven flies down with a pack of Major in his beak and the seer lights up. They communicate in a series of staccato caws, hoarse grunts and guttural guffaws. "What did he say?" I ask.
"No more than dem fags are bad for you and Donegal are a big threat if they go in to an early lead," says the seer to me, exclusively.
"How's herself? Is she still at the bit of super-modelling?" asks the seer almost, but not quiet, nonchalantly.
Herself is the seer's ex-wife. He left the supermodel on the very day she asked him to peel the spuds while he was trying to figure out the Donegal defensive system.
"She's fine" I said. "Took up with a female ballet dancer from a place Russia haven't invaded yet, and they're getting married next July."
Says the seer: "I never knew she was a dual star." He finds a lost chop (lamb) in his bushy beard and takes a bite.
"Go on, get on with it. Enough of the Bushcraft," says I. "There's deadlines to be met. Will Kerry win the two-in-a-row?"
I love the sound of that. Two-in-a row. And here's another exclusive. As we told you here last week Kerry are suing our very good friend Seamus Darby for an alleged push in the back in the five-in-a-row final of AE2 (82). We have been told the settlement figure was 10 million on the basis that an All-Ireland is worth as least twice as much as a World Cup.
The seer scratches his left ear with a sickle-nailed toe. "Kerry, sir, hath no chance. In fact they hath no chance whatsoever which is even worser than no chance at all."
"Seer," says I, "Stall the digger. I'm from Kerry. Hello."
"Sure didn't I forget that," says the seer. "I only disseminate false information to the outsiders as was the way of the ancients, but be warned either Tipp or Cork could beat us. We may have to go the back door. By then we'll be 10/1, just like last year. Easy money."
A goat bell rings and breaks the reverie. Heidi tells us she'll be expecting a nice cheque from Michael D for her hundredth.
I'm half-way down the mountain when I hear the seer bellowing at me like an out-of-tune glockenspiel.
"Give the missus a message lol," roars the hoary old seer. "Tell her I'll give her away on the big day."
His loud laughter echoes like a bouncy ball off caverns, crevices, canyons and corrie walls.
By now I've come to the conclusion the seer is quite mad. Still and all though, the seer has an impeccable football forecasting record. I'll be backing Kerry, for sure.