LAST SATURDAY, two days after Mahon came out, this reporter and a dog called Charlie set out for a walk in St Anne’s Park.

Crossing the road to enter, I recognise a photographer friend getting out of a car. He is joined by the driver, a man in a navy overcoat with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

As I walk towards my former colleague, realisation dawns. The other man is Bertie Ahern. We smile. It’s a bit awkward.

He extends his hand, sheepishly. “Am I allowed to do this?” “Of course you are.”

I try to think of the right thing to say, only to blurt out: “You’ve been a bold boy . . .” Bertie shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.

“So what are you going to do now?” He says everything is in the hands of “the legal people”. He shakes his head, says how expensive it is going to be.

He speaks quietly, sounds almost bewildered. I want to be sympathetic, but can’t. “Well, you know where I stand on all of this.” Bertie stops, turns and looks at me from under the peak of his “FDNY” baseball cap.

“No. What?” So I tell him.

“I don’t believe you, Bertie. I don’t f***ing believe you.” He shrugs again. Smiles, head down. “Ah, well . . .” More awkward pleasantries and more sighs about the costs until it’s time for me to take a different path.

He suddenly says: “You made the right decision. You’re good at your job . . .”, his voice trailing off so I couldn’t get the rest. I’m not sure what he meant. He didn’t explain.

“I wish you luck” I say, as we part. “I really do. You were always good to me.” He nods, then walks on, head down. Nobody recognises him and he doesn’t try to be recognised.

His photo is on the front page of the Sunday Independent the next day. He has resigned from Fianna Fáil. And he has already left the country for a speaking gig in Nigeria.

Just a chance meeting – Bertie, Charlie and me.