AND Frano, Moss is coming as well... The closing words from a telephone call from Nick Farr-Jones who had been working in Paris for a few years at that stage. The first part was sweet music to the ears. A long weekend in Paris in June. One match, all expenses paid, bring your girlfriend, stay in a chateau, du vin, haute cuisine, la belle vie, l'amour and Le Moss. The whole perspective on the long weekend changed once Moss was going to be there.

Ollie Campbell was coming too, but he was going to the World Spoofing Championships. There is a game of spoof and the World Championships were being held in Paris that weekend – seriously. Moss wasn't keen on the silly blazers and strawboat hats which were part of the paraphernalia for this event and we ended up reasonably early back in our hotel, the Hotel California (you can check out but you can never leave).

The next day we were driven to the outskirts of Paris, not sure whether it was north, south, east or west. We went directly to the ground and here it was, a significant and seminal moment, and it came at a jolly in Paris, the only time I ever packed down with Moss Keane. He was nearly 50, he was still a huge man, and he put himself about a bit, mainly because some of his contemporaries Jean Luc Joinel and Jean Francois Imbernon were playing.

I felt like Marty McFly from Back to the Future. I was a child when these guys were slugging it out, it was like a time warp. It was 30 degrees that day and two things could be observed from space that afternoon – the Great Wall of China and Moss's red face. He scored a try that afternoon which added to the colourimetry.

I took time out on the pitch to watch this marvellous man indulge his passion in the game. When the final whistle blew I shook his hand and told him what a privilege it was to play with him.

"Frunsus yowere the laziest f**ker that ever set foot on a rugby pitch." He then spent an hour dissecting my game, his range and knowledge were astonishing. Nobody else had explained me to me before with such insight and depth. He laughed that big diesel-train engine laugh of his, apologised for anything that was close to the bone and led me to the bar. My only avenue of reproach was why hadn't he told me these things 15 years earlier. Another first, who can say that they were ever psycho-analysed by Moss Keane?

At the dinner Moss called over the fromageuse and asked her to bring out every cheese she had in the larder. His thirst for knowledge was unquenchable. Because of his work in the Department of Agriculture he knew more about every local cheese delicacy than she did.

I'd say I tasted about 25 different cheeses. I don't think Moss liked cheese that much, it was just knowledge that he hungered for. I was his guinea pig to tell him what it tasted like. Late on into the night in the big hall quite a few of the international contingent had got up to sing a song from their own country, "Frunsus, it's a bad night if the Irish don't get up on stage and sing."

"I didn't think you wanted to sing," I said.

"We have to" he said.

Moss signalled that we were getting up to sing and we climbed the stairs to the stage on the right-hand side. We walked to the centre of the stage and he handed me the mike. It took 10 seconds for the introductions and the song we were going to sing. I was just clearing my throat when I looked down at the bar – a giant figure with a pint in each hand. The shoulders bouncing as the laughter came in waves. The fecker had just walked through the stage and had continued down the left-hand flight of stairs leaving me like a plonker on my Sweeney. The song and I died, mainly because I couldn't stop laughing at him laughing at me.

The night ended about 3am. Myself, the missus and Moss were literally the last people to leave the premises. Somebody had been procured to take us to our chateau.

We got our gear and hopped into a car with Jacques and we were driving for about 15 minutes when we came to the conclusion that nobody knew where we were going. Jacques had come in to collect us and drop us off but had no idea where.

Moss came to the rescue, our host had scribbled down the name of the chateau, the address and the phone number on a piece of paper and had given it to Moss at the bar. Moss, who was sitting in the front seat of this tiny car, struggled and rummaged and finally produced the hand-written directions on a chit. The light was broken in the front and he passed the paper to me and said "Read that out to him, Frunsus".

"Six Kronenberg, three Pastis and a Tuttifruitti."

I realised that we were goosed and this was going to descend into farce. It had at that stage begun to cascade out of the heavens in an electrical storm that was more malevolent and powerful than anything I had ever experienced. The engine cut out and we all looked at each other in an unblinking way.

Communication – it was patently evident – was going to be a major issue. Myself and the missus had English and a small bit of French. Jacques had French, but no English. Moss appeared to have neither English nor French.

The Kerryman would be navigating us around the twisty, windy, unlit French, bocage country roads for the next three hours. Seconds later a terrifying bolt of lightning struck metres from the car. Panicked by the proximity of the hit Moss had literally jumped into the driver's seat, cracked his head and broken the sunroof into the bargain. It was about to get an awful lot wetter. The next two hours, well, the only people missing were Buttons and the two Ugly Sisters.

Moss got really annoyed as we went round and around in circles "Frunsus, tell Jacques we are all going to stay in his house if he doesn't get us to this f**king chateau in the next 10 minutes." Jacques immediately redoubled his efforts, the thoughts of bringing us lot back home to his poor wife would have been too much to bear.

There was something Shakespearean about our plight. The thunderstorm got worse. I fully expected to see Lear out on the heath. What did become very apparent amid the extraordinary power of the lightning and its intermittent illumination was the vast swathes of crosses meandering through the bocage.

"Where the hell is this place?" I enquired to Vasco da Gama in the front seat. For once the Kerryman was stumped. The vast reservoir of encyclopaedic knowledge could not respond. The font of deductive reasoning was devoid of an answer.

He could usually trot off a five-minute explanation of his circumstances at will. It really irked him. He was quiet for about 15 minutes in which time Jacques had followed a van from the local boulangerie which was delivering pastry to our chateau for breakfast. We got out, bid adieu to Jacques and went to bed.

It was sometime in the afternoon before I blinked daylight.

The phone went.

There was a little boy downstairs who had things to tell me. He had specifically got up early, and persuaded the concierge, who had just got off duty, to tell him about the graveyards. The guy knew who Moss was and took him in his car and gave him a special tour.

Giddy with excitement he expounded his freshly garnered knowledge: this was the SOMME. He had visited the Allied cemeteries at Prozier, Albert and Mametz. Fricourt was where the Germans had buried theirs. The Red Barron, Manfred Von Richthofen, had been buried there but was subsequently moved. All the way over lunch he had remembered about a dozen Irish names in Albert and where they were from. His enthusiasm was infectious, what a voracious appetite for knowledge and a unique way of conveying it to his audience. The low Kerry tones speaking with reverence and respect for those young men who had died in the trenches.

After nearly strangling Jacques he rang him that day, thanked him profusely for his help in getting us home and sent him a jersey. He met up with him in Dublin when he and his mates came over for one of the French games.

A special weekend for me in the life of this truly remarkable man. Genial and gentle, his character befitted his stature. A privilege to spend time in his company and glean value and fulfilment from his humour and unique enlightened perspective.

That said, heaven just hasn't a clue what's coming its way.

nfrancis@tribune.ie