On the canvass - Kathy Sheridan with Tom Parlon in south Offaly:Hi there folks. Welcome to Parlon Country. Rolling hills, lush parkland, galloping great Georgian houses, ancient castles, horses, artists' studios, birdsong, the usual quota of yelping sheepdogs, whole packs of yapping designer dogs and a swathe of unfeasibly prosperous, grinning voters, ripe for a chat on a gleaming doorstep, SUV, tractor or trailer.
Most are already home or nearly there in the sun-dappled, late afternoon. M50 madness? N4 neurosis? Nah. Not in Parlon Country, cowboy.
Makes ya jess wanna lean against a big oak tree, tip back the ole sombrero and light up a Marlboro.
On days like this, you think sleepily, the Parlon department of decentralisation and dissent could do worse than run bus tours of south Offaly for Dublin-centric civil servants . . . So when someone turns ugly (and we don't mean Charlie Flanagan, running an annoyingly blistering campaign, according to Parlon's posse), it just seems durned well inappropriate.
Like the woman who conducts a vocal stand-off from an upstairs window and lets fly about her recent hospital incarceration. Good thing the hospital was neither Tullamore nor Portlaoise. Disaster averted. Sort of. It did mean having to defend Mary Harney, and not for the first time . . . "She's only been in power two and a half years and reform takes a while."
Hours later though, it was the Biffo who accused him of trying to shut down rural Ireland that he was smarting about: "Blueshirt, I'd say. Bit of a chip on his shoulder . . ."
He was straight with the elderly PD voter who raised Bertiegate. After the pleasantries (he's a natural, leaping out of cars, racing up driveways, jumping walls, then looking like someone with all the time in the world), she brooded: "You'd wonder Bertie won't come out with an answer . . . something?" "Maybe he hasn't one," said Mr Parlon.
Afterwards, he swears that the PDs have not been briefed about it and that he isn't familiar with the detail, but concedes that "it all sounds a bit strange . . . Certainly now, it's a very uncomfortable position for him and the party. On the other hand, I've met a thousand people in the past four days and a few have made a bit of a crack, but not one has said: 'I won't vote for you if you're associated with that man'."
But isn't he the president of the watchdog party? "I've never said that. I don't regard myself as a watchdog. Last time round, the Taoiseach briefed Michael McDowell, who bought the story and didn't upset the applecart. Now though, it does sound bad."
Moving swiftly on, more gates, more gravel, more running and jumping, before being totally laidback on the doorstep. "I love this, love it. If only there wasn't so much at stake."
We light on a real-life hombre sitting in his back garden doing something with a horse collar.
"I'm not much bothered with voting," he says in a rural English accent. Despite a palpable apathy, Mr Parlon persists. "You mightn't be bothered, but I am. You can register 15 days before polling day."
Suddenly, the target straightens up: "Do you support foxhunting?" Pause.
Mr Parlon decides: "I do."
"You sure?" asks the hombre. Parlon eyes him squarely. "I let them cross my land. I've no problem with it at all." Bingo! Our man is a huntsman, made redundant after the English foxhunting ban, now employed by a nearby hunt. "It was Ireland or America," says his wife. Job's oxo.
Suddenly, there's a rush to the office in Birr for a mystery meeting. A quick visual confirms that it's Des Kavanagh, chief executive of the Psychiatric Nurses' Association (PNA) and the PNA's local chairman, Seán Melia. It lasts under 30 minutes.
Possibly inspired by the PNA men, he bets on a horse in Ballinrobe (it lost, but then a black cat runs in front of the car).
Later, in Birr, a man in a fine, new house asks about decentralisation progress ("beyond the point of no return") and about the paucity of gardaí in the town ("there's so many guards passing out" nowadays, he says, that Mr McDowell reports that he hasn't time to acknowledge each one individually "and it's almost 'give me a five' as they pass").
A friendly woman agitates about her three grown children in Dublin and Galway who can't get home on a Thursday to vote (no fret; there will be Parlon buses if you know the password). Another sympathises on the death of his mother after a lengthy illness a couple of weeks ago.
It may be one reason why he seems edgier, a little more nervous than expected, despite his 16-strong polling crew out this evening.
A recent Red C poll tips him for the fourth seat with Charlie Flanagan getting the fifth and Seán Fleming to lose his seat. He's taking nothing for granted: "At 53 it would be a big kick in the arse to lose my job."
Time for a quick chat with Tony McLoughlin, the fiercely independent county and town councillor who wants to know if Fine Gael and Labour were drunk when they promised to provide 2,500 new hospital beds - "equivalent to nine Tullamore hospitals" - before adjourning to Kennedy's pub.
It's after 11pm when the team scatters. Then it's home, home on the range . . .