‘He sought meaning in things the rest of us barely paused to consider’

More than the prose, beyond the insight, and distinct from surfing on the magic carpet of his words, the real joy about Hugh McIlvanney was being in his company. Riding the London Underground to join him for lunch was a journey enriched by anticipation.

A sense of vitality emanated from him. He instinctively burrowed to the core. He sought meaning in things the rest of us barely paused to consider. Everything and anything was interesting when it came from a man who could have lived five lives and still found new expression.

It was invigoratingly exhausting to sit with him. He was as meticulous in diction as he was in print, every word chosen carefully to articulate his thoughts precisely. And he was never in a hurry. Through his aura he would bring a distinct mood to bear around a table. It was one that provoked high-voltage debate.

He treasured the company of people with trenchant views. He enjoyed challenging them even more. If you said something with which he disagreed, by God you’d better be on your mettle when you were asked to elaborate. It was this quality, this intense probing to get to the soul of the matter, which set his writing apart.

It was also why he loved his racing. The greatest races are those which bequeath a split-second moment of truth. With the outcome in the balance he would become mesmerised by the pivotal moment that settled it.

He adored the simple purity of racing, the unarguable truth that springs from one horse beating another. It doesn’t come any purer than what he described as the finest sight he ever saw: Secretariat romping to his 31-length triumph in the 1973 Belmont Stakes. To prompt him on Secretariat was to ensure that you were still seated when day turned to night – and occasionally, night to day.

Watching him work on his forays into racing was an object lesson in professionalism. The prospect made him nervous: he wasn’t au fait with the form book, yet he strove to write as though he was. He was haunted by the possibility that he might come across as less than fully informed. He believed it was a minimum requirement; what his readers demanded.

Our first meeting came at a Breeders’ Cup more years ago than I care to remember. The time difference made it a horrible gig, filing running copy as events unfolded to meet the array of deadlines as editions in London came and went.

All night he meticulously recorded the finishing position of every European-trained horse with a view to filing his final piece, which would gauge the success or otherwise of Europe’s challenge.

It wasn’t enough for him to simply report on the races, as all around him were doing. There had to be greater substance, deeper reflection. He was by some way the last to leave the press room and he looked a mess, as if he’d just been 12 rounds with Muhammad Ali. He had drained his last molecule of energy in the cause.

He was unflinchingly principled, and met a like-minded soul in his great friend Sir Peter O’Sullevan. When the two differed they stood their ground like a pair of rutting stags. You could almost hear the sound of antlers clashing, yet at its end they would embrace like long-lost brothers.

He harnessed an inner restlessness that would have overwhelmed many, and which spawned his perfectionist inclination. It was a powerful force, one that drove him, and which made him particular about the company he kept.

When his interest was stimulated at social functions you would find him exactly where you’d left him three hours earlier, fully immersed in conversation with the same individual.

He was also a magnet. An abiding memory is of McIlvanney at O’Sullevan’s memorial service, at which he gave the main address in 2015. In the ensuing wake all sorts of random people gathered around him whenever he sat down. He could find no privacy in a tender moment. He was bewitching company for the fact that he was one of a kind.

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