WHEN ROBIN and his wife Gaynor came to our home in Fife only a few weeks ago, Robin explained to me the thinking behind a new book that he was writing about something that mattered a lot to him.

He made a strong point about the book’s subject by telling me about the hundreds of people who, once it was published, would turn out to hear him speak at one of the many book festivals round the country; and contrasted that with the very few who would appear for the same speech nowadays at a party political meeting — even thought the latter was free of charge.

The book was to be about public disengagement from the political process. It worried him a lot, and worries me too, and we sat together in the sun talking seriously — and amusingly too: there were no dull conversations with Robin — about how this great challenge of modern politics could be addressed. And we were able to smile together at the years of press reports that we never talked to each other.

This was Robin as I’d known him for 30 years — incisive, enquiring, radical and reforming; and always looking to the future, exploring ideas and actions that could change things for the better. And I was sure that Robin had much still to do for our country.

His formidable debating skills, his radical instincts and his reforming zeal were honed in the politics of Scotland in the Sixties. But they drew strength also from his Scottish Presbyterian roots and the influence of his parents. Throughout, his guiding star was theirs, a passion for social justice, and his life was founded on a commitment to public service.

When I first campaigned for Robin more than 30 years ago — delivering leaflets for him in a contest in an Edinburgh Tory seat he could not win — the dynamism, campaigning zeal, the passionate radicalism and the power to persuade were already there.

Then only in his mid-twenties, he ran an exciting and mischievous campaign, portraying his Tory opponent as an aristocrat out of touch with ordinary people — an impression neatly conveyed on the leaflet he sent round, with a photograph of his lordly adversary on horseback along with the question: “Does this man really represent you?”

Robin’s own great interest in horses — both as recreational transport and as a means of risking and raising funds — came much later, and though none of his electoral adversaries ever made political mischief of it as he had done, we both found, when we talked about it recently, ironic enjoyment in his conversion.

But by the early 1970s Robin, still in his twenties, had already gained formidable experience: as a tutor for the Workers’ Educational Association; as an Edinburgh city councillor; and as a highly effective chairman of Edinburgh’s housing committee.

And within only a few months he had gone one better: graduating from no-hope but irrepressible candidate to selection as obvious choice for a safe Labour seat in the 1974 election.

And I was privileged to play a very small part in another and more successful Cook campaign that would make him — elected on the day of his 28th birthday — one of Britain’s youngest MPs.

Then, and for the next 30 years, Robin bestrode Scottish politics alongside John Smith and Donald Dewar — and soon established a British reputation too, carefully cultivating the House of Commons, which he rightly saw as the debating forum for the nation.

I remember him advising me when I arrived at Westminster not to speak too often or on every issue — but to focus on making one thoughtful and well-researched speech every month.

Anyone who reads or watches Robin’s great speeches will understand why he was unsurpassed in a role that he loved, and was eventually acknowledged on all sides as the finest parliamentarian of our times.

His incisive mind, forensic skills and formidable and wide-ranging debating prowess, all first developed and honed in the hard school of Scottish university debating, were seen most clearly by the public when, in Opposition, he led the response to the Scott inquiry. With minimum preparation time — two and a half hours to read a vast document — and maximum virtuosity, he landed blow after blow, using scorn, humour and righteous indignation to inflict irretrievable damage on a government that was already beginning to totter.

And in government as Foreign Secretary he made human rights his cause, and won allies all round the world for it. His sharp analysis and shrewd tactical sense came to the fore too when, still in government, he became a great reforming Leader of the House of Commons.

And more recently his books and articles stand alongside his speeches and confirm his political brilliance as a singular talent whose eloquence was matched by great insight, relentless focus and political courage.

All of us recognised that his disagreements over Iraq arose from principle, and respected the manner of his going: a passionate and dignified speech that will long be remembered as a great parliamentary occasion.

Robin is often thought of as calculating, cerebral and unemotional, but look again at that resignation speech: when as he sat down a tear appears at the corner of his eyes.

As Robin explained to us afterwards: “If you’ve spent all your life in the Labour Party and if you’ve worked for the Labour Party all your time, and if you’ve been in government and yet if you have to disagree with your government not just in private but in public, it is a very emotional moment, a very emotional moment indeed.”

And that was very much Robin as I will always remember him — strong in commitment, resolute in his radicalism, committed to the cause of social justice nationally and internationally — and that is why today this great public servant is mourned not just by his family, colleagues and constituents in the UK, but by friends and admirers in every continent.

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