The professional cricketer by and large has scant interest in the life of his interlocutor. The reporter poses questions and he answers or, sometimes, evades them. But there are exceptions and the most prominent, perhaps, was Bob Woolmer, who died yesterday in Jamaica at an age, 58, when he could still harbour ambitions of becoming the next England coach. He was always considerate, generous and possessing of a genuine interest in any journalist — and his family — he came to know well.

I was fortunate enough to have watched, then known him from the day I obtained his autograph during Folkestone Week in 1968, his first season in the game, to interviewing him and dining with him up until our last meeting in January. He ate regularly at what he considered to be the best restaurant in the world, a Portuguese establishment in Cape Town, would order langoustines and the finest chardonnay produced in the Cape and insist on paying. His conversation was far from restricted to cricket, but he was never happier than when returning to the subject of a game he loved. Not for him was there any sense of relief at a stoppage for rain.

He was too generous with his time. Any player could go to his room at any hour for advice; any reporter could e-mail him and get a lengthy response. When Pakistan were involved in the ball-tampering controversy at the Brit Oval last year, Bob was in constant demand from the media. No one can have made so much use of a mobile phone, or, indeed, of all kinds of technology, which he mastered with a childlike interest.

This love of the game shone through in every conversation or practice session he took. Who else would think of transporting a slab of marble around the country for use in the nets, as he did in England last summer? To Allan Donald, the South Africa pace bowler, he was “simply the best technical coach around”. Even if Bob was known in his youth, when aspiring to play Test cricket, as “Bobby England”, that was only a reflection of his enthusiasm.

In January, we spoke of the amount of flying he had to do. Bob did not fear that the plane would crash but he appeared that night to have a premonition he would not live to a great age. He talked about having his ashes scattered at the St Lawrence Ground in Canterbury, the venue he graced with so many cover drives. Then, reverting to his customary optimism, he spoke of the possibility of coaching England, that he would not seek to have his contract renewed by the Pakistan Cricket Board and of his hopes of starting his own cricket academy.

Would he have taken the England job? He would have done if made the right offer. For all his experience, his high-earning days with Kerry Packer and as a member of the first breakaway English team to tour South Africa, Bob was not well off. He said that his home in Cape Town was worth no more than a lockup garage in Central London. He probably worked and travelled more than was good for him and did not care for the constant politicking within Pakistani cricket.

I shall miss his flow of e-mails, his kindness, his coaching tips to my son and, above all, his zest for life. There was no such thing as a difficult moment with him: the relationship between the star coach and the “ghost” of his columns and his autobiography was an even one — even though he had given so freely of his time that sometimes he could not recall that he had made a particular observation. It did not matter because these were usually spot-on. No one cared more about the game, or understood it and those who peopled it, better than Bob.