Later, he was a frequent visitor to the planning tribunal in Dublin Castle which I was covering. If he was unsure of some detail he often checked with me as one of the anoraks who spent most of our days imprisoned in the castle. Whenever he showed up he immediately threw himself into the fare on view, as if it was the only story in town.

One day in 2004, a big day in which there was expected to be explosive evidence, we were all waiting around for the three judges to enter the printworks room where the tribunal was being held. 

Charlie was pacing up and down in front of the row of reporters. He was like a man who couldn’t put a check on his excitement. A story was brewing, more revelations were going to tumble out, another step would be taken on the road to justice. This was meat and drink to Charlie’s complete existence.

At one point, one of the lads raised his head from his laptop to deliver the latest breaking news. “Maureen Potter has died,” he said, referring to the well-known and much loved theatre actor. Charlie stopped dead in his tracks. He fixed his eyes on me as he often did when a detail emerged from the hearings that he considered significant.

In that instant, I imagined what exactly he must be thinking. “Maureen Potter, who is she again? Did she get money for planning? Was she organising a bribe? Did she claim it was a political donation?” 

Charlie was already inhabiting the story that was to unfold, and he couldn’t fathom that any name would be mentioned in this zone, in any capacity, that wasn’t central to the story. He recovered quickly and expressed sadness over Ms Potter’s demise, his bubble temporarily breached. 

Awaiting the start of proceedings, he was like Roy Keane in the tunnel en route to a top of the table clash. That was how I saw it anyhow.

Another side of Charlie Bird was on view some years later in Washington DC. In 2009, he took up the role of US correspondent for RTE. This was to be a new frontier but unfortunately it didn’t work out as he had planned. 

I was in the city on fact-finding mission, (the more appropriate term is junket). I contacted Charlie and organised to meet for a coffee. What I encountered was a man whose zest had been stolen on the streets of Washington. He was bereft, the light gone from his eyes, the buzz that habitually emanated from his being stilled.

He told me it wasn’t much fun. He had been accustomed to being at the centre of a phalanx of cameras and microphones, battling to fire off his questions, bang smack in the middle of the issue of the day. In DC, it was a different ballgame, one that was not suited to his talents. And then at the weekend, the place emptied.

He looked vulnerable, lonely even, and it was disconcerting in one whom I’d come to know as a bundle of kinetic energy. Pretty soon he came home. He acknowledged himself the decision to go to the USA was a relatively small misstep in a career of such frequent peaks.

The third arresting encounter with Charlie happened last year. He was involved in making a feature-length documentary which is due to screen in a few months' time. I was asked to contribute to it. 

The segment was shot in a Georgian house in Dublin’s north inner city. Once I walked into the room, Charlie was on his feet, came over and wrapped his arms around me in a hug. We were not close enough that this manner of greeting was routine, but it was obvious his condition and its mortal implications had prompted him to do away with formalities. 

The gesture was full of collegiate affection, as if we were old soldiers meeting further on up the road, where time was more precious, and, certainly in his case, the mystery beyond was hovering into view.

He was in some physical discomfort but that didn’t curtail him. There was another story to chase, some more truth to out. He sat me down and fired questions with the aid of the magic box that had become his voice through the illness. This was prime time Charlie once more. He was back where he belonged.

During the interview, he had to pause a few times to address various discomforts as his rock of a wife Claire looked on. But in the main, Charlie was once again focused, his spirit beyond the nefarious reach of the condition that was attacking him. The raw courage he displayed was nothing short of humbling.

There are people in all walks of life who operate with a huge sense of purpose, a drive that defines their whole being. There are others whose outstanding quality is a high capacity for empathy. Few manage to include in their make-up large injections of both virtues. Charlie Bird was one such person.

His drive and empathy propelled him to the heights he reached in his professional career. And the same drive and empathy informed how he dealt with the cruel condition that ended his life, always battling, always thinking of others. 

He was one of a kind.