It was 1992 and Tim Fischer had just been savaged by Kerry O'Brien in a bumbling interview on the ABC's Lateline program.

As the rural reporter for 7.30 Report, I jumped on the story and set off to profile the man who the pundits were predicting would not last much longer as leader of the National Party.

"Tim Fischer can sometimes look a bit, well… goofy," I wrote.

"Or putting it nicely, he seems like a kind of earnest plodder."

It took a while before I realised that I couldn't have got it more wrong.

The biggest clue came when I interviewed Judy Brewer, a cattle farmer and economics lecturer who had become engaged to Tim that very week.

Why, I asked her, would a bright and politically savvy young woman want to be with this man who seemed to make a virtue of his ordinariness?

"If anyone was to say Tim was ordinary, I would challenge them," she replied.

"I think he's the most extraordinary man I've ever met.

"I think that's why I am marrying him, actually."

The "man with the hat" died age 73 after succumbing to acute myeloid leukaemia. ( Supplied: Fischer family )

Tim Fischer defied his critics of the early days and went on to become something quite rare — a much-loved politician.

Even those who disagreed with him were struck by his authenticity and sincerity.

When he announced he was stepping down as National Party leader in 1999, it was political foe and Labor leader Kim Beazley who put it best, in a gracious speech to Parliament.

"You are one of the very genuinely loved people in this place. You are going to be very much missed by us," he said.

The ever-busy 'Two-Minute Tim'

The Fischer family: Judy, Tim, Dom and Harrison, when the boys were young. ( Supplied: Fischer family )

Tim was one of the first politicians to step down to spend more time with his family.

His young son Harrison had been diagnosed with autism, and his schedule — as deputy prime minister, National Party leader, trade minister and member for Farrer — was crazy.

"If you wrote down his schedule, no-one would believe you," his press secretary David Kelly told me as Australian Story followed Tim's last "Wombat Trail" tour of rural Australia.

"No-one would believe that somebody could pack so much into one day, do so many things and still come out at the end of the day with some sense of where he'd been, what he'd said and who he'd said it to."

Perhaps that's how he earned the nickname "Two-Minute Tim" — although everybody I spoke to has a different theory about the origin of the term.

Was it because he could talk about any topic in the world for two minutes? Was it that he could walk into a room and within two minutes have everybody in that room onside?

Or did it spring from his practice of standing outside the post office at midday in whichever town he was visiting, so that anyone could have two minutes to come and raise an issue?

Space to play or pause, M to mute, left and right arrows to seek, up and down arrows for volume. Watch Duration: 5 minutes 6 seconds 5 m For Tim Fischer, trains became a lifelong obsession.

His quirkiness was endearing and sometimes frustrating. A question to him about, say, his declining health, would become an answer about trains, the Kingdom of Bhutan or the state of the grain silos near his home town of Boree Creek.

He had a particular fascination with Bhutan, a country he visited many times.

Last year before taking his youngest son Dominic to the Himalayan kingdom, Tim was pondering what gift to bring to his old friend, the King of Bhutan.

Knowing that the King was an avid cyclist, he went into a bike shop in Albury and selected an old fashioned bike horn, the kind that makes a loud honking sound when you squeeze the black rubber.

And that's what he took to the palace, surely the wackiest gift the monarch has ever received, but a classic example of Tim's unconventional view of the world.

It wasn't until Tim was in his 50s that he realised there was a medical name for his quirkiness: autism.

Having served in Vietnam, Tim Fischer was a voice for veterans as National Party Leader from 1996 to 1999. ( Supplied: Fischer family )

Watching his older son Harrison grow up, he couldn't help but notice the similarities.

"Having seen the reports on Harrison, there was an element of my realising that I was on the spectrum. I never obtained an official diagnosis," he said in a 2018 Australian Story.

"But I have certain methodologies to handle scheduling and other factors which might be described as a degree of autism or being on the spectrum, certainly."

Former deputy prime minister Tim Fischer and his eldest son Harrison. ( Supplied: Judy Brewer )

And it was during that film shoot that I learned Tim had been diagnosed with acute myeloid leukaemia.

The doctors were trying various forms of chemotherapy, but the outlook was grim and he knew it.

We managed a short interview in which he attributed his condition to exposure to Agent Orange during his time as a conscript in the Vietnam War.

"It does seem like a cruel price to pay for serving your country," I said, and there was an uncharacteristic pause before Tim's reply.

"Yes, that's true," he said.

"But many had their lives shortened by service in Vietnam. I just take it as the cards fall."

Tim Fischer was conscripted into the Australian Army in 1966. ( Supplied )

After the episode aired, there was a deluge of messages from viewers, mostly with the same theme: that there was something about Tim that today's political leaders struggle to measure up to.

Something to do with honesty, integrity and selflessness.

Tim continued speaking out on issues that were important to him. What most people didn't know was that many of the interviews were done from his hospital bed, by telephone.

"Tim has found it hard to retreat when there are so many really critical issues, particularly in rural Australia with the drought, climate change and all the things we see every day as farmers," his wife Judy said.

"He finds it hard to hold back."

Judy Brewer described her husband, Tim Fischer, as an "extraordinary" man. ( Australian Story: Ben Cheshire )

A character who was anything but ordinary

I last saw him five weeks ago when the Fischer family invited Australian Story to join them on what they expected would be his last public appearance.

Of course, for Australia's greatest rail enthusiast, the occasion was a train journey, a fundraiser for the Albury Wodonga Cancer Centre Trust, with 200 locals joining Tim on a run to his hometown of Boree Creek.

For a bloke who was dying of cancer, he looked pretty good. His voice a bit thin, his walk a little frail, but he delivered a typically feisty speech as the local Boree Creek Community Park was renamed in his honour.

"You haven't seen the last of me yet," he told the crowd.

"Despite the efforts of some, but thanks to the good treatment of others.

"There's a great Italian word: Basta! It means 'enough!' Lunch awaits."

Tim Fischer died on August 22 after a 10-year battle with four different cancers.

He was surrounded by his wife, family and medical staff at Albury Wodonga Cancer Hospital.

Australian politics has lost a character who was anything but ordinary.

Former deputy prime minister Tim Fischer shares a drink with Australian Story producer Ben Cheshire. ( Supplied: )

Ben Cheshire's final report on Tim Fischer, Last Train to Boree Creek, will air on Australian Story 8:00pm on ABCTV and iview.