Former EDP London editor Maurice Woods, who has just died, was a man of outstanding writing ability and a wonderfully well-rounded one-off man. It was an honour to know him, says CHRIS FISHER, who succeeded him.

Maurice Woods was born, I suspect, with a pen in his hand. He was a natural writer, and maybe there was a genetic element in his talent. His middle name, Sewell, was a nod to a family link with the author of Black Beauty.

He was born and raised, moreover, in Corton – right next to David Copperfield's Blundeston. And in the 40-plus years that I knew him I was often tempted to think that something of the genius of Dickens had passed on to Maurice.

He had a great way with words. As the EDP's London editor in 1965-80, he was the paper's main leader-writer, and I have never forgotten his beginning an editorial one day in the early-1970s in this fashion: 'Enoch Powell is often applauded for saying what he thinks. He cannot be praised, of course, for thinking what he says.' Given that Mr Powell had developed a substantial following because of his views on immigration, this would have been regarded as highly provocative by a good many EDP readers. But that didn't trouble Maurice in the slightest.

He thought – and rightly so – that an editorial should say what the paper believed to be right rather than what it knew to be popular. I should add that the Powell editorial went on for about 500 words; they were longer in those days. But in a way, everything that followed was superfluous. Maurice had said it all in one brilliant, crushing sentence.

He was a greater pricker of heavily inflated balloons. Be you ever so high and mighty at Westminster or elsewhere, he would bring you back to the ground if he thought it desirable.

When he moved on to Westminster in 1965 as the EDP's London editor, he was able to direct the same sharp critical talent at politicians. But it was generally done in a subtle manner, and he kept on good terms with virtually all of them. He liked both Harold Wilson and Ted Heath, and was even able to engage the latter in small-talk, which was not easily achieved. Towards the end of his career he also proved capable of getting Margaret Thatcher to laugh at herself, and that wasn't easily achieved either. He got on especially well with Jim Prior.

In 1972 he became the chairman of the Parliamentary Press gallery, and in that role was able to use his outstanding talents as an after-lunch/dinner speaker. Even when the guest speaker was a leading politician, Maurice tended to be the star performer.

Where did Maurice stand politically? He was liberal-minded, but with a small 'l'. He didn't have any strong party leanings, but did possess firm views on certain issues.

I had worked for the EDP for three years when I first met Maurice. By then I knew very well that he was a revered figure on the paper. And soon after joining his team in London as the paper's labour and industrial correspondent, I came to realize that his reputation for sagacity was thoroughly deserved.

Maurice wasn't born to wealth when he arrived in 1916; he was self-made, with an insatiable appetite for knowledge and life propelling him forward. This is a man who in his teens would cycle from Lowestoft to London (and back) to watch the ballet, and who didn't seem to understand why I found that remarkable. His first ever meeting, moreover, with Stanley Bagshaw – who many years later became editor-in-chief of Eastern Counties Newspapers – was when they were both attending Russian lessons in Yarmouth.

After serving in the second world war in the Royal Army Medical Corps, Maurice was appointed the editor of the Dereham and Fakenham Times in 1948, and I loved the tales he told of his time there. Maurice was very proud of his East Anglian roots, and was a leading authority on the Norfolk dialect – as he showed in his 'News from Dumpton', featuring Harbert, that were carried by the Norwich Mercury weekly papers. He took as much care and pride in composing these as he did in his reports from Westminster and his leader-writing.

When I last saw Maurice, in the nursing home in Beccles where he spent his last months, the flesh was very weak but his mind and spirit were still good. He was keen to give me the benefit of his views on political matters from the 1960s onwards.

I was sad that his body was giving up, but glad that he had lived so long.

Maurice was my journalistic mentor, and a sort of hero for me. He was very much a one-off, and it was a great privilege to know him.