Obituary | Tributes flow for Robin Lynam, Hong Kong journalist, ‘real gentleman’ and a man with no ego
- Known for his encyclopedic knowledge of rock and jazz music, Lynam wrote widely about that as well as whisky, wine and gourmet food for the Post among others
- A resident of Hong Kong for 40 years, he died after a long illness and is remembered by friends and colleagues for his great intelligence, wit and kindness
Speak to anybody who knew journalist Robin Lynam well and they would extol his in-depth knowledge of fine wine, malt whisky and gourmet food and his encyclopedic fund of arcane information on rock and jazz music. But most of all, they would cite his unfailing kindness, instinctive courtesy, incisive wit and keen intellect.
Lynam, who died on February 20 after a long and stoic battle with illness, was a consummate professional who arrived in Hong Kong in the early 1980s and embarked on a long career of filing elegantly written and informative features for the Post and other publications.
He did his research thoroughly: in the vineyards of Barossa and Bordeaux, the whisky distilleries of Scotland and the fine-dining restaurants of Hong Kong.
Music was a personal and professional passion: he wrote extensively on jazz and rock and played guitar with various Hong Kong bands. Pick any musical genre or artist and Lynam would give an eloquent and informed view, possibly leaning towards the polemical end of the opinion spectrum.
Paul Hicks, chief executive officer of public relations company GHC and one of Lynam’s oldest friends, offered this fond tribute: “How would I sum him up? A real gentleman. Delightfully old-school, and as the years passed by a little eccentric, slightly argumentative or even curmudgeonly at times, but he was always a very kind, generous and loyal friend with a strong sense of justice and fair play.
“A great intelligent wit, despite a somewhat reserved demeanour, and with incredible, eclectic knowledge and usually a strong opinion on a whole wide range of subjects.”
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Robin Piers Lynam, who was born in England in 1959, the son of British Army officer Bill Lynam and his wife, Brenda, studied English literature at University College London. The way Lynam told it, the 1982 move to Hong Kong came after his home – a houseboat moored on a London canal – sprang a leak and sank.
On arrival, he became a contributor to Tatler, then edited by Steve Knipp, who became a close friend.
Says Knipp: “He was a lovely writer, but what made him almost unique is that no matter what the topic, within the first paragraph, he always pulled you into his stories, even on subjects that you didn’t think could possibly be interesting.”
Robin was kind to everyone, a real gentleman. In the past few days, my tsunami of grief has turned into a tsunami of love and support from friends
Journalist Chris Davis, a fellow Sai Kung resident and friend for three decades adds: “Robin’s knowledge of wine and whisky was immense, but I never once saw him show off.”
The Briton was a stalwart member of The Foreign Correspondents’ Club, Hong Kong, serving on various boards. That was where he first met American Karin Malmstrom, his long-term partner, in 1996.
“It was serendipitous that we were thrown together,” she recalls. “We were very different people but we enjoyed each other’s company and fell in love, simple as that. Robin was kind to everyone, a real gentleman. In the past few days, my tsunami of grief has turned into a tsunami of love and support from friends. It is a tribute to how much Robin was loved.”
The couple played in the pub rock band Mind Your Head, with Malmstrom on violin and Lynam strumming his trusty Stratocaster electric guitar.
Music features in one of this writer’s fondest personal memories of Lynam – when my daughter was born 15 years ago, Lynam collated a CD of gentle songs as a gift, which he entitled Lullabies for Hayley.
Burning a CD was about the extent of Robin’s technical expertise – he was notoriously technophobic – but he belatedly embraced the digital world, allowing him to stay in touch with old friends during his final months, whether by phone, email, or his newly acquired Facebook account.
“He point blank refused to see any benefit in a mobile phone until it became his only way to stay in touch while receiving medical treatment. When I received a call from him last year using his new mobile from the hospital I nearly fell off my chair!” says Hicks.
