As the newest correspondent on the island, it was intimidating enough to be summoned to El Comandante's private office with three colleagues for unknown reasons late at night.

But our state of agitation worsened when, after a lengthy wait, we came face-to-face with a boilingly angry Castro.

Visions of becoming the umpteenth correspondent to be expelled from Cuba reared, though for the life of me I couldn't think what offence I might have caused in barely days there.

Castro, who will be 80 on Sunday, has not been seen since a dramatic announcement on July 31 that he had temporarily transferred power to his brother Raul after stomach surgery. He was very much present when my assignment began back in 1998.

"You have lied to millions around the world!" he thundered at the four of us, clutching carefully-ordered piles of stories from the four news agencies we represented.

In a sense, he was right. A Miami newspaper had reported Castro was secretly operated on for a brain disease.

The story was later proved false, invented by a defector.

As the newspaper had no one in Cuba, and our agencies' U.S. bureaux had picked up the story (while saying it could not be confirmed), we were the first targets of Castro's wrath.

Leaning forward and wagging his finger, he spoke for at least 90 minutes before we could get a word in.

Then, his anger vented, the mood lifted. And Castro began joking about how a man with a supposedly fatal brain disease could possibly have just completed a 15-hour working day.

EXHAUSTING SPEECHES

Thus began four years covering Castro's moods and marches, trips and disappearances, speeches and editorials.

Attending his legendary speeches was a gruelling experience, which would often take a day in bed to recover from.

While the world knows he frequently speaks for five hours or more -- seven was the record for me -- few realise that journalists covering him invest far more time.

First, there's the laborious security check to go through, then the long wait for him to arrive, then the hang-around at the end to get some questions in, so that (if you are "lucky") you get at least another two hours listening to the answers.

This can easily take until the early hours of the morning, after which it is time to write a story. It would take several cups of stiff Cuban coffee to keep going the next day.

The speeches would vary hugely in quality: some days I would quietly get through several chapters of a novel at the same time, others I'd be rushing out at the end to transmit news.

Then there was the reaction: rebukes from officials if you included a dissident's comment about his speech, rude emails from Cuban exiles for simply covering Castro's words.

Castro can be disarmingly charming -- or plain frightening.

At an all-night dinner he hosted for a group of journalists, we went in determined to ask the best and toughest questions he had faced. Most came out asking for his autograph.

His biggest fans are sometimes disappointed, while his critics are often impressed, bearing out the oft-stated comment by Cuban officials that their island is neither the paradise foreign supporters depict nor the hell their detractors say.

My abiding image was when he took a caravan of journalists and officials on a trek across the island to track a hurricane pulverising Cuba in person.

I didn't go myself - not a bad decision given that our TV producer burst a lung during the stressful trip. But I waved off our nervous camera team as they jumped into a car to follow Castro's entourage out of Havana on a dark and windy night.

Fidel Castro riding into the storm: a rich symbol indeed.

Andrew Cawthorne is the Reuters Bureau Chief for East Africa, based in Nairobi, and was the Reuters Chief Correspondent in Cuba for four years from 1998.