A three-part story: Part 1

The evening had finally arrived—the one that Nicholas and I had been planning for ages but kept putting off because the timing was never quite right. It was early February in 1988, with a light dusting of snow, biting winds, and temperatures barely above freezing. Conditions weren't ideal, but it was winter in Wales. My suntan from Oman had long faded, leaving me with my usual pasty-white complexion. While I experienced bouts of homesickness, there was plenty of fun to be had, and tonight would be no exception.
 
Nick and I struggled to concentrate in class, our secret plans too risky to share; with genuine snitches in our class, tell one person and you'd told the world! At break time, we walked to the massive Lebanese cedar tree on the muddy school lawn, facing the edge of the woods covered in damp leaves. The only green came from the occasional pine tree standing out among the bare, grey trunks.
 
We stood side by side, whispering as the distant sound of a chainsaw filled the air. Adrenaline coursed through me. “Do we have torches?” I asked, just as three girls walked back into the classroom. “Yep, I’ve got two,” replied Nick, who was always prepared. “Do you think we should paint our faces, camouflage style?” I suggested. “I can get some paint from the art room.”
 
“No—while it might help in the forest, we can’t wash it off later.”
 
“Okay, but I don’t have black clothes—just navy blue and brown.”
 
“Anything dark will work, but black might be a bit much,” Nick agreed. “We don’t want to look like bank robbers.”
 
The thought of "up there" excited me. We looked and spoke like characters in a war film plotting our escape, which we were—though we planned to come back. Alex approached, easily identifiable with his Norwich City scarf pulled up to his nose. “What are you two doing?” he asked suspiciously.
 
“Just…talking about…building a den,” Nick said quickly.
 
“When? Tonight?”
 
“No, this weekend…” I hoped he would go away, and thankfully, he returned to the classroom. He was a day boy, part of a different world. By the time we’d be out in the woods, he would be at home with his cat. Nice, but Nick and I had something far more exciting in mind.
 
As we walked to the forest, Nick took a handful of Sugar Puffs from his parka pocket. We shared them, gazing at the path ahead. “I can’t wait; this is going to be great,” I said, smiling at him while wiping my runny nose for what felt like the umpteenth time. The cold damp seeped into my scuffed black school shoes. A gust of wind sent shivers down my spine.
 
“This path,” he pointed ahead, “leads to the clearing. We just need to decide whether to follow the road or head across the fields.”
 
“Cool! I’m going back to the classroom; I’m freezing. Are you coming?” A mix of rain and snow blew into our faces.
 
“Yes…but let’s really do this tonight. We keep putting it off. No word to anyone, especially Matthew. He’ll tell Donna, and she’ll tell everyone—including the teachers.”
 
She really would.
 
Back in the warmth of the classroom, we opened our desks, which still stank of Lynx Oriental—we had sprayed a bit too much weeks ago. Three girls played noughts and crosses on the blackboard, while Edward and Andrew munched on Opal Fruits and pored over battered National Geographic copies. Mr. Evans arrived with rain-specked history textbooks, his tweed trousers a tad short and his hair reminiscent of Doc from *Back to the Future*, his Valleys accent rolling each 'r' like it was part of his identity.
 
“Morning, everyone. Rrrrright, girls, clean that off, please…” he boomed.
 
“Ah, Sir, it’s still break time!” Natasha protested, her perm resembling Mark Hughes’s hair.
 
“What are we doing today?” Matthew called from the back, managing to put Huw in a headlock.
 
“Arkwright’s Spinning Jenny,” Mr. Evans replied with a smile.
 
No one knew what that was, but it sounded boring, and we groaned collectively. No one wanted to do anything—except for Alex, who sat bolt upright like a soldier, ready to take notes. The rest of the day was a blur for me and Nicholas as we focused on our adventure ahead.
 
That evening, we had three after-school activities: cadets with Commander Fry, who ran us ragged; Art with Mrs. Bell, which meant "draw what you want but keep the noise down"; or woodwork with Mr. Phillips—a cozy setting where we could listen to music. We chose woodwork and told Mr. Fry we’d leave cadets. He didn’t seem bothered by our decision; we were the antithesis of the boys he preferred.
 
He liked alpha boys who could run for miles—not two skinny nerds who couldn’t manage five push-ups. “Wren! Come on…your father is in the Navy!” he would say. True, but I wasn’t. I was always expected to be a miniature Navy officer. No thanks.
 
We told Mr. Phillips we were considering woodwork for next week, and he was fine with it, as long as “Commander Fry knows.” He did, believing we’d attend woodwork tonight. Yes, it was a lie, but we’d gained a grace period for one evening where each activity leader thought we were somewhere else. Everything would be fine—just so long as no one looked for us.
 
We bolted down dinner, readying ourselves for prep, after which we’d finally be on our way. Sitting in class doing homework, I struggled to concentrate from nerves and excitement, frequently checking the clock.
 
Mrs. Morgan sat at the front, reading a newspaper and pausing occasionally to ensure we were working. Most of us were doodling or passing notes, as was customary. The classic trick was to hide a magazine inside an atlas and pretend to study, but it depended on which teacher supervised prep. Some patrolled like passport officers; others simply read newspapers, barking “Shush! Get on with your work!”
 
It was dark now, and despite the chilly wind, the sky was clear, so we’d stay dry.
 
“Right, pack up, please…” said Mrs. Morgan, quickly out the door and to her car. I understood exactly how she felt.
 
Everyone headed back to their dorms to change for evening activities, but we lingered behind, waiting until everyone had left. As we walked the short distance to the boarding house, Nick tapped me on the shoulder and half-whispered, “Go to the toilet.”
 
“What?”
 
“Go to the toilet; I’m going too. Wait until the others change; otherwise, they’ll ask about our dark clothes. Then we can get changed when they’re all out of the dorm.”
 
Nick was smart; he had it all figured out. This was already turning into a very exciting evening. Where were we going? My home - less than 20 minutes from my boarding school. It was a very strange situation, and I could actually see my garden from the dorm window. Mum and dad were in Oman, I was at school, but tonight I'd be home again....sort of.

The whir of the electric engine from the milk float. The clink of bottles as the milkman makes his way from door to door.

He heads down the driveway. A young girl is up early and knocks on her bedroom window and waves at him. He smiles and waves back.

A tabby cat licks its paws then rolls on its back across the slowly warming tarmac.
Birdsong. Churchbells from the village.

Dew on the recently cut grass. A BMX left out overnight on the lawn next to a plastic football, a Sindy doll covered in shards of grass. Matchbox cars scattered across the lawn.

It’s now 8am. A red Sierra estate sits in a driveway. The boot is packed high with bags. The bonnet is up. Dad's checking the oil and water before the family prepare to depart for a holiday to Tenby. Mum locks the house door and checks it twice.

The brother and sister open the rear doors as they clutch their comics - Mandy and Beano.
Laughter and excitement.
Click-click - seat belts on. Doors closed. Windows halfway down.
A light aircraft overhead in the whispy clouds. Dad closes the bonnet and the sound echoes across the cul-de-sac.

The air carries with it a smell of creosote from the freshly-painted panel fences.
The engine starts and "BBC....Radio 2...." is the jingle from the car stereo.

The family leaves. They all wave to the neighbour who is off to fetch the paper. Dad tests the windscreen wipers and two tiny jets of water spray onto the window as they turn out of the driveway. Over the hill and gone, off to the M5 then M4. An empty space in the driveway. The tabby cat walks across it.

An open bathroom window, the sound of a hairdryer and a radio. "Like to get to know you well" sings Howard Jones.

A boy of 11 pushes his Grifter down the side of the house. He runs a hand along the white pebbledash wall. The sound of the wheels across loose gravel, past the Renault 5 in the drive.

The sound of a strimmer and the smell of bacon.

The boy sits on his bike and faces the rolling Devon hills. His white Puma trainers barely touch the ground. Shiny red Liverpool shorts and a white tee shirt that smells of fabric softner. This tee shirt won't be quite so clean come the end of day.

He's off, and he won't be back before it's dark. Past the milkfloat, and over the hill, down through the estate, past the empty classrooms for the next 6 long weeks, and through the narrow Devon lanes. He's off to Colin's house to build a den.

Number 64 are planning a barbeque tonight. Everyone in the cul-de-sac is invited. The sun will set and the smell of charcoal and grilled food will fill the air, as well as laughter and conversation. it'll be the perfect end to another perfect summer's day on the estate, days that felt like they lasted forever.

As I sat at the gate waiting for my flight, I looked out across the apron at Kai Tak, watching various airliners coming and going. For a moment, I wondered if I hadn’t tried hard enough and failed in the place that was supposed to be easier than the UK—at least when it came to finding work.

Maybe I should have stayed and looked for another job, and I had the sniff of a junior position at Star TV, but I wasn’t interested. Or at Nike, again, not fussed. Friends on Lamma said I was nuts, but it felt a bit like being told to eat when you had no appetite. Perhaps I’d been beaten by Hong Kong, or maybe I’d just decided that at age 22, I was meant to be somewhere else.

Just 24 hours ago, I had been partying at a friend’s house on Lamma. We swam, ate, drank, laughed, and danced. As I watched the sunrise and container ships making their way through the channel, I did wonder if I was making the right choice. I knew I was, because my heart wasn't in it - at least, not the office life.

As I sat on the Lamma to Central ferry, I watched the island until it was out of sight and felt a lump in my throat. Chapter closed. I would miss this place very much, but now it was time for new adventures.

The Lamma life? Oh yes, that was great, but working in an office from 9 to 5? No, I was bored stiff. I remember my mum saying, “It must be so exciting to work in Hong Kong”—but no, it wasn’t. An office cubicle is still just an office cubicle.

I remember my first day at work so clearly, thinking about the lyrics to “Once in a Lifetime” by Talking Heads:
“Same as it ever was, same as it ever was.” I'd secured this amazing job, but as I sat in the silent office staring at  my screen, I caught myself clock watching...on my first day.

I wanted to drop off to sleep behind my spreadsheets and reports, and sometimes, I did.  No one spoke in the office, aside from my American boss, and when he was away, I felt the walls closing in.

I was 22, but after just a few months working with USA Today at the Ocean Centre and eating Oliver’s Super Sandwiches, I knew I had to get out. Some days, I set up pointless appointments with sailing clubs, the American Chamber of Commerce, and hotels—anything to kill time before the end of the workday.

With my boss in Japan for a few weeks and my colleagues ignoring me, I refused to sit there all day just clock-watching. I’d sit harbour-side in North Point, staring into the distance, trying to muster the motivation to go back to the office.

“Be careful what you wish for,” they say, but I also believe you only know if you don’t like something by trying it. No one has ever said, “You know what I hate? Coriander! Never tried it, but I hate it.” Try it first, and if you don’t like it, don’t do it again.

Mentally, I was probably about 17, just a boy in an adult’s world, and what I really wanted was to work with kids at summer camp in the USA. A career move? Far from it, but something was pulling me there.

I’d written to some camps via email at an internet café, and one camp sent me a brochure for a high-adventure camp in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The brochure arrived at the office, and that night, as I commuted home, I read it on the Star Ferry. An American guy in a cowboy hat stood close by saw me reading it, you couldn't make it up, and I promise I'm not!

“You going to North Carolina, son?”
“Yes,” I said, and he looked at the pictures with me.
“That’s God’s country right there…”
I’m not a religious person at all, but his words helped justify my decision and took away any doubts. Yes, I was that easily swayed!

As I sat waiting to board, I pictured myself arriving there, wide-eyed and excited. I remembered my first day at work, the barbecues on Lamma rooftops, the day I rescued two puppies, playing basketball in Wanchai, and our breakfasts at Deli Lamma that lasted all day. I smiled to myself as I recalled swimming in the Peninsula Hotel pool and being kicked out—what an idiot I was, but what a time!

The flight announcement was made. Here we go.
I took one last look at the terminal and prepared to board. Don’t doubt it, just go with it—things will work out, I kept telling myself.

After a jet-lagged stay at "home" with my parents for a few days,  I flew to North Carolina and was picked up at Charlotte Airport by one of the summer camp maintenance guys. He played country music the whole way and the adrenaline wwas racing through my body. We laughed, talked, and he gave me the lowdown on summer camp life. We stopped off for a burger along the way, and by the time we arrived at camp, it was pitch black.

I met the directors and then walked into my wooden cabin, which was surrounded by pine trees. It smelled musty, with walls covered in graffiti dating back to the 1950s: “Jake was here, 1952.”

“I hope this is okay?” asked one of the staff who came by to see me. He knew I'd come from Hong Kong, and it was almost like I was seen as some sort of rich kid, which was far from the case.
“Oh yes, this is very okay,” I replied.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked.
“Hong Kong,” I replied. Technically, it was London, but I had only been there for four days.
“Hong Kong? Isn’t that in China?”
It would be soon, but I didn’t get into it with him.
The next day, the kids arrived, and that night, we made a fire, cooked hot dogs, told stories, and slept under the stars. I may not have been helping my professional development, but deep in my heart, this gweilo has never felt more alive.
“And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”
I knew exactly how I got here, and it felt incredible.

The flight was nearing its end; my seatbelt was tightly fastened as we glided through the heavy clouds, which broke occasionally to reveal tree-covered hills and clusters of apartment blocks. I caught the briefest glimpse of a Maersk cargo ship cutting through the deep turquoise sea, and I wondered where it was heading.

On the other side, I briefly made out a few apartment blocks, which quickly disappeared from view as we tilted from side to side amidst the thick grey clouds. My skin felt dry, and my eyes were heavy. I wiped my face with a small towelette as I checked the seatback pocket for anything I may have left behind.

The lightest of rain splattered against the window like tiny darts as we turned sharply to the right, just as my stomach felt the familiar sensation of being left behind, reminiscent of a funfair ride.

The Rolls Royce engines roared, and I quickly glanced at the sick bag in the seatback pocket, just to be safe. I wanted to ensure it was there since I had a very sensitive stomach. Come on, make it down without throwing up...

We seemed to wave goodbye to the heavens with a sway from left to right, before a very sharp turn had me reaching for the seat in front.

Now, we were flying above the concrete canopy of Kowloon’s apartments. One minute, we appeared to almost hover like a helicopter; the next, we were racing across a cacophony of chaotic rooftops with their criss-crossing washing lines and power lines. Below them lay a labyrinth of teeming streets with processions of red taxis and beige minibuses. We then descended rapidly and landed on the harbourside runway with all the grace and elegance of a brick, just as the overhead baggage bins rattled and two French backpackers behind me clapped as we touched down.

Thirteen hours ago, I was at Heathrow for a short flight to Paris. The damp and drizzly London evening, the churning feeling in my stomach, the hint of self-doubt—yet here I was, I’d arrived.

I was amazed that the undercarriage survived; such was the ferocity of the impact. An elderly Chinese lady in the opposite row let out a long, exasperated breath while fanning herself with the safety card. It was very muggy on board, and everyone seemed desperate to disembark this Air France 747, our home for the last twelve hours. I had spoken to the two backpackers earlier, and they told me they were heading to Hong Kong to catch a connecting flight to Beijing later in the week, with the ultimate plan of travelling overland to New Delhi.

They had no visas and no clue how they were going to manage it, but it didn’t seem to faze them. Courage or craziness? Either way, they seemed like real travellers—not like me, a 21-year-old clean-cut boy playing at being an adult, off to Hong Kong to find a job.

I sort of wished I was going with them, embarking on some real travel. I had a swish apartment waiting for me; at least the name, Grand Panorama, had me dreaming of opulence, even if it were only for a week before I'd have to move into a cheap as chips youth hostel.

I suppose what I was doing was better than temping in some dull office in Bracknell and living at home with my parents, but there was still a feeling of trepidation. Who knows, maybe I’d “find myself” in Hong Kong? Although, at that moment, I just wanted to find myself in a shower followed by a bed.

As the plane turned at the end of the runway, the wing pointed toward Hong Kong Island for a second, and I watched the harbour activity under a muggy grey sky. A French cabin crew member welcomed us to Hong Kong, which was shortly followed by classical music. I was here in 1982 as a kid when we left Australia, but I'd obviously forgotten a lot of it, and one thing I'd forgotten was how small the airport was. "THAT is the terminal?" I said to myself, but it was perfect.

My adventure was only just beginning...

In 1988, we moved from the peaceful and friendly Saundersfoot to a place that was the total antithesis of it—at least for me: Wokingham, Berkshire—the belly of the rat race. This reasonably pretty commuter town on the M4 corridor, just 50 minutes from Waterloo, felt cold to me—a conservative (with a small and big 'C') place that felt a million miles from peaceful Pembrokeshire.

One minute, we were down by the harbour in this tiny, sleepy seaside town overlooking the sparkling sea—the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, the banter with the locals, the cries of seagulls, and the sail rigging clinking against the masts—and then, all of a sudden, we were settling into a house close to the M4, surrounded by planes, trains, and automobiles. People were in more of a rush and not so chatty; it seemed more about status than society. Our neighbours in Saundersfoot would pop over for a coffee, but here in Wokingham, they wanted to argue about where the fence line was between the respective gardens.

"What is wrong with these people?" I would ask Dad. "James, I have no idea," he'd respond.

When we lived in Wales, I attended a tiny prep school—most of the kids were from forces families, and the fees were massively subsidised. There was no snobbery at all; I don't remember anyone trying to score points. In fact, no one cared about cars or possessions—we were too busy being kids. It was somewhat ironic that the snobbery and status anxiety were waiting to hit me like a bullet at the state school.

On my first day at school in Bracknell, I thought I'd arrived in hell—it was a truly strange place that seemed out of kilter. The kids were so cutting with each other; everything was mocked and sneered at. I took the train every day, the 08:13 to Waterloo, packed with kids and commuters. "Train now approaching platform 1 is for London Waterloo, calling at Bracknell, Martin's Heron, Ascot, Sunningdale, Longcross, Virginia Water...."

Wokingham wasn't an ugly place, really, and I was glad to live there rather than in Bracknell, which to me looked brutal, cold, and corporate. It consisted mostly of post-war grey carbuncles, sprawling housing estates, and the most vacuous town centre I'd ever seen. There was one tall building, the 3M building, which stood out like a sore thumb, surrounded by a brutalist shopping precinct.

I thought Pembroke Dock looked a bit grim in parts, but it was nothing compared to this strange architectural experiment.

The kids at the school were more interested in what car my dad had and how much he earned. "What reg is your dad's car?" they'd ask. Most of these kids had parents who drove company cars, and as my dad used to say, "At least our Escort is paid for and ours; if they lose their jobs, their car goes back!"

I'd never considered the status of our car before—it never, ever came up in conversation in Pembrokeshire. This lot in Berkshire were a different breed.

I remember saying good morning to people as I walked down our road, often met with blank looks. One lady actually turned to me and asked, "Sorry, do I know you?"

I struggled to make friends; the kids were so cutting and judgemental, especially the ones in my class who lived in Ascot and Sunningdale—they really thought they were something special.

Once they found out that I'd moved from Wales, they went for the jugular with clichéd stereotypes and base-level jokes. When they discovered we had lived in a static caravan for a few weeks before moving into our house, in a school of 1,400 kids, I became known as the gypo pikey. It might sound funny now, but when you're 13 and you hear it every single day, it starts to grind you down.

For years, I had been pestering my parents about the possibility of having a dog, and in November 1988, my dream became a reality. I remember choosing the puppy who would go on to be called Sam, part of our world from February 1989 until May 2003. He changed my life, and no matter what happened at school, I couldn't wait to get home and see him. We raced, chased, cuddled, played, and walked for mile after mile; he truly was like a best friend.

Christmas was always special. We'd start each Christmas Day by giving Sam his present, normally a fresh bone from the butcher or yet another teddy he used to fall asleep holding in his mouth. Then, I'd put a little bit of red ribbon on his collar and head out for his Christmas Day early morning walk. He'd roll around in the frosty grass, and after we chased each other or played with the tennis ball, we'd head home. Mum would be in the kitchen getting things ready for the day ahead, then Dad would come down, and we'd open presents in the living room.

Sam would lie on the carpet, his tail wagging whenever anyone so much as looked in his direction. He'd have Weetabix with warm milk for breakfast, then tear off down the garden, barking at any birds or even planes climbing out from Heathrow—particularly Concorde, which would always set him off!

These fields pictured below were his favourite place; now they're all covered in new builds and busy relief roads. I don't think I'd want to go back and see that; it's best to remember things as they were.

Sam was the best thing to happen to me as a kid—we did everything together, and not a day goes by (particularly at Christmas) when I don't think of him. Every Christmas Day, I remember my Grandad because it was his birthday, but I also think of Sam. So, at some point during the day, no matter where I am, I'll always find time to say, "Happy Birthday, Grandad; Happy Christmas, Sam..." Sam really was my saviour.

A distant call to prayer echoes as the day's intense heat wanes and the land cools. The sun slowly sets behind Muscat's golden, jagged mountains, painting the wispy sky in amber and crimson hues. Palm leaves dance gracefully in the gentle breeze, bringing relief at the close of another sweltering day.

The pool lights flicker on as I emerge from the tepid water, and droplets cascade from my bronzed skin like a shower of tiny crystals. The surface of the pool soon settles into a smooth, glassy calm. My soles slap against my flip-flops as I make my way home. I can smell the chlorine on my skin.

The Indian staff in white shirts, black trousers, and red cummerbunds, begin setting up tables for a barbecue. The air buzzes with conversations in Hindi as they carry trays of meat and salad.

Nizar and Albert from Kerala stack plates on tables. A rumble fills the sky as they pause to watch an Air India 747 climb out into the heavens.

Silently, they follow the red and silver plane as it heads east across the Arabian Sea. Though they don’t speak, their eyes reveal their longing for home—to hold their wives and say I love you, to play with their children in the warm sea at sunset as fishermen haul in their last catch of the day.

Twilight descends as we leave Gordano Services on a warm evening in July 1984. We’ve had shepherd’s pie for dinner, and I popped into the shop for a quick look at the magazines. “Come on, James, let’s get home. You can look at the comics tomorrow when we fetch the paper.” It had been a long drive from Greystoke, Cumbria, to see Nanny and Grandad. Dad grew up in Threlkeld, and Grandad was a signalman. He’s slow now; it’s the cancer from smoking.
 
He stopped a year ago, but the damage was done. There was nothing left to do but prepare, and everyone knew it. I wasn’t totally sure what was happening, but Dad just said Grandad wasn’t well.
 
Dad hasn’t spoken much on the way home. Maybe he’s just tired. We also stopped at Sandbach Services. Dad flicks the indicator on the old beige Rover 2200 as we head west and homeward-bound—Exeter (M5), then it’s the A38, where life slows down.
 
Dad says the faster world begins in Exeter, but I’m glad we live on the slower side. Motorway lights flicker on, and the radio picks up interference from nearby power lines.
 
Avalon plays as I learn my head against the window.

*And the background's fading
Out of focus
Yes, the picture’s changing
Every moment
And your destination
You don’t know it
Avalon*
 
It’s cooling down now as we pass the exit for Weston-super-Mare. I wind-up my window.
 
Dad looks sad, as though there are permanent tears in the corners of his eyes. Mum is asleep. I reach forward and touch Dad’s shoulder. His large, warm hand envelops mine, a squeeze that says, "I love you." I squeeze back. He turns slightly, smiles, and winks.
 
By the time we arrive home, it is pitch black, and as we drive through the estate, something strange happens. The engine falls silent. Dad tries the ignition. Nothing.
 
“Oh… that’s not good,” he says, shaking his head. Lights out. Radio silent. Not a sound from the car. He thinks quickly; there is just enough momentum to take us to the top of the incline.
 
Our house is halfway down the hill, and Dad coasts it down, easing on the brake as he goes. Then he makes a turn into the cul-de-sac and a sharp right onto the drive before braking slowly.
 
Handbrake up, and we are home. We’ve just made it back, and what a final journey it was for our old Rover—all the way from Cumbria to South Devon.
 
Three motorways and one final trip. Dad knew a lot about cars, so when he said, “It’s dead,” I knew it was true, but I still asked anyway, “But Daddy, maybe it can be fixed. It’s only an engine.” He still had both hands on the steering wheel.

“The damage is done, darling. It’s too late now.” He welled up, and Mum and I held him as he sat in the driver’s seat.

“Come on,” he said, “she won’t empty herself.” A chill in the air from Dartmoor as we carried the bags into our house. The stars were out, as were all the lights in the surrounding houses, except one—the Bishops. They were watching telly. Stillness on Brakefield.
 
I was soon in bed, and Mum and Dad came up to kiss me goodnight. As Dad switched off my light, my glow-in-the-dark E.T. stickers on my headboard glowed brightly.
 
“Love you, James—phone home!” he said in his E.T. impression voice, pointing his finger, but I could tell he was sad and fighting hard.
 
“Love you, Daddy… it was a good car, wasn’t it?” I pulled my Star Wars duvet up to my neck.
 
“The best. Sleep now, and we’ll get the papers tomorrow. How about that comic?”
I nodded, and he switched off the light. Down the stairs he went. I heard Mum ask, “You okay, love?” Silence. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were holding each other. The sound of a kiss.
 
I dropped off to sleep. It would turn out to be the last time he saw his dad, and when we left his parents on that warm morning, my dad and Grandad held each other for a long time. but they had to let go so we could drive home, because nothing lasts forever.

It's 6 am on a winter's morning at Totnes station in December 1985. The platform is covered in a hard frost. There's a smell of diesel in the air from the Unigate dairy trucks arriving from the South Devon farms. I hold my mother's hand. We're waiting for the train to Reading, from where we'll take the bus to Heathrow and then fly to Oman to see my dad.

It's mid-morning for him right now in the land of frankincense and dates, and it feels a million miles from this tiny town in Devon. He starts his day with breakfast at the officer’s mess, maybe by the pool and the frangipani bushes. He showed us photos when he was last home, images of camels and Omani elders eating dates as they sat under a tree opposite my dad's flat.

I was enchanted by it all, and I couldn't wait to see this totally different world, but for now, there's an InterCity journey ahead for us. My gloves feel warm against my hands, and I can see my breath. "Look, mummy!" I breathe out and make the sound of a steam train. We've been up since 4:30 am. Mum lets out a loud yawn which echoes down the platform, and it makes me laugh.

Two men in bright orange British Rail vests appear like ghosts out of the early morning fog at the end of platform 1, chatting away to themselves and carrying large tools over their shoulders. They're saying their goodbyes and heading home. "Yeah, see you Tom, ta-ta mate..."

A tired voice across the crackly tannoy: “Train now approaching platform one is the 5:54 service to London Paddington, calling at Newton Abbott, Exeter St. David’s, Tiverton...."

In the distance in the darkness of this frosty morning, I spot the distinctive lights of a 125. Closer and closer through the darkness. There's a hard frost on the platform. We step back as the high-pitched whir of the engine passes by. It reminds me of the spin cycle on our washing machine as an icy chilly wind is sent in our direction. I squint my eyes as the blur of yellow and blue whooshes past us, and I wonder if it's even going to stop.

The slow clickety-clack, clickety-clack as it slows down, a squeal from the wheels. The diesel smell fills the air once more. Mum reaches for the door and struggles to turn the awkward handle. A porter helps us and lifts the suitcase onto the train. I step up into this warm world from the frost and cold of Totnes. The smell of diesel is replaced with something delicious, as someone walks by with a bacon roll and a cup of tea. A strong South Wales accent: "A very good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome on board to those joining us at Totnes..."

The carriage is mostly empty, just a couple of passengers who are sleeping. We have a table seat. I remove my Beezer comic from my red rucksack. We were sent Gulf Air labels with our tickets, so I put them on my bag straight away. Mum is tired and she reaches out for my hand across the table. She smiles at me. "Love you, James." She looks tired and not ready for this journey, but I'm too excited to take it all in.

The station guard is outside our window. "Look mummy, he looks like Grandad." He raises a flag, catches my eye, smiles, and blows his whistle. I see his breath. Goodbye, Totnes. We slowly make our way past the last of the town and into the farmland of South Devon. It's still pitch-black outside, and it feels more like midnight. I spot a dairy truck heading to Totnes, full of fresh milk to be bottled at the dairy by the station. Mum's gone to the buffet car and she's back with two bacon rolls and two cups of tea. We tuck in as we approach Newton Abbot. Hardly anyone boards the train on this chilly morning.

We race through Teignmouth and along the estuary towards the sea. Dawlish Warren is next, but we won’t be stopping. I press my nose to the glass, ready for this impressive stretch of railway line. Into a tunnel as the train guard checks tickets. He makes his way through the carriage, clipping holes in the corners with a “Thank you” and “Change at Bristol…should be on time.” “Morning…lovely…thank you…”

We’re next. “Morning, tickets please…” But just as Mum is about to hand him both, I ask, “Mummy, can I give him my ticket?” She hands it to me, only for me to pass it to him straight away. Totally pointless, but special for me.

“Thank you, young man…” He looks at it closely, scanning it as if it were a passport. He’s wearing a navy-blue cap with a British Rail logo. He steadies himself by holding on to the top of a seat. We’re really creaming along now. The tiny piece of the ticket that’s punched away flies into the air, ready to be vacuumed up when this InterCity is cleaned tonight. “Right…both to Reading, there you go…you are together, aren’t you?” We laugh. He has a warm smile and makes his way to the next passenger.

Aside from the track next to us, it feels like we’re almost on the beach, as waves crash in, spraying into the air. Grey clouds and a grey expanse of sea beneath it, both blending into one shade of grey on the horizon. A lady walks her dog on the pathway that runs beside the tracks. There’s a small fishing boat way out at sea and I wonder what’s happening onboard in the wintery water. I picture the freshly-caught fish and the captain at the wheel.

I drift off to sleep and rest my head on mum’s lap. She strokes my hair as she reads her Jilly Cooper book, and I sleep through Exeter. When I wake up, we’re near Castle Cary and the fields are blanketed in snow. I spot a farmhouse and it immediately reminds me of The Snowman.

We race past a tiny village, across the level crossing as the red lights flash and a Land Rover waits for the barriers to rise. A blur of Christmas lights in a living room window, as another train passes us by and makes me jump. We play I spy, mum has a doze, and I watch the snowy landscape as we race to Reading.

I take out my small sketchbook and felt-tip pens. I start to draw a picture for dad. “Dear Daddy, we’re on the train to Reading.” And I draw a picture of what’s on the table. Two empty cartons of Just Juice, Tracker bar wrappers, Mums’ book, my felt tips, and my Beezer comic.

Just as I finish, there’s an announcement: “Ladies and Gentlemen we will soon be arriving at Reading…change at Reading for services to Wales, The Midlands, and the North, Gatwick Airport, and the Rail Air bus to Heathrow. Reading is your next stop, thank you.” Snowy fields have been swapped with the urban landscape. Life looks busier in this part of England.

More people, more trains, more buildings, more everything. I think about our little house in South Brent and the teddies I’d put in bed. I picture my toys in the room and the Airfix Concorde attached to the ceiling with fishing line.

Jackets on, bags ready, and we head for the door. Brakes squeal and the train rocks with a slow clickety-clack as we approach the platform and stop with a jolt. A man ahead of us pushes down the window, reaches outside, and opens the door. The smell of frosty air and diesel. Mum pulls the black Samsonite suitcase behind her. I have my red rucksack over both shoulders.

The suitcase wobbles from side to side as we weave in and out of oncoming passengers. I hold her hand and we follow the signs for the Airlink bus. Commuters walk briskly in every direction; some are running for their trains as guards whistle echoes across the station. Announcements fill the air, “Platform 4 for the 08:20 service to Gatwick Airport, calling at Wokingham, Farnborough..."

"Mummy, is that us?" "No, we're going to Heathrow with a bus." Oh yes, I'd forgotten that. Still that smell of diesel. We don’t have long before the bus leaves. In and out of the crowd we weave and outside into glorious winter sunshine. There's no snow here, but still a chill in the air. The Salvation Army is playing "Once in Royal David's City.” We're not going to the birthplace of Jesus, but it feels somewhat mystical and magical to be flying to the Middle East at this time.

There it is outside the station, engine on, bags being loaded by the driver. “Mummy, look at the London taxis!” I’d never seen black cabs outside of London before. The bus is very busy, every seat is taken, and I wonder where everyone is flying to. The heating is on, and the bus feels cosy. Mum hands me a Trebor mint from her bag. We’re off, following signs for the M4 and London. The traffic is heavy, as are my eyes and by the time we join the motorway, I’m fast asleep and dreaming of distant lands…