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…

Cycling home from Colin's house on a February afternoon back in ’85. Wet leaves along the narrow lanes, naked hedgrows high, a chilly wind from Dartmoor, a smell of snow in the air. Fingers raw. Crows caw under a crimson sky as the distant bells of St Petroc's ring out. A tractor passes by. A smell of manure. Wellies thick with mud. Socks wet.

Along the lanes of South Brent on my BMX, brakes squealing. Scarf up to my nose. Parker hood up.
 
My clothes and hair thick with woodsmoke, we'd made a fire at the end of Colin's field. Icy drizzle now. The smell of fish and chips on Station Rd, the sound of a deep fat fryer.

Through the village and past my school, not a car in sight on Exeter Road, just the bus to Plymouth, all the windows steamed up. Someone somewhere is burning old tyres. The Corona lorry passes me by. No lights on my bike but they're on at the police station. Pedalling faster now. Into the estate, a smell of roast dinner. A thumbs up from Richard’s brother in his red Cortina.
 
Past Scott's house, they’ve got the telly on. Down the hill, braking hard, and home at last. Dad is in the garage fixing the old Rover again. Kicking off wet wellies at the door. Warmth. Grandstand is on, final score. “Albion won” says Mum, “Give Grandad a call later.” She smells my hair. Time for a bath. Vosene. Matey. The sound of a dripping tap. A Stormtrooper and Matchbox car covered in foam. Head under the water. My world is silent for a few seconds.
 
Out. A thick cotton towel. Pajamas. Dressing gown. Downstairs to the phone. Extractor fan on. “Tenby 2392” says the voice on the other end. “Oh Hi Grandad, Albion won!” Mum smiles. Roast chicken for dinner. Dad washes the oil from his hands. “I think it might snow”, he says.
 
And that night, it fell thick and fast. The next day, we sledged until it was dark.
There was more than just snow in the air, there was magic. You could really smell it.

We’re back from midnight mass. As I open the door of our old Rover, I see my frosty breath as I impersonate a steam train. The sky is clear and the stars are putting on a show for free. Christmas tree lights in the window across the road. The sound of front door closing, just as we opened ours.

Once in the house, we're hit with a delicious smell of turkey - it's been roasting since we went to mass and will continue slowly throughout the night. Mince pies are on a tray. “Tomorrow”, says Mum.

From the turkey to the tree as the rich aroma of Norwegian spruce fills our tiny living room. A tin of Quality Street on the coffee table, a bowl of nuts, a pack of dates, some After Eights, and a net of satsumas. It’s not a lot, but it’s everything.

A string of Christmas cards across one wall of the living room with the larger ones on the coffee table beside our little black and white telly. There’s silver and red tinsel on the tree, tiny coloured lights, satin baubles, wooden toys, plus some Father Christmas chocolates.

My bedroom - strewn with thin strands of leftover tinsel from wall to wall and affixed by lumps of blue tack. I put on my Star Wars pajamas and slide under my duvet.

I can taste the Blue Minty Gel toothpaste as I listen to my parents getting ready for bed. After a kiss goodnight, my light is out and I struggle to fall asleep.

When I next open my eyes, it's 5 am. There...at the door, is a pillowcase with presents. There'll be a few more under the tree, but Father Christmas always made a special delivery to my bedroom door. I knew it was my parents, and they knew that I knew, but we all kept the magic alive for as long as possible.

Mum and dad appeared at the door, yawning and bleary-eyed, but putting on a good act as I start to open presents, reading out-loud the messages on the little tags.

Beezer and Dandy annuals, an Action Man plane, a model car, a chocolate selection box, a West Brom diary, a joke book, An Action Force soldier, a teddy, a remote control car, a siren for my BMX, and my stocking with chocolate coins, a couple of satsumas, some nuts, and a yo-yo. I’m a lucky boy, I thought, as I sat in my bed of gifts under a sea of paper and tags.

It was more than just the presents for me, it was decorating the cake, playing board games on the last day of school, buying the Radio and TV Times from the village newsagent, decorating the tree together, and waiting to see Dad drive down the hill on his last day of work. He’d flash the headlights as he pulled into the drive.

They headed back to bed and I ate chocolate coins and satsumas as I read my annuals. Eventually I do drop off, and I'm awoken by the sound of mum downstairs singing Bing Crosby. I look outside and hope for snow, but not yet. Jason is riding his new BMX in the rain.

Dad is shaving and listening to carols on Radio 2 with his tiny radio - I pop in to give him a hug and a kiss as he taps his razor on the sink.

I race downstairs with my Action Man in hand. The tree lights are on. I can smell the wrapping paper. I hold mum tightly as the Bing music plays. Dad is here now, smelling of shaving cream and soap. We have tea and toast as we unwrap our presents. Outside, it’s a mixture of sleet and rain. Our little electric fire is also on, and the faux coal gives off a beautiful glow. Behind our house is the edge of Dartmoor which is covered in the lightest dusting of snow.

There we were, just the three of us in our little house in South Brent back in 1983. It might be in the past, but I can go back there whenever I want, all I have to do is close my eyes.

​The smell of creosote and freshly cut grass was carried by a warm summer breeze as Scott and I cycled through Brakefield, the new-build housing estate in South Brent made up of white pebble-dash houses and bungalows. It was the first Saturday of the summer holidays in 1985, we were 10 and the days ahead were warm and wonderous.

Scott, my best friend, was on his Raleigh Striker, and I was on my red BMX, freshly washed that very morning and gleaming in the afternoon sun. We drove up onto the pavement but soon had to bunny-hop back onto the road as a section was blocked by traffic cones and a line of plastic tape between them. A deep and warm smell of tar filled the air as we pedaled by.

We spotted Colin and Richard on their Raleigh Burners and immediately headed their way, shouting their names as we approached and pulling hard on our back brakes to see who could leave the longest skid marks. “That was skill”, I said to Scott. “SO skill!”, he replied, as we looked back with pride at the rubber trails behind us.

There was Richard with his yellow and blue Burner and Colin with his gold one, which glistened in the summer sunshine. Wearing nothing but shorts and trainers, the four of us sat on our bikes as the sun dried the beads of sweat on the back of my hair. We gathered around Richard, who showed us his wad of Panini stickers, and as he flicked through them, we spotted the ones we needed to complete our respective albums. “Got…got…swap ya…got…ooh, John Barnes..."

“Beep beep!” shouted a boy of around six as he drove past us erratically on his bright yellow go-kart, weaving left and right along the pavement and then cutting across his lawn and disappearing out of sight down the side of his house.

Earlier in Scott’s back garden, we’d played with Star Wars figures in his shed, then soaked each other with the hose, just after his Dad had cut the lawn. Our legs were itchy and covered in blades of cut grass, which we had thrown at each other in huge clumps. The water in my grass-covered Velcro trainers squelched against my soles as I straddled my BMX and looked up at airline contrails. It made me think of my dad, 4,000 miles away in Oman, and I wondered what he was up to right now and if he was thinking of me.

Across from where we had gathered, a recently washed Sierra dried off as the puddles of water on the driveway gave off a smell akin to that of an approaching rainstorm.

It was still very warm as the removals men hauled open the back of the truck to reveal tea crates, white goods, and a deep wall of boxes, and I thought back to the excitement I had when we arrived. A few days later, this new boy called Jason joined in with cops and robbers, building dens in the nearby fields and constructing bike ramps out of anything we could get our hands on.

A Bedford ice cream truck playing Greensleeves turned into the estate, and with it, the familiar sound of Greensleeves. Some of us had a few coins in our damp pockets, so we took off on our next pursuit after the van, pedaling furiously to be the first in line. As soon as the sliding window was opened, we were hit with the sweet smell of vanilla ice cream. "Right, lads, what can I get you?”

Our lips had turned the shade of our ice pops, and we all stuck out our coloured tongues as juice dribbled down the plastic wrapper and onto our pale, skinny legs. We tilted our heads back to get the last remaining drop. A Flymo lawnmower fell silent as Greensleeves started up once more and the van made its way to the next cul-de-sac. That night, my window was slightly ajar to let in the light evening breeze. It was half-light outside, but dark enough for me to make out the ET and Ghostbusters glow-in-the-dark stickers on my headboard. My Airfix Concorde, hanging from the ceiling with a piece of fishing line, gently swayed from side to side as I listened to the distant and distinctive sound of an Intercity 125 train.

My eyes grew heavy as I held my Harry Heathrow bear, and I wondered what had happened to my tee shirt. Ah yes, I thought – Scott’s garden—it wouldn’t be the first time. The television was on downstairs, and as I turned toward the wall and closed my eyes, I heard a muffled "And it's goodnight from me, and it's goodnight from him."