Sam the Saviour

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.