One of the very strong memories for me, from growing up on the island, was reading my school reports and opening my exam results.
I would always grab the official letter before anyone could open it “accidentally” before me, and I would sprint down the end of our garden where there was this gorgeous big sycamore tree.
It had amazing limbs, perfectly spaced for monkey-style climbing. Over the years, I had got it down to a fine art, being able to reach the highest limbs of this tree in a matter of seconds, and from there I would have a commanding view over the whole village.
None of my friends ever went to the very top of this tree with me as it always began to sway and wobble precariously as you reached the very last few branches.
But I loved that part.
Opening the reports or exam results up here meant that whatever the outcome, I had time and space to keep things in perspective.
Okay, so I flunked another maths exam and the Latin teacher says I must stop “sniggering like a puppy in class,” but from up here, the world looks pretty all right.
By the time I came down I would be ready to face the music.
I never had anything to fear, though, from Mum and Dad when it came to school reports. The reports weren’t ever all bad, but they definitely weren’t ever all good. But Mum and Dad just loved me, regardless, and that has helped me so much in my life: to have the confidence to just be myself and to go for things.
I have never minded risking failure, because I was never punished for failing.
Life was about the journey—and the fun and adventure along the way. It was never just about the destination, such as getting perfect exam results or making the top team. (Dad had always been pretty hopeless at sports and academia, yet he had done well and was greatly loved—so that was good enough for me.)
He would always say that what really matters in life is to “Follow your dreams and to look after your friends and family along the way.” That was life in a nutshell for him, and I so hope to pass that on to my boys as they grow up.
On that note, I would slip the school reports in the bin and get a big hug.
The other final memory from growing up on the island is of going on a monster run one day, and getting very bad groin rub on the last mile toward home.
I had endured the rubbing for the previous eight miles, but it was now becoming agony. No one was around, the village was deserted, it was a warm summer’s evening, so I took my shorts off and continued the final leg of the run naked.
No sooner had I run a hundred meters than I heard a police siren right behind me.
I could not believe it.
I mean, in all my life growing up on the island, I had never even seen a police car. There was a station in the village, but it always just sat empty, acting only as a staging post if ever needed—and it certainly didn’t have its own police car. The nearest permanent station was thirty minutes away.
This was bad luck in the extreme.
The car pulled me over, and the officer told me to get in the back: “Sharpish!”
I jumped in, tried to explain, but was told to be quiet. I was nicked.
I did eventually make it home after doing some serious explaining that I was not a streaker or a pervert. I even showed them my blood-red groin rub as proof.
Finally, they let me off with a caution.
So there you have it: I had been arrested for nudity, flunked my exams, and failed at getting a girlfriend—but I had a hunger for adventure and the love of a great family in my soul.
I was as ready as I could ever be for my entrance into the big bad world.