To an outsider my growing up years must have seemed exciting - or slightly nomadic. To some almost the theme of an Enid Blyton story. You can just imagine its title - 'One Goes To Wales'. Naturally Miss Blyton would pepper her story with goshes, gollies and jolly hockey sticks. Of course there would be spooky underground tunnels, and treasure! Stop! Let's get down to the truth the facts are that for every short or long, days or weeks holidays I was decamped from an ever expanding council estate in down-town Bristol to an unspectacular stone cottage perched on a mountain side in chemically shrouded Port Talbot.

There were no ifs or buts, no arguments, no intelligent discussions I was going! Child care wasn't even a twinkle in the state's eye. My mum worked full-time for the Imperial Smelting Company in Avonmouth. Coupled with this was my dad's job for British Rail which meant he worked shifts and seemed to spend hours just cycling back and forth to work. That's how it appeared to me!

The actual place of departure was Isambard Kingdom Brunel's industrial cathedral - commonly known as Temple Meads station. This mammoth like castle façade stood, and is still standing on a gradual incline not far from the heart of the city. Buses transported me to this steamy chaotic hub. The gaudy red and green moquette clad seats sauntered through the better off areas. My eyes would spy the zoo, posh-frock shops and were always mystified by the salty staring eyes of Neptune's statue that sat ever over-looking Saint Augustine's Reach.

Trains then were all hissing steam. Single self-contained narrow carriages, or double jointed caterpillar like trains. All of them smelt of human closeness, each one displaying black and white prints of holiday destinations - London, Blackpool or Great Yarmouth. To tempt the trapped passenger!

Easily the high-light of the train journey was the Severn Tunnel! The unsuspecting public entered the hallowed land of Wales via an underwater tunnel. Blackness would encapsulate you - the always weak lights became weaker or they totally gave up. Ears clicked voices heavy with conversations trailed away as people checked the nearest exits - just in case they were needed.

Inevitably the puffing train halted in Cardiff, a station of beige wall tiles and a particular accent. Shangri-la was nigh! Surprise sandwiches were unpacked; pop uncorked, marking the expedition's half way point.

Soon the heavy outlines of the steel works blocked the windows. Brash belching colours arose from chimney stacks - Port Talbot at last.The doors opened on a different life style. One thing was always the same - it was egg and chips, suitable for lunch, tea or supper. You see my gran, or mam timed the cooking of the chips with my walk from the station. Clever planning - Jamie Oliver could never think as laterally as that! Of course trains were always on time then. Takes some believing I know.

From the egg and chips moment my life seemed to revolve around shopping. Only in the Co-op based on red principles. Chapel filled Sunday and a lot of boredom filled my head.

At the end of my sojourn I'd reverse the journey.

How I wished my mother was French, or even Scottish, yes I'd settle for that - maybe then my gran could have been a dowager in an ancient castle - now I'm off on an Enid Blyton moment!