Here I am, aged 1 year and 2 months, at The Island across the fields with my Dad and Aunty Wendy. The island is really just a marshy pond with some grass mounds. In winter, one of the mounds would become a small island, accessible only by risking a wet footer. A wet footer was about the worse that could happen; water coming over the top of your wellie. No, worse than a wet footer was the boot getting stuck in the mud and you continuing to step, sock into the squelch. It’s a long way home with soggy socks. Before I knew its name, the place everyone else called The Island, to me was called ‘London’. I thought everywhere that wasn’t home or Broughton Gifford was London.
Rocking the brown balaclava, hair blond back then. I still wear brown cords like these.