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Growing up, I never thought of us being poor. But I suppose despite both my parents working, it was hard to make ends meet. Especially when Dad went on the builder's strike in 1972. He was earning about £15 a week then. Mum worked full time nights, seven day's a week at the cold store as a cook.

So, holidays for us was something that was done on a shoestring.

One year we would go to stay with Dad's relative's in Sussex, north of Brighton in the shadow of the downs. Another year we would go and stay with Nannie's friends in Bolton.

We would travel by train, as a lot of people would back than, as no one in my family could drive, and I was the only one to have passed their test.

Sussex was wonderful, we would go towards the end of August so we could go to the show jumping at Hickstead, which was a huge then back in the 60s and 70s, on TV every year. There are grabbed shots of various famous riders as they returned to the paddock, and Harvey Smith giving my the Vs when she asked for an autograph. Nice bloke.

Getting to the area by bus took time, and I can still remember standing at the bus stop outside waiting for a bus to take us back to Warninglid. Yes, Warninglid.

But come to 1973, Dad was back at the shipyard, working regular hours for decent money, my parents booked us on a coach tour called "Three Capitals".

This involved a week on a coach, leaving from Lowestoft, driving to Harwich for the ferry crossing to Ostend which would be our base for the week. And each day we would go on trips to Amsterdam, Brussels and Paris, among others. But they were the three capital cities.

First day we went on a half day trip to the saddest zoo Mum had ever seen, it was called Miele Park, Wiki talls me it was Meli Park. Had the saddest looking animals, even the flamingos were white due to not being fed the right food.

Oh well.

We went to a place in Holland, sure it was called Marken, on the edge of a polder where all these historical buildings had been gathered in one spot. Or so I thought, but Wiki tells me it is a picturesque village and so a tourist attraction.

Anyway, I remember the usual people in national dress and clogs, carrying cheese. As you do.

And it was hot. 101 degrees, but on the shores of the Zuider Zee felt colder. It would get hotter as the week went on.

We travelled in a swish Belgian coach, that had huge sliding windows that could be opened. So on those long, non air conditioned trips we could take the top of the temperature by opening the windows and letting the breeze in. Ok when someone young, or us, was sitting by the window, but one grumpy old lady sat there one day, and refused to open the window, and we melted on the trip to Paris.

Ostend to Paris and back in a day was a heck of a trip.

We left at when it was still dark, with a packed breakfast, lunch and dinner. And so we sat and slept for the eaight hour trip into France.

And it was hot. And humid. Back then, a week travelling to three countries meant having three lots of currency, and budgeting accordingly so you could not run out of local currency. Sadly, Paris was expensive, at least in Montmartre, Mum fainted in the heat, and Dad tried to pay in pounds at a cafe. The waiter spat at the pound note.

I needed to go to the toilet, and would not do it in the street, so Dad had to take me somewhere to go, and the nearest place was the Moulon Rouge. Dad covered my eyes as we went in to the restroom. But Dad took his time taking me there, taking in the sights. As you do.

I guess we saw all the sights in the rest of the city, as the bus did a tour as we munched our melted lunch.

Brussels was interesting to me, as we had to go and see the weeing statue. Being a small lad of a certain age, this appealed to me. As it was some kind of holiday, the wee boy was dressed in a military uniform. I was also impressed by the Autominum, though we only went past not into it.

Amsterdam meant a trip on the canals, and again my eyes covered as the trip went through the then huge red light area, and fancy underwear was hanging out of dark windows. Or so I was told later.

When we returned, Dad did not have a penny to his name. Not even for a pint of milk. I have no idea how we go through to pay day later that week, got some off grandparents I suppose.

Later, back at school when were asked to write about what we had done over the summer, I ignored this fantastic trip around Europe, the week my Grandparents took me on a rail rover ticket round East Anglia.

We went to Felixstowe, Norwich, Cambridge, Cromer, and each day I had sausage and chips for dinner. Every day. As they let me. My parents would not have. I had a great time on the various trains crossing Norfolk and Suffolk.

But back at school, I wrote about a walk I did with my Grandfather to the broads at Fisher Row, looking for kingfishers.

Hard to please, as always, apparently.

Next year we stayed in Britain, and went to Scotland. The only holiday I had with Mum's parents, as well as Mum and Dad.

We went to Scotland for a week of coach touring round.

This meant a real adventure, leaving home by train and going to London, then to Euston to catch the sleeper train north.

The train left at about half ten at night, and I was way too excited to sleep. The train rattled north until we got to Glasgow, then we had to cross the city to Queen Street to catch the train further north to Inverness. I slept most of the way as I had been awake all night on the sleeper.

Scotland, especially North Scotland is a dramatic and majestic country, but takes ages to get anywhere. Each day we would catch our coach outside the hotel, and it would take us somewhere, stopping barely an hour out for morning coffee, then lunch, then afternoon tea before returning us back to the hotel beside the river in the evening.

It was the way holidays were back then.

Oh yes, the hotel. The Palace. Overlooked the river and the castle on the opposite bank. It was a fabulous place where you would dress up for dinner. I would have sausage and chips every night, of course.

One day we went as far north as you can go, John O Groats, where the great north road ends, and there is a sign post you can have your photograph taken to show you have been there. We did, because that was all there was to do.

Another day we went to Skye. Skye is the subject of the Skye Boat Song, and so this was one of those things you did to day you had been. This involved a long coach trip from Inverness to the Kyle of Lochalsh, where there was a ferry that took you over the narrow stretch of water to the island.

For several days, it rained. Rained like the world was coming to an end. So we travelled for some for hours through the HIghlands to arrive at Kyle. Kyle is a tiny town, and existed then for the link from the end of the line from Glasgow to the ferry to the island. There is little else, and not much has changed now, but it is bigger.

Just. So after trying to look out of misted coach windows at mist shrouded mountains, we arrived, walked to the ferry terminal for the short ferry trip to the other side, where is was also raining hard.

We had a drink in the cafeteria, and caught the next ferry back to the mainland where we sheltered out of the rain until the coach left for the return journey to Inverness.

I loved it, looking out of the coach windows at the passing countryside for hours and hours on end. I didn't speak, didn't want for anything, just more of the same.

Last day was a trip to Loch Maree and the fine gardens that are there. I cared little for the loch or the gardens, but the journey was wonderful.

We were to catch the sleeper back from Forth William, which back then was a small town stretched along the main street. Before the train left, we had dinner in a hotel, and the choice was fish and chips or steak and kidney pie. I didn't like fish, nor kidney. Mum ordered me the pie and assured me there was no kidney in it, as was getting away with it until Granddad exclaimed his delight at finding another piece of kidley in his. I stopped eating.

And so back home, and Dad standing on the platform at Euston realising we were broke again at the end of another holiday.