When I was a young boy growing up in Jamaica, I used to love climbing trees. Especially poincianas. When I got a little bit older, I climbed a fully grown poinciana – they go up to twelve metres high – and when I got to the top, I imagined that I could see Cuba.

It was August 31st, 1959. I said goodbye to my grandparents on the verandah. I arrived in Kingston at the airport. This was the day I flew in an aeroplane for the first time. It was a BOAC, turbojet 4 engine. I was excited. Kingston to Newfoundland, Canada. Refuel. Across the Atlantic, west coast of Ireland, Shannon. Refuel. Landing at Heathrow.

My mum was waiting for me at Victoria Station, London. Imagine. I was 13 years old. Alone.