There were always cars in my family, even when I was a child. I remember my father loved driving, and well into his seventies his Sunday mornings were spent in the drive, washing and polishing his pride and joy. In fact, in the nineteen fifties, when I was quite small, I can remember summer holidays spent driving to France and Italy, four adults and four children squashed into a car, always driven by my father, with the luggage tied on to the roof rack. There was Mum, Dad and my brother and me, and my Mum’s sister, Auntie Corinne, with her husband, Uncle Stanley, and their two children, who were a little older than us, though we got on well with them, as we still do today.

I don’t remember us ever coming to any harm, and the four of us children used to sit on little stools in the back facing the traffic, accompanied by a two-ring stove, or a primus stove, pans, a kettle and a potty. It was a great adventure, particularly when we got across the channel and drove through France. We generally booked our final destination but en route we took pot luck. I remember more than one place we stopped at where there wasn’t enough room for all of us and the men had to sleep in the car. And another where Uncle Stanley slipped into a nearby field to pick some corn for us to eat on the cob. They were great holidays. There was one year when we must have been short of money because we had booked into the Norbreck in Blackpool, but on the day we were due to go it was pouring with rain and Mum announced that she wasn’t going to go. Dad sat us children down – there were three of us by that time – and asked if we were willing to pool our savings and drive to Italy, always our favourite destination. Democracy in action. Not that we hesitated for long. We stayed in a brilliant motel north of Rome and spent a lot of time playing in their outdoor pool. What happy memories.