THE first time I visited London, I was 15 and on my own, tramping the streets, laden down with a brand new rucksack containing assorted and previously unused camping paraphernalia.

Before you ask, to this day I’ve no idea why I embarked on such an odd and potentially risky adventure without the knowledge of my parents.

I just took the King’s Cross train from Doncaster in the naive belief there would be an ample selection of campsites in the capital.

Maybe I supposed Hyde Park would be like Sherwood Forest, where I’d camped previously with the Scouts.

I certainly drew a few strange looks as I shuffled around the famous London streets only previously encountered on a Monopoly board.

I remember asking someone in a cafe, to the bemusement of other customers, if there was a Camping and Caravan Club site anywhere near.

It soon became apparent that I would have to head out of London to find a suitable pitch for the night; so, I boarded a train at St Pancras for Bedfordshire.

That first night away from home I spent camped, after obtaining a farmer’s permission, in a field near the village of Biddenham.

The next day I took a train to Nottingham and decided to forego camping in favour of a bed at the local YMCA. In the afternoon I went to the cinema and afterwards enjoyed my first ever Chinese meal in a restaurant.

From Nottingham, it was back to Doncaster and then a bus home.

When I finally made it to the old abode, my mother appeared not to have noticed my absence.

“I’ve been to London, mam,” I said, expecting her to issue some kind of astonished gasp.

Instead she responded with a disapproving wag of the finger.

“Oh, Allan,” she said. “You do tell some tales.”

She still doesn’t believe to this day.