As a child (youngest of four) cherished by my parents, I enjoyed myself immensely, indulging in the normal games and pursuits of my years. Summer holidays, attending the Cub Scouts and visits to the swimming baths being my favourite treats, not to mention sweets of course. Through bus-spotting and train-spotting I got to know my way around London whilst still at primary school.

Academically I showed some potential, though my distaste for school's imprisoning atmosphere prevented me from realising it. Much of the time at school was spent in daydreams that I wove to entertain myself, to distract myself from the tedium. Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm did not go unnoticed, I was quietly turning into a rebel! I recall the headmaster of Roehampton Church School (a Church of England primary school), Mr Whitacker, on discovering I had torn up my 'Dental Check' form, phoned my mother to tell her what was in store, 'That boy will be a juvenile delinquent. Just you wait and see!'

On returning home for lunch that day, my mother told me, 'I was making marmalade at the time, and his phoning made it stick to the pan. It all got burnt, I was very annoyed else I would have been behind the front door waiting for you with the copper stick.' She smiled at me indulgently; for we had no such item in the house. I didn't know what a delinquent was, but I doubted if this was the time to ask.

The headmaster also made another prediction, namely that I would fail my Eleven Plus. He seemed really put out when proved wrong, but after finding out what grammar school was like, however, I felt mine to be a hollow victory. The facilities this elitist single-sex school offered proved to be truly desperate, resulting in most of the teaching coming from the blackboard. At Westminster City School I was taught at by formidable masters in black gowns, routinely exposed to jibes and insults, and all too frequently subjected to humiliation, the opportunities to express ourselves being so severely limited, I began to loathe the place intensely.

As with most adolescents, 'image' meant a lot to me, and with the trend towards wearing the hair long, I was determined to let mine grow; at least over my collar. Encouragement to do this was offered from an unlikely quarter - an oil painting that hung in the school's main hall. Of immense size it portrayed the school's founder King Charles II, his hair, his crowning glory, flowing over his shoulders in a cascade of tightly wound black curls, majestically framing his face. Draped in fantastic finery, rich and colourful raiment, shoes of white satin, he presided over morning assembly day after day.

Seated on the stage and flanked by his cohorts, a sea of mortar boards, the tall stooped figure of the headmaster would rise, step to the lectern, make his address, then he would pause dramatically, a pained expression pinching his grey features, his eyes staring icily:
'Will the following boys see me after assembly... Brooks, Mason....' he reeled off further names, all the usual suspects!

Sitting in the wood panelled vestibule, I pondered on what he might want with me. But having a clear conscience - on this occasion - I took the opportunity to relish these moments of calm pleased of a valid excuse for being late at first lesson. When the door to the study opened Brooks emerged and fixed me with a conspiratorial grin before gesturing me to go inside.

Standing in front of the Head, hands clasped, I waited for him to speak. Springing from his chair he ordered me to put on my cap. Obediently I removed the tattered object from my blazer pocket and proceeded to perch it on my head.

'Just as I thought,' he snapped, 'I can't see it! Get your hair cut immediately or I will suspend you. Do you understand? Return here for my approval, now go boy!'

Cast as the 'black sheep' it became increasingly difficult to take my schooling seriously. Cooped up and listless, I did not apply myself, 'Has the ability', 'Must try harder' and 'Could do much better' were phrases I became very familiar with.

The usually joyless lessons in chemistry provided the ingredient for a most enduring fantasy:- When the rest of the class having left the room, I would extract a large piece of phosphorous from its stoppered bottle and leave it smouldering on the bench top. Eventually setting fire to the classroom, the resulting conflagration would rid me of this hated institution.

In a bid to find freedom I absorbed myself in my hobbies, my interests and in my growing social life. Lucky with girl friends, I enjoyed the reassurance that I could be valued, even desired. In a climate of changing social values I was allowed considerable scope to pursue my desires. Seizing this freedom, I set out to discover the world on my own terms.

Though from an early age I had attended Christian Science Sunday School, lessons concerning the nature and existence of God puzzled me greatly. As time wore on, I freely began to admit my incapacity to benefit from this tuition. At fourteen years old, this forced upon me a need for self-reliance and independence, soon causing me to question and dismiss the disciplines imposed on me, lock, stock and barrel. Openly rebelling against authority and convention, I flaunted well-intentioned guidance regarding diet and alcohol. Temptation to taste the pleasures of sex and drugs then craved my attention. In the following few years considerable rein was given to my appetite in these fields.

Influenced by the flourishing music scene, I tried to find my place in it. With its commitment to innovation and experiment there was room for anyone with enthusiasm, myself included I hoped. The burgeoning growth of interest in the arts brought interesting books and magazines within my means and grasp, filling my mind with new horizons. In this literature I discovered a rising tide of optimism of international proportion, springing from and gripping the young. To a lesser extent this openness was evident in or at least affecting the older generations too.

London - the capital of the world - appeared to be sharing and participating in a mood of easy going optimism, For many Londoners, even acquiring work during this period, presented no real problems though the pay was not that good.

A new vocabulary was being adopted, the usage of which conferred status upon its users most readily sought. New terms and concepts abounded and amongst them appeared those such as 'Mind Expansion' and 'Self-Realisation', ideas which stirred me. Eagerly I sought to familiarise myself with the means of their fulfilment.

The 'Love and Peace' years were good times for many, strident optimism accompanied by quaint naivety, when being sweet natured was considered positively trendy. On us however were heaped the hopes, dreams and aspirations of our elders. Could we do a better job than they were doing? Dubbed the 'Now' generation we were, for better or worse, watched and listened to with unprecedented attention.

All too soon though, many of those so eager to espouse this new cause became side-tracked, some falling prey to the degenerative effects of hedonism. It seemed to some that we were neither discovering new answers, nor paying much heed to the old ones.

Initially working for a hip poster company in Portobello Road (in the summer of '68, where else should I work?), my father then offered me to work for him. He had recently left his secure and I assume, relatively well-paid position in industry to become self-employed, opening up a light engineering and electronics company.

I took the job as High Vacuum Technician, and indeed, I was (high) most of the time. Working alongside Rudi (Jimi Hendrix lookalike and good buddy) and the rest of them, I was happy in my work. Even Jimmy Young on the Beeb, with his incessant cheerfulness sounded pretty good most days. I worked quite contentedly though not because I held any great store by the work ethic, I placed greater importance on my private life, never thinking much further than the next pay day, basking in the belief that things would always sort themselves out.

After a year or so of happy workaday association, my father intimated to me that I might one day take over his business. This set me thinking. Whilst the business was prospering, he was not. He had little time for anything other than for business, a shame since he had other interests and a home eager for his attention. His health too was suffering; he needed time for himself. And I needed to move on.

My lack of enthusiasm to settle down stemmed from my thirst for new experiences, a wish to make my own way through life. Coasting along I added pastry cooking and epoxy resin casting to my list of talents. I enjoyed myself, after all if you don't take life too seriously; you can always find a laugh, can't you? Besides which, there is always 'life after work' isn't there?

By '69, the year of my seventeenth birthday the trend was quite definitely towards indulgence, indulgence to excess! The 'Swinging Sixties' if not quite over were definitely on the wane. The business world gradually awoke to the commercial possibilities of an affluent youth market and seized their opportunities unhesitatingly. The young for their part, myself included, provided easy targets. Any strong desire to do other than slavishly conform to new trends was not particularly evident. This is not to say these were bad times, quite the contrary in fact. As the music found a harder edge with groups like Jeff Beck and Led Zeppelin gaining prominence and showing the way, I was really in my element. I enjoyed too, the unending atmosphere of partying that for me characterised this era. Nevertheless the excesses that had became the norm did sometimes cause me concern.

This concern seemed to be shared by the Chelsea based magazine Gandalf's Garden, which bravely sought to redress the balance. The magazine pointed a rather nervous finger in the general direction of macrobiotic food, yoga and meditation, carrying articles on mysticism alongside interviews of the likes of Marc Bolan of Tyrannosaurus Rex and disc jockey John Peel. Personally I bought it on account of the attractive graphic images contributed by John Hurford and Michael English, having done so I necessarily cast my eyes over the text. Though not that enamoured with the magazine over all, I did however like its direction.

With the return of an Italian girl friend on New Years Eve December '69, I found the thought of resuming work in a factory quite untenable. For several weeks I gave the job a miss altogether, until popping in one day, I informed them that I was leaving to form a rock group, for that was my intention.

Over the next few months I enjoyed myself immensely. Yolanda and I had been writing to each other whilst she had been in Italy, this had convinced us of our need to know each other better. We shared a mutual fascination in each other. Set to enjoy each others company to the full, day after day she would come to see me. Yolanda and I spent our time regaling each other with our life stories, discovering shared opinions, sharing our love. I perceived a deep abiding affinity with each other which reassured me that we were made for each other. Certainly there was no doubt in my mind that I was in love. Realising that we were fortunate to have found each other, we committed ourselves to a lifetime together. The bond being so desired and so strong we wished to be treated as a married couple though we weren't bothered about it being 'official', there was time for all that, perhaps when I became rich and famous! Such was my happiness that I could see nothing but good fortune and happiness for us. A fairy tale romance in a modern age, two souls destined to share and love each other eternally. I believed that my most treasured desires would gain fruition. My cup ran over, or so I thought.

Then it happened, a lecture on fidelity. According to Yolanda, it was unacceptable even to retain a fondness, let alone a love for old flames or sweethearts. 'If you love somebody, you have to give them all your love, you can't share it with other girls!' she blistered.

I stared at her in disbelief and discovered to my alarm that she was serious. On this occasion I shrugged it off but the bone of contention re-surfaced time and time again.

As fun as it usually was to be with my girlfriend, this question came to vex me greatly, an unwelcome intrusion on my emotions. Maybe this was all part of the age-old game of love, an act of courtship, Perhaps hers was a valid viewpoint, I couldn't be sure. I had no way of knowing. Whichever way I looked at the matter, I was reminded of how much she meant to me. I felt guilt at not having 'saved myself' for her. I took her rebukes as flattery, as promise of a higher and more precious love that perhaps she alone could give. Old love letters and mementoes duly jettisoned, I felt safe from further attack.

More was yet to come. Carefree times became punctuated by hot intellectual debate. My interest in music, clothes, nostalgia et al had all to be justified. Beliefs, opinions and hopes, all were discussed. I sensed a challenge in her words. I was being cross-examined and it made me uncomfortable. I found myself fighting for beliefs I didn't even know I had, defending not only my own viewpoints but those of my friends and family too. The discussions became more fervent, more intense. In consequence I would re-examine every possession, every thought, weighing up its' origin, worth and function. Every vestige of my life seemed to undergo this treatment. In doing this I felt blessed by its purging influence for I had accumulated quite a lot of clutter over the years. I discovered old toys, long discarded, hiding away in a cupboard. The hand-made model of a shop, beautifully crafted for me by my father, a toy garage with Dinky cars and the like, Minibrix and old tea cards. How much they had all meant to me as a child! Happy recollections, my childhood came flooding back.

No room for sentiment though, for what does the Bible say? 'When we were young we played with childish things, now we are grown we cast aside those things', something like that I'm sure. Ruthlessly I maintained a vigorous and thorough purge. Records, clothes, guitars, books, comics and other items were given to friends, some returned to their rightful owners and others sold to strangers. I got quite a buzz out of it all. On presenting one particular friend with some of these goodies, he commented, with poetic licence, that I resembled a snake shedding its skin.

It was during this period of re-evaluation that I made the monumental decision to abandon the use of 'artificial' stimulants. I convinced myself that I could reach a higher level of happiness without that sort of help. This decision didn't go down too well with anyone aside from my mother. After all, who had heard of such a thing? Well my late father for one, with his commitment to the Christian Science faith.

For a time things went well after this decision. The only threat to my resolve coming to me from Leo, a guitarist friend, and a good buddy from way back. We both shared an ambition to form a group to rival even The Beatles. His visits would be characterised by his repeated wish to play on our upright piano. Thumping out the chords to 'Let it Be' and crooning its hymn-like lyrics extremely loudly, he would give a serviceable rendition of the song and usually raise a laugh. On these occasions he would attempt to challenge me, 'Go on Man. Join me in a drink Man. Just one glass.'

'No. I've already told you, told you repeatedly in fact. No.. No... No!!!'

'Well, maybe a smoke then. It's really good stuff really strong.'

'Look I don't want to. Thank you but No.'

'Huh,' he said, turning to address Yolanda, 'I remember when young Paul here would never have refused a joint. What's up with you Man?'

Yolanda looked annoyed. She had heard it all before. No longer smoking or drinking herself and feeling a loyalty towards me, she sought to make a response, but confronted with his over-bearing manner she found this difficult.

'Yes, Yes, I know. I was there too you know,' she answered Leo hesitantly. Silenced, he wandered out of the room - a trip to the bathroom in order.

Emerging some minutes later he asserted his wish to play 'just one more time' his favourite tune of the day. Seated at the piano his fingers plunging at the keys, he embarked on yet another journey through its seemingly countless verses.

'When I find myself in times of trouble Mother Mary comes to me, whispering words of wisdom, let it be. let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. Whispering words of wisdom....'

Other friends too, showed considerable surprise at my decision to 'stop the party', looking upon me with concern, curiosity, even suspicion since I had now become something of a recluse. Stepping out of line I had to pay the price, stubbornly and wilfully I stuck to my guns and was rewarded by all but a few of my friends giving me a wide berth. No, that is not totally fair or even true. I had the occasional visits and jaunts, but I sensed that unless I re-adopt my former values, I was destined to an isolation of my own making.

At first I didn't really notice this isolation and when I did I wasn't too bothered about it. As time wore on however, it placed a considerable onus on me to re-think my situation and amend it; I failed on both accounts. Yet as cut off as I was I couldn't help thinking that I must respond as a matter of urgency to the seemingly natural calling to heed the spiritual questions that arose in me. Else were they forever to be ignored and unanswered?

After a few weeks' abstinence from stimulants, I felt no ill effect or deficiency, quite the opposite in fact. But thereafter I perceived a gradual deterioration to my normally cheery mood. I didn't know why. It was as though that old proverbial carpet had decided I was for it. The last couple of years had been an unexpected party; but the morning after had now arrived.

Even then I realised I had my share of good fortune, I knew that. A particularly loving, caring mother, a large circle of friends and many absorbing interests. Obsessed with music I found a fountain of pleasure in listening to records and playing guitar. Then of course there was Yolanda; she still seemed to think the world of me.

Somehow though, all this did not prevent me from falling prey to an intense feeling of vacuousness and melancholy. Unfamiliar as I was to this mood, I fought long and hard to cast away these feelings, to rediscover my former identity. Fitfully I would regain some semblance of the joyfulness that I so long took for granted, only to return repeatedly to a well of despondency.

Happily it was not a permanent condition though my changes of mood were quite unnerving. I felt certain that no one would understand my predicament, I therefore sought my own solution. Like a scientist looking for an antidote to some disabling disease, I wracked my brain for an answer.

Many reasons could be offered for the condition that I found myself in. Probably the effects of reckless indulgence wreaking their vengeance finally catching up with me? Or maybe as an incurable romantic and unswerving idealist, I had pinned too much hope on the fruits of true love. Whilst this road promised much in the way of fulfilment, it could be the source of psychological unrest. But another reason for my dilemma might be that, raised in an environment strongly inclined towards religion, I had been primed to try to discover the truths of Christian literature and attempt to find God. More likely, it was a combination of all these things.

Long I toiled with the problem, days turned into weeks many weeks. I drew a blank. But was I to resign myself to accepting the situation? Was this the Higher Consciousness I was seeking? Hardly!

Undeterred I cogitated long and hard, the questions kept coming at me...

Who am I?

Why do we live?

What should I do with my life?

Is there more to me than just body mind and ego?

Is God really watching me, watching over me?

I was near to breaking point, possibly close to breakdown when I first felt the glimmer of the idea enter my mind. It took time before it actually took a firm hold on me and captured my imagination.

See the world. See how the other half live. Perhaps they've got a few answers!

But how could I? How could I afford to jet around with only a few pounds in my Post Office account? And this was not the only doubt that beset me.Why should I have to journey to find my peace of mind? Surely, I argued, I was as likely to find it right here at home. Home, the environment that had given me security and comfort for so many years.

Living in Putney in suburban South London, there were plenty of parks and common land to wander in at leisure and contemplate my innermost thoughts. I didn't see myself as a traveller, much more a Bilbo Baggins figure preferring to be within easy reach of the kettle and of course the biccie barrel. Tolkien in his creation of the Hobbit depicted in this character the very conflicts I felt. The desire to see new lands, witness their wonders, experience the thrill of adventure versus the craving for reassurance that home, family and friends can offer. Unlike Bilbo however, I received no visit from a personable wizard to offer direction and advice.

Loyalties were another issue to consider. How could I tell my mother I was entertaining such an idea? I hadn't any 'proper' plans or destination as yet. I wasn't at all sure how she would take the news, my father having only recently passed away. Being now the only resident family member she doted on me.

How could I front this notion to anyone else for that matter?

I had done a certain amount of hitchhiking both with my good friend Henderson and also on my own, visiting places like Cornwall, Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire and Wales. Oftimes I had popped down to see my sister in Brighton where she attended university. Travelling to foreign parts though! Now here was a different kettle of fish altogether. Hampering my new desire was an almost total lack of knowledge concerning the geography of the world too.

My mind was in turmoil. Other than in flights of fancy I hadn't been even faintly interested in the idea of travel, and now? Well it looked as though I was set to embark on a journey of 'epic' proportions. My system collapsed under the pressure. Though gradually reviving, I was thrust back again and again into an enfeebled condition. The choice quite surprisingly was made the easier because of this predicament. Stated clearly the decision was now markedly between going on the road, or going off the rails!

Recognising the severity of the situation I realise that to procrastinate further could well lead to my entire undoing. Since I still have, in spite of my condition, a streak of self-preservation, I elect to GO!!

Where to go then? Several places spring to mind, the Holy Land, Egypt and notwithstanding the ubiquitous advertising campaign to gain funds for Oxfam, which utilise the photograph of an emaciated tearful child, I still feel inexplicably drawn to India.

In a moment of inspiration, I remember the ornamental Globe in the front room. Seizing this and perching it on the table, I give it a spin. Travelling at thousands of miles per second the continents and seas become a grey indistinguishable blur. As it slows I contemplate it; does the world really look like this? Ascertaining the whereabouts of South America, I find myself muttering the names of countries as I scrutinise their shape, colour, and size. Moving my attention elsewhere I discover many other countries, Finland, Denmark, Sweden, Greenland and the U.S. of A. It is then that I discover the Soviet territories.

'Wow, they take up about half of the world,' I exclaim Now, playing with this orb, I rapidly absorb the relative positions of the continents in relation to the Polar Regions.

'Now.. I wonder where we are. Ah, here's Britain!' I am shocked to note that Great Britain is, according to this Globe anyway, very small indeed.

My eyes scan across Europe, the Middle East and further eastwards, homing in on my target. 'Ah India!' I exclaim aloud.

Since I haven't much money and will therefore have to resort to hitchhiking, I start to plot a route that will entail the minimum amount of sea travel (I can't imagine thumbing a ride across the sea from Portsmouth Harbour, nor am I tempted to try!). The direct route, cutting straight through Europe seems the most obvious. However, since the world is, at least for the moment, my oyster, I contemplate the alternatives. Could I visit Morocco or perhaps Israel?

When much younger, my father had once asked me a question related to travel. 'Supposing you could travel back in time Paul, where would you go and what would you like to see?'

Hesitating for a moment, I found an answer. 'That's easy,' I confidently replied, 'America, to see the Cowboys and Indians. What about you, where would you go?'

My father looked at me in a thoughtful and serious manner. He answered in a quietened voice and with evident emotion, 'To the Holy Land in the time of our Lord.'

I felt ashamed of myself as I recognised just how devout a Christian my father was, it humbled me. Me with my dreams of Cowboys and Indians!

Now, planning the route is fun, I consider the options and a rough idea of a possible route become clears. Popping over to France, I could across into Spain, then over that little bit of water into Morocco. Nipping along the coast of Africa I would come to Egypt, that land of archaeological dreams. One of my childhood interests had been in following in the footsteps of Leonard Wooley and Sir Mortimer Wheeler in going on 'digs'.

'Egypt, now that's a place I'd like to see,' I murmur.

Next stop Israel. I had heard that a friend had stayed there on a Kibbutz. And then? Turn right, crossing this area here would take me to where I would want to get to eventually, India!

A wave of exhilaration now casts aside my anguish.

'Perhaps Yolanda would like to come with me,' I wonder.