The Journey to Harrogate: Broken Zips, Melted Mars Bars, and the End of Childhood
May 4th, 1970
Tomorrow, I'd be getting on a train to Harrogate to join the British Army. I was fifteen years old, and it felt like I was heading to the edge of the world. Up until then, my idea of travel was a school trip to Builth Wells or Bristol Zoo – basically nowhere. Harrogate might as well have been Mars.
The plan was to spend the night at my grandmother's house in Mayhill – closer to Swansea railway station for the early start. My memories of saying goodbye to my parents, brothers, and sisters are hazy now, lost in a whirlwind of excitement and terror. I had £3 in my pocket – an absolute fortune when you could get a cup of tea for a few pence and a pint for a couple of shillings. I felt rich.
A Fashion Disaster in the Making
The dawn of May 5th brought tearful farewells from my Nan and a firm handshake from Grandpa, whose proud words and good wishes echoed in my ears. All my worldly possessions were crammed into a small shoulder bag, alongside Nan's lovingly prepared ham and salad cream sandwiches and two precious Mars Bars.
My chosen travel outfit was my favourite pair of chequered trousers. There was just one problem: the zip had broken a couple of days earlier. Since they were my only "decent" trousers, I'd done a quick needle-and-thread job and sewn them shut.
This presented a rather interesting design flaw for a long train journey: I couldn't use a public toilet without dropping my trousers completely and flashing my arse to half the railway station. Not ideal for a fifteen-year-old trying to look worldly and mature.
The Long Road North
The day was a scorcher. Multiple train changes and long waits on stifling platforms blurred into a humid haze. Swansea to Cardiff. Cardiff to Bristol. Bristol to Birmingham. Each change meant navigating unfamiliar stations with my small bag and growing anxiety about missing connections.
The furthest north I'd ever been was that school trip to Builth Wells. Now I was watching Wales disappear through the window, then England rolling past in an endless succession of fields, towns, and industrial estates I couldn't name.
At some point during one of the endless platform waits, I tried to console myself with one of Nan's Mars Bars. I unwrapped it eagerly, only to find it had melted into a gloopy, chocolate-covered disappointment. I ate it anyway, getting it all over my fingers and probably my face, looking like exactly what I was: a scruffy kid from the valleys who'd never been anywhere.
Arrival
Sheffield. Leeds. More platforms, more waiting, more unfamiliar accents. The train from Leeds was delayed, and by the time I finally pulled into Harrogate, it was around 8 p.m. I'd been travelling for over twelve hours.
The bus station was conveniently located just outside Harrogate railway station. A short ride later, I arrived at what would be my home for the next two years: the Army Apprentices College.
There was no brass band, no welcoming speech. Just a bored-looking Corporal at the gate who showed me to my room and introduced me to the other "Brats" – that's what they called us apprentices. I wasn't sure if it was affectionate or just accurate.
Either way, I was now officially a member of Scott Squadron.
I was exhausted, sticky with melted chocolate, and probably smelled like ham sandwiches and nervous sweat. My trousers were sewn shut, my Mars Bars were ruined, and I was further from home than I'd ever been in my life.
My childhood was over. My Army story had begun.
And I had absolutely no idea what came next.