In the 60's we used to go to Birchington on Sea for a week's holiday. My mother, my Nan, me and my brother.

On the final day my Dad would drive down with my Grandad to take us home again: and the final thing we would do would be to go to Dreamland.

For me, Dreamland really was the stuff of dreams. I spent all week looking forward to running through the gates and down into the fair: the place seemed to me to be enormous, and the attractions went on forever. I loved the smell and the rides, the ghost train, and most of all, The Scenic Railway.

Every year, from when I was big enough to do so, I dreamed of going on the Scenic Railway. Every year, I got cold feet at the last minute and missed out, promising I would go on it the next year - and so it went until finally, in my early teens, I finally summoned the courage to go on, with my Grandad. I was not disappointed.

Could it really have been this tame?