It was the year 1950.

It was the month of May and, on the Isle of Man, preparations were well advanced for the start of the ’season’.

It was five years since the war had ended and the men of the island who had fought and survived had by now hopefully returned to their pre-war routines.

I was now 10 years old and life was an adventure.

Pulrose was a safe and secure place to live and the street was our playground. Each street or road had been given the name of a tree. Ours was Cedar Grove and was shaped like a horseshoe.

The ’main road’ was Laburnum and centrally divided the estate into two halves.

Cedar Grove was about halfway up this central division, and was unique in the sense that being a horseshoe, it was connected to Laburnum twice, whereas all of the other branches, if you will pardon the pun, such as Elm Avenue or Birch Grove, adjoined the main trunk only once.

This geographic anomaly gave the kids from Cedar the advantage of being able to ’run round the block’ as opposed to racing there and back.

We competed for ’world records’, ranging from hoop racing, trolley driving and the wheelbarrow grand prix.

As in all things competitive and home-made, there were many variations to the rules. Hoop racing was simply chasing, hitting and steering a bicycle wheel (rim only) with a short, hand-held stick.

A popular sport, it could be run as a solo event, or as a massed start with the winner being first past the post.

The streets were wide and virtually empty of traffic.

So far, the affluent few Cedar Grove residents who were yet to join the motoring society were still saving up.

Transport was bike or bus and two bus routes connected Pulrose to Douglas. Both routes joined together Top Pulrose, old Pulrose (us) and, when completed, the new estate of Spring Valley.

We were free to roam.

We played football, cricket and rounders in the street and marbles in the pavement gutters.

We scavenged for interesting finds on the local tip and managed to avoid drowning in the swamps.

The river was the place to find frogspawn to take home and watch the tiny creatures, each with their one big eye, grow and transform through their short life cycle. Or you could venture along the Nunnery footpath and risk arrest and torture if you were caught climbing over the high wall to spy on the peacocks that lived in the grounds.

For reasons still unknown, my mother would not let me join the Pulrose youth club.

I never knew why this ban was imposed, and as both parents have long since departed, I never shall.

I was allowed to join the Salvation Army Friday film club which was held each week in what was known as the Pulrose Hut. I was also welcome to join in any event in the Methodist church Sunday school, and in the years to come I was a member of St George’s youth club in Douglas, but Pulrose club and young Pullyman were never to become as one.

We’d throw sticks into the chestnut trees on Peel Road to bring down the conkers and would stand for hours where the river runs beside the power station to watch salmon leaping their way up-river.

I’ve caught rabbits with dogs, nets and ferrets and walked to a field on the Marine Drive with my father on an early Sunday morning to pick mushrooms for breakfast.

I’ve brought home bunches of daffodils for my mother that had been picked from a well-known mansion, and I’ve been cautioned by the police because my bike lacked a red rear reflector and a bell.

I’ve done all of this and much more before I was 12 years old. For all that I’ve done, for all I’ve seen, for everywhere I’ve been, thank you.

The world may never be the same again.