A VISIT to the Lake District in all its autumn glory also proved to be a trip down Memory Lane.

I told Malcolm I would certainly not disturb the total strangers who live in the house where I was brought up, in the tiny hamlet of Brathay, between Ambleside to Grasmere.

But once I'd peeped over the gate my curiosity got the better of me and in no time we were being shown the garden and house that left such a mark on my childhood.

It was almost exactly as I remembered - the river across which you could wade from Westmoreland to Lancashire before Ted Heath destroyed the traditional English counties, the larch trees where blue jays used to nest and which was home to a pair of red squirrels, the wide lawns, the rhododendrons and the little crag on top of which was a log cabin - still miraculously intact - in a spinney of beech and silver birch.

I was assured that kingfishers and dippers still made their home on the river.

The house had been divided into two, but the part in which our kind hosts lived was instantly familiar, in spite of the changes over the course of almost 60 years. Then they brought out the wine and darkness had fallen by the time we left.

Next day we went to Ambleside to inspect a seat which I have had put up in memory of my father, the town's greatly loved GP, outside his old surgery, to replace one that had disintegrated over 30 years.

We were met and entertained by several civic dignitaries including a lovely man who had served with dad in St John's Ambulance.

During his lifetime, and since he died, I have met people who knew my father and who almost go down on their knees when they discover my connection.

The morning confirmed he was a man who was loved and respected, not only for his medical skills but also for his humanity. It was a good feeling.