Every ex-valley boy loves a trip back to the green, green grass of home and I'm no exception. Returning to Wales always brings back memories of growing up, of school and of family life.

Wales was different then of course. From my brother's bedroom window I could see both Caerphilly castle and the winding gear at Bedwas pit. With the window open you could also hear the commotion of the mine with its whistles, coke ovens and railway wagons being roughly shunted. Nowadays looking out of the window only the castle can be seen clearly - and all that remains of the pit are the 'landscaped' slag heaps.

'Industrial heritage in decline' was a theme that ran through my childhood along with Scooby Doo, Crackerjack and what became known as 'Glam Rock'. But being at the fag end of the steam age did have its advantages. At nearby Barry Island was Woodham's scrapyard, the place where old engines came to die - or more accurately in many cases, await preservation.

Every time dad took us to Barry Island there were always hundreds of engines there (or so it seemed). Giant rusting monsters standing in rows which went on for miles. Barry Island was different then of course. Part of the old Woodham yard is now a carpark and through grown-up eyes it's obvious that Barry Island isn't an island at all, in the same way that London's Isle of Dogs and Canvey Island are not surrounded by a muddy estuary full of shopping trolleys.

Another thing you notice is that Barry Island is quite small, with a very presentable beach and promenade. But the most noticeable thing is the dump on the front masquerading as an amusement park.

Check out the word 'shabby' in your dictionary and you'll get something like 'threadbare or dilapidated in appearance' - a phrase that really hits the spot. Just looking at the squalid Log Flume from across the road should have told me not to walk through the gates, but hey, I needed the material for the site.