Little did I realise as I clambered up the gangplank of the King Orry ferry tethered to the Liverpool dockside that I was about to find the cure for my acute homesickness. It was midnight on a cool summer June night in 1965 and I was embarking on an adventure that changed my life. Four hours later, after a merciful calm crossing of the infamous Irish sea, I arrived as dawn broke over Douglas Bay in the Isle of Man ready to watch my first Grand Prix, the six lap Senior TT round the legendary mountain circuit.

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