The summer of 1926 is one that Bob Thwaites will never forget.

Bob was the youngest of five children and small for his age. Finding it hard to make friends, Bod would find himself left to his own devices. But he had an active imagination and devised all sorts of games he could play alone.

One day, climbing the apple tree at the bottom of the garden he leant over the wall and he saw a sight to make him rub his eyes, "I saw ponies and men in turbans," he said, "They waved to me and I waved back. One sikh held up his enormous arms to me and said 'You want to see ponies?', and I thought 'why not?' and I let go." Bob's garden backed onto the neighbouring Hurlingham Polo Club, and it was the visiting Sikh team who more or less adopted Bob for that magical summer.

Bob's new friends were kindly to the lonely ten-year-old, "They treated me almost reverently -I was like a mascot," says Bob, "They were so gentle, allowed me an occasional ride and to help with the grooming. They even gave me some curry - it was so damned hot! They were too polite to laugh out loud, but they held their sides."

Bob was introduced him to the team's shaman - an indian mystic. With his long white hair, flowing robes, and lined face, to Bob he looked at least 100 years old. Learning that the shaman was partial to a drop of whisky, the young Bob would nip back home and take a drop or two from his parents' decanters to oblige the old man.

The summer passed, and one day, when Bob climbed the tree to say goodbye to his friends before going off to boarding school, he found the place empty. The ponies, sikhs and the shaman had gone. What had also gone (and who knows the magic of the shaman) were Bob's spots and blemishes and his fear of being bullied at boarding school for such physical imperfections.

A summer never to be forgotten.