The Bermuda some us remember is still exciting, even though it was a time when the pace of everyday life was vastly different from today. Whenever I reflect on those early days, it seems as though we were living in a different world.

What amazes me is how most of us had so little, and yet managed to find ways to keep our spirits alive with the hope that just around the corner things would get better. There were tough times, and good times, but it was the good times that made that Bermuda of yesterday something special to remember.

Attending Central School, now Victor Scott, during the closing stages of the war had so many memories that it would be impossible to relate even half of them here.

Just getting to school on some days was an adventure. With no buses, if you did not own a pedal cycle, foot power was the only thing left.

You were expected at school, rain, blow or shine and on time. In those days there was a price to be paid for almost everything you did wrong, and at times that included schoolwork.

But as far as I was concerned, at Central, we had some of the world's most wonderful teachers, and at a time when discipline was alive and well. For the benefit of our young people a few memories from earlier years might help them to appreciate what they have today.

As I mentioned, the Second World War was still raging and while most homes in Bermuda had no radio or television the newspaper kept the country informed on how the war was going.

As a youngster I remember the little colourful cards that were in cereal boxes showing the different types of aircraft being used by the Allies in the conflict. Just looking at the pictures I felt we could not lose. I spent many hours drawing them with any pencil I could find.

You did not have to read the newspaper to be aware of the war. There was evidence everywhere. At school there were large sand bags stacked against the lower front of the school and occasionally we had an air raid drill.

Apart from this, the shortage of supplies tested many families to the limit in trying to keep food on the table. Some of our greatest unsung heroes in all sections of our community lived through that period, and helped to lay the foundation for the Bermuda we enjoy today.

Now let me explain why getting to school was an adventure. When I left my home on Ewing Street, especially on a rainy day, it meant going down a narrow slippery trail behind our home to reach North Street. In an effort to reduce travelling time I would take what was nothing short of an obstacle course to reach school on time. The area was known as the pond or jungle area.

There was mud everywhere along with high grass and what seemed like a million frogs jumping about. That was only a part of it. There were a few ditches that had to be jumped with no room for error.

Doing this while carrying books was not easy. The last part of the journey involved cutting through part of the Pembroke Dump, and after that, there was the school day ahead.

Some mornings as I entered the school grounds, I too felt I had been to war. You knew you were late when you heard singing from the assembly hall. It was not good to be late.

There were students assigned to take the names of latecomers and they did this with a little smirk, as though they were delighted knowing that you were going to get it.

One would have thought the Wailing Wall was at Central School, by the sounds coming from those who had received their just due for being late.

Many students who came through that period said later they believed it was the discipline along with dedicated teachers that armed them for the tough real world ahead.

Apart from school lessons we were taught that taking short cuts or cheating was not an option. I learned this the hard way. Instead of doing my assigned homework I found playing cricket in the street with my friends too appealing to resist.

After play, because light had faded, I was too tired to even think about homework. The next morning I scrambled some gibberish in my book in order to hand it in. I knew a certain punishment involving pain awaited those who failed to do so. Who did I think I was fooling? The teacher was none other than Miss Edith Crawford, who was discipline personified.

When she entered the classroom with the books under one arm and a cane under the other, she gave me a sort of glare that made my blood chill. I knew my time had come. A few moments later, she called me up to the front. When I returned to my seat I had to check my right hand to make sure it had not been amputated by the cane. The real lesson she taught some of us was that much more pain awaited those who tried to bluff their way through life.

It would take a book to recapture most of the events of those days but when ever heritage month rolls around, somehow it unlocks the door to those cherished memories. As I stated there were good times and not so good times.

That was the case from the day the first human foot was placed on Bermuda soil. It is always good to reflect in order to learn and appreciate the many sacrifices others made along the way.