My teenage years were spent working out how to get away from the small village in rural Essex I had grown up in. School trips – I did them all. Holidays with friends and their families – whenever I could. Eventually I had the perfect opportunity: a gap year.

While I was finishing my A Levels I scanned brochures in the school library and read about a scheme called Camp America, an organisation that took young people from all over the world to work as staff at summer camps in the United States. Pictures of happy campers in exciting locations – mountains, rivers, forests – doing exciting things like kayaking and abseiling with adoring children surrounding them. It fired my imagination like nothing had before. I pocketed the brochure, took it home and applied.

At my interview, I explained all about my various babysitting roles and sports interests and my aspirations to go to university on my return. I must have said the right things as I was accepted for a place for the following summer. I had nine months to wait and filled the time working in pubs and interning at a radio station, which I loved. But all the time in the back of my mind was Camp America. I had no idea where I was going yet, the camps would review all the applications and decide later in the year; I’d just have to wait. But I knew it was going to be the big break I had looked forward to.

I crossed my fingers for the west coast, somewhere hot and outdoorsy, while tunes by the Beach Boys played on a loop in my head. Working as a barmaid and waitress I saved as much money as possible to fund some independent travel after the camp finished. I couldn’t wait to get on my first iconic Greyhound bus and have adventures.

It seemed like those nine months would take forever but looking back, it seems departure day came around pretty fast. Suddenly I was at the airport, my rucksack packed, about to leave home for the first time. Nerves had kicked in, I couldn’t eat breakfast and I scanned the crowds for anyone that looked friendly. Finding the Camp America rep at the check in desk helped but the nerves persisted. It all seemed quite overwhelming, now I was handing over my boarding pass.

I sat in the departure hall knowing I was doing more than just getting on a plane. This was far more than a holiday; it was a step away from my childhood, from my family, into a new, independent stage of my adult life. It would begin at a summer camp in New York State. The flight was called; I took my first steps towards the plane and adventure. No looking back.