I SPENT seven years as an undergraduate at university. My disability prevented my studying at a typical pace; so I was granted permission to pursue my degree part-time over six years, and illness added one more to the total.

For all those years, my accommodation was a small room in a flat on the ground floor of a large house, a few minutes’ walk from the centre of the campus. It was a wholly unremarkable space: plain magnolia walls, a bed, wardrobe, and desk. The electronic lock frequently malfunctioned, seemingly always when it was least convenient. The window barely opened, and the panes hung loosely in
their frames, with great gaps around the edges. It was stifling in summer and freezing in winter.

Despite all this, I have fond memories of that room. Having grown up in the family home, where my parents looked after my many care needs, it gave me independence and my first taste of true freedom. It was where I was able to discover who I truly was and learn everything I was capable of doing for myself.

OF ALL my memories from that room, the one that has remained clearest in my mind is not actually from within those four walls: it is the view from the window. Outside the house stood an oak tree of considerable vintage (I never discovered precisely how old it was, but it had undoubtedly stood there for many years). It was an impressive specimen, easily exceeding the height of the three-storey houses that surrounded it. From my window, I had a perfect view of it, and, for those seven years, I had the privilege of watching the seasons work their transformations.

In the autumn, as the canopy lost its lustre, the ground outside would be carpeted with a rich brocade of amber. In winter, it was rugged and bony; and I would lie awake on stormy nights, listening to the cry of branches straining against the wind. The first new leaves in spring were a welcome burst of colour after months of grey, and brought with them the expectation of the impending return to the tree’s full majesty; indeed, it was the sight of it in summer which made the deepest impression.

Relishing the freedom that I had found there, I continued to rent my room over the holidays rather than go home, and I spent many a lazy August day watching the boughs swaying softly in gentle breezes, the leaves shining in that dappled, golden afternoon sunlight.

In times of hardship, when illness or injury took me away from my room, there was something comforting in the notion that — whatever sterile hospital ward I might find myself on — the tree was still out there, no less lovely for the situation I was in; and, in the years since I graduated, my thoughts have often returned to the view from that window.

No matter the time of year, the image of that tree, standing resplendent in the summer sun, is a reminder to me of blissful, carefree days, and the boundless joy of discovering my place in the world.

Tom Hammond has a first-class degree in history. He wrote his dissertation on the history of jazz, and has a particular interest in maritime history and the history of Japan.