Forget Superman. King Arthur was my boyhood hero. A chivalrous protector of the realm seemed eminently more admirable than a flying alien with X-ray vision who wore his underwear on the outside.
Even before I could read properly my father took me at bedtime through a doorstop book of the Arthurian legend. When we finished the last page we would start again at the first.
Arthur's story may be largely folklore and his historical existence disputed by modern historians but I was satisfied he defended Britain against Saxon invaders and saved many damsels in distress.
Tales of the gallantry of Sir Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, Gareth and their comrades in arms at Camelot's Round Table held me in awe. In later years I even wore a sweater bearing the coat of arms of Arthur's legendary birthplace, Tintagel.
So, on a road-trip holiday through Devon and Cornwall, a visit there was mandatory.
High above the ocean, the blackened ruins of Tintagel Castle, where Uther Pendragon seduced the Queen of Cornwall, brood over the Cornish coast from cliffs that drop to a ragged shore.
From the fifth to seventh century AD Tintagel was an important stronghold and probably a residence of Cornwall's rulers.
Perhaps because it was thought to be the seat of Cornish kings it inspired the 12th-century writer Geoffrey of Monmouth to name it the place where King Arthur was conceived, with some help from the wizard, Merlin.
Such associations with legend inspired Richard, Earl of Cornwall, to build a castle here in the 1230s. The mythical associations keep interest in Tintagel alive.
Tintagel really is the stuff of legends.
A morning's exploration was thirsty work. Cornishmen of old were clearly healthy of body. We repaired to Tintagel Village and the King Arthur's Arms for refreshment of a bitterly cold, sparkling lager.
The castle stands on both sides of an eroded neck of land dividing an island from the mainland.
A visit demands, at the least, an 800m walk along uneven track to Tintagel Head and a steep climb up steps to reach the castle, nowadays mainly stone walls, arches and passageways amid the Cornish greenery.
A bridge links to Tintagel Island, and Merlin's Cave. Legend has it that Merlin still walks on the beach there, and that his voice can sometimes be heard.
Though it's too far to walk, 18km away is Dismay Pool on Bodkin Moor. Legend also says this was the last resting place of Excalibur, the magical sword that Arthur threw to the Lady of the Lake.
Logic demanded I take home a memento of the visit: a King Arthur's Arms sweater. The pub had neither my size nor preferred colour, but the accommodating publican undertook to acquire one for me and send it on. The fourth beer persuaded me to believe him and pay for it.
"When do you leave for home?" he asked. "What's your flight number?"
Three weeks later our meander through Cornwall, Devon, Wales and Ireland - having paused, of course, at Glastonbury in Somerset to pay respects at the graves where Arthur is said to lie buried alongside his beautiful queen, Guinevere - ended back in the shadow of Windsor Castle.
We headed that evening for Heathrow and checked in. "Oh," said the check-in lady, "I have a parcel for you."
I unwrapped my King Arthur's Arms sweater, pulled it over my head and strode to the aircraft. Regally, I thought.
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