Devon holds a special place in my heart. As a child, I normally

Richard Branson once said: “Devon holds a special place in my heart. As a child, I normally went on holiday to Bantham and have lots of happy memories from my time there. I used to catch sand eels in the early morning and go fishing for bass throughout the day. I remember a gull taking my bait.” At first glance, these are the recollections of a boyhood holiday. Yet beneath them lies the profound truth of human longing: that the places of our youth become temples of memory, shaping the vision and daring of our later years.

To say that Devon holds a special place is to confess that landscapes themselves can become companions of the soul. The sea, the sand, the gull—all these are not mere scenery, but the silent teachers of endurance, patience, and wonder. In the rhythm of casting a line at dawn, in the triumph or frustration of the catch, young Branson was unknowingly preparing for the storms and risks of life. The child who watched a gull steal his bait was already learning that the world takes as much as it gives, and that persistence must replace complaint.

The ancients often spoke of the sanctity of childhood places. The Greeks revered the groves where they had once played, believing that the gods lingered there. The Japanese poets of old returned, in memory and verse, to the rivers and fields of their youth, for they believed the spirit of the land infused their destiny. So too with Branson: his empire was built upon boldness and risk, but the roots of his courage were set in Bantham, in the patient act of fishing, in the thrill of testing himself against the sea.

History shows us that great men often drew strength from humble beginnings tied to nature. Theodore Roosevelt, weak as a boy, found strength and vigor in the wild outdoors, and those memories forged the spirit of the Rough Rider and the conservationist president. Winston Churchill often remembered his youth in Blenheim and the countryside, drawing upon those memories as a reservoir of calm in wartime. Likewise, Branson’s joy in catching sand eels and fishing for bass is more than nostalgia—it is a wellspring of identity, a reminder that the daring of the man was born in the curiosity of the child.

Branson’s words also teach us to treasure the small. A holiday by the sea, a morning spent fishing, even the disappointment of a bird stealing bait—these are not trivial. They are the threads that weave the tapestry of memory. To dismiss them is to dismiss the foundation upon which character is built. He does not remember merely the wealth he later gained, but the freedom of childhood, the salt of the air, the taste of triumph and loss in their simplest form.

The deeper meaning of his memory is that true wealth lies not in possessions, but in experiences that shape us. The boy who learned patience by the shore became the man who dared to launch ventures into the sky and beyond. The child who laughed at a gull stealing bait became the adult who knew how to meet setbacks with resilience. Thus the story of Devon is not just his—it is a parable for all who wonder where their own strength began.

Therefore, take this lesson to heart: return often in memory to the landscapes of your youth. Honor the places that gave you joy, for they hold the key to your courage. Seek experiences, not merely possessions, for in the end it is the memories—the fishing at dawn, the laughter, even the small losses—that become the treasures which guide you through storms. As Branson reminds us, the simple shores of childhood may be the silent forge of greatness. And so, let every man and woman cherish their Devon, their Bantham, their place of first wonder—for in it lies the seed of who they are, and who they are yet to become.