Jonny McCambridge: As a pupil and a parent, the wheels on the school bus keep going round and round

Perhaps unusually, I started going on the bus from as early as P1 because I grew up in the country, several miles from civilisation and the closest school.

Later, shortly after I started big school, we moved to a town. However, it was not the same town in which I went to school, so I continued to use public transport to get to class and home again.

Many of my memories of education revolve around experiences on the buses. There was always a walk to get to the bus stop, many times to be undertaken on the dark and wet mornings. The drivers (always men) were generally grumpy. There was often standing room only for the duration of the journey. A bus pass was a sacred object and could not be lost.

The primary school bus journey which I endured was traumatic and disturbing. At a time of heightened sectarian tensions, my brother and I were targeted by older kids on the route because we came from a different religious background to them. The bullying continued for years.

On the very worst day I was tied to a seat on the bus by a teenager so I could not get off at my stop. I was perhaps five or six years old at the time.

The world seemed to be a different and harsher place then. Smoking was still permitted on the seats at the rear of the bus. I remember a couple of occasions when our vehicle was targeted with stones thrown and windows smashed while we were being transported.

The buses seemed to be ancient, grotty and tired. One day the panel on the floor partly collapsing to expose the road below. The journey continued and we had to walk around the hole to disembark.

The secondary school bus journey was a longer trip, but thankfully, nowhere near as traumatic. I had to get two buses, changing mid-journey. I grew to love the spectacular scenery on the north Antrim coast near Ballintoy and White Park Bay as the old bus wound its way around the meandering road every afternoon.

The main risk on this journey was the chaos as we boarded after final bell. Education was a narrower concept then and health and safety considerations did not exist. You were on your own once you left the school gates.

As the bus neared the stop there was no forming of an orderly queue but rather some sort of melee as dozens of excitable pupils rushed to secure the prized seats. Such was the crush and stampede that I often thought if anyone fell to the ground they would likely be crushed underfoot.

A very crude calculation tells me I probably went on around 4,000 school bus journeys. I made several friends on the buses. I saw fights and too much bullying. I had one of my first ever kisses on a back seat.

I laughed perhaps harder than I ever did before or since when a bus buddy once stepped on chewing gum and then left a sticky trail the entire length of the vehicle. One day my friends and I discovered that someone had left a whole cheesecake in a box on the seat. We spent some time discussing the correct course of action when discovering a cheesecake on a bus seat before hungrily and guiltily scoffing the whole thing.

My son attended a primary school in our village so has not required the use of public transport. However, he has recently started big school in a neighbouring town. For the first couple of days we drove him there, just to help him settle in.

But now, on a damp Monday morning, it is time for his first school bus journey. The contrast with my own experience could not be greater. The bus will pick him up and drop him yards from our front door. As we take him on the short walk the driver is outside the vehicle introducing herself to parents and children. She tells us all we need to know and assures us she will look after our boy (I’m embarrassed to say, as a creature of an older time, I still always note when it is a women bus driver).

The landing is as soft as could be hoped for. However, I still sense an unwillingness within my son, a fear of something new and different. I can hear him mumbling to his mum about why can he not be driven to school.

I share his sense of unease and haven’t slept well for a few nights. I just can’t shake the worry. The bus is a symbol of change, of the next step on the journey which takes my son even further away from me. There is something about it all which feels cold and impersonal.

My son is moving on towards a new stage of his life. One in which he will have to take on more responsibility, to learn to solve problems himself. I suppose he is ready for it. I am not entirely sure that I am. As I watched him struggle this morning with the over-sized blazer, the laces on the stiff new shoes and the tie, I had to force down a wave of something close to despair as I maintained my rigid smile.

He says goodbye to us. I place a gentle hand in his back to encourage him up the stairs of the vehicle. Regardless of how I feel, the wheels of the bus have to keep going round and round.