IT WAS while I was on holiday at Pontin’s in Devon — the family considered it a notch above Butlin’s — that I decided to become a singer. It was the first time I’d ever sung in front of people. And there were 400 of them. But I did it — well, most of it. I forgot the lyrics to Lady Madonna halfway through. Still, mum and dad were quietly impressed and I got the girl: Beverley, from Camberley, whom I’d fancied all week.

My first real trip abroad — when I was 16 — was one of those “educational” cruises around the Mediterranean on a converted troop ship. It cost £80 for two weeks, which was a lot of money then. It was educational, but not always in the way the organisers intended. I was tall for my age, so the sixth-formers would smuggle me into discos and bars. I learnt to smoke and drink, and fell in love with a Canadian girl. I had to be carried back on board one night and I remember my teacher saying, “Get him out of my sight.”

Some of it was amazing, though, especially Pompeii and Vesuvius. But it’s hard to believe we were almost refused docking because there had been a cholera epidemic a few weeks earlier. Only 30 years ago and there was cholera in southern Italy. And some of the places were so poor: Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece and especially Turkey. I can remember shoeless kids in Istanbul with their dancing bears. It seemed unbelievably exotic.

When we got back, my mum and dad were waiting and really worried. I was the only kid who hadn’t written a postcard. Well, I’d written it, just forgotten to post it. They were convinced something terrible had happened. And what did I say? “Hi. I’ll be right back. There’s this Canadian girl I’ve got to phone...”

My next big trip was to St Tropez with Spandau Ballet. We drove down in a Toyota Hiace, with all our gear and three layers of suitcases on the roof. The last one in had to climb through the window and travel on top of the amps. It was so dangerous. We were way south when the back tyre blew. It was almost an Italian Job moment as we headed for the edge, but I just held on.

We were booked to play at the smart Papagayo club for two weeks. We were given a basic apartment, just a couple of rooms strewn with mattresses. That first night we ran up a bar bill of £1,500 — the beer was £8 a pop. They banned us from drinking, but the waitresses took pity on these poor English boys and slipped us cocktails behind the management’s back. They were great times. St Tropez to us was what Hamburg was to the Beatles. With better weather. And topless beaches.

When we became successful, we travelled the world, but I was always good at coming back for a family holiday. We used to go to a village called Stanton, near Broadway, in the Cotswolds. There is a self-catering complex with cottages, a pool, tennis courts and a great riding stables nearby. I used to gather us all up and do a mock Charge of the Light Brigade across the fields. All my kids are good riders and great skiers, because those were our sorts of holidays.

I’ve done a couple of walks to raise money for the Action Medical Research charity. The first trip was to Machu Picchu, and day two, when the incline really starts, was pretty punishing. When the first blisters were being rubbed raw, I said to my mate, “You know, I could really do with a beer.” We rounded a bend and there was a Peruvian woman with cans of beer cooling in a stream. I bought the lot and that night we had a party in the tent. Then someone admitted they’ d stowed a bottle of vodka in their pack and it got out of hand. Don’t drink at altitude, they say. Still, it was fun and we made the ruins, which are incredible.

Earlier this year, I did another trek for Action Medical Research, to the mountains — tepuis — of Venezuela. I had my appendix out just before the trip and everyone told me not to go. But the doctor, bless him, said, “You’ll be okay, just don’t do anything too strenuous.” So all I did was carry a two-stone backpack for a week, go microlighting and then skiing, when I got back, before going into the studio to record the new album. These days, that’s taking things easy.

Tony Hadley talked to Rob Ryan