I went to church last Sunday for the first time since I don't know when. Oh, of course, like everyone else I've been there for weddings, funerals and baptisms on occasion, but this visit required attendance at a straightforward morning service.

It was in Brixham, South Devon. I was there with The Family.

Not my own kids or grandchildren but umpteen Daveys of all ages from around the globe. A cousin, from South Africa, had organised a reunion in the fishing port where our great-great-grandfather had, apparently, sailed off to find his fortune with a trawler fleet of his own across the Irish Sea in Dublin Bay.

It seems he'd made a religious pit-stop en route to the harbour before his departure, though (before he reached the Emerald Isle) we've discovered he also managed to pick up a bride for himself in the West Wales port of Milford Haven.

Anyway, back to church, where, to tell the truth, I was feeling rather reluctant about attending.

It's not my scene but my wife (who has no choral voice but likes listening to others singing) was keen to the point of putting me in an arm-lock and frog-marching me down the main street.

As we gathered outside the place of worship my spirits soared a little when, right on cue, a marching band struck up and headed towards us. A generous Devonian welcome for the Davey clan? No. Not quite. Some church lads group from Wolverhampton happened to be strutting their stuff on annual camp. So, pride being slightly dented, I took a deep breath, passed through the entrance portals and took a pew.

Seeing all the brigade kids nudging and poking each other during the service which followed brought back to me why I was so reluctant to put in an appearance. Because when I was their age I was ex-communicated, in a manner of speaking, from the Church of England.

It was all quite painless, though my mother claimed my banishment meant she had to endure long months of parochial humiliation in our home village.

I was not the only one to feel the backlash of the Church. There were other co-conspirators. All of us attended Sunday School, religiously. Your parents were adamant you went on a Sunday afternoon.

It was not a joyous experience. The vicar was the focus of our disaffection with what we saw as extra tuition on a day that should be lesson-free. We did not like him, either, which didn't help.

It could not go on. One Sunday we sprang our trap on the unfortunate fellow. We worked out that the church hall where Sunday School took place could become like Fort Knox. If you sprung the locks correctly on every exit, anyone left inside could not get out without assistance from the outside world.

When Sunday School ended we went our separate ways to our allocated exits and did our stuff. Inside, neatly confined (as we had been by him all afternoon), was the vicar.

I should mention there were no windows of note in the hall. There were a few out of reach without a ladder, but not wide enough to climb through.

We went home. He didn't. In fact, he wasn't discovered for hours (the church was nowhere near the church hall), and he was released some considerable time after his no-show at evensong.

Retribution was swift. We were no longer welcome. And from that day forward, every Sunday we roamed the lanes and fields rather in the manner of Richmal Crompton's William and The Outlaws. We were free.

Oddly, after a while, my parents never raised the issue again...

Anyway, back in Brixham, I emerged into the August summer gloom seemingly unscathed. We were all kindly invited back by the congregation to take refreshments at the church hall. I declined. I felt I might have been pushing my luck.