It was an annual ritual. As the full force of the Boeing 747 fought that of gravity, already placing the body at the most unnatural of angles, I would crane my neck backwards taking a final longing look behind, as the man-made beast climbed above Jamaica Bay and out into the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.

That evening, Tuesday 4 September, 2001, was clear, and as I looked behind me, I could make out the silhouette of the world’s most famous skyline set against the beautiful sunset of late summer. Even against the orange background, you could see the red beacons that flashed atop the Northern Tower of the World Trade Centre – this was New York, the most electrifying city on earth, and as every summer, I was always more than a little sad to be leaving it. I remember thinking at that very moment that there could not be a more beautiful site on earth.

It is easy to say now in hindsight, but checking-in had been its usual simple process, nothing like the chaos of Heathrow on the way out. I handed over my passport, they asked me if I had packed my own bags, whether I would like to sit by the aisle or window (daft question!) and whether I had any plans to return to the United States within the next 6 months. After that, they handed me my boarding card, leaving me to give a parting kiss on the cheek to my Uncle, and head through to Duty Free and feast my eyes on tobacco and alcohol. It really was that easy and straightforward.

Even as a degree educated, and what most would describe as intelligent, young man in his late twenties, the name Osama bin Laden and the term Al-Qaeda meant nothing to me, and the only Jalalabad which rung any bells was that in the Indian Punjab, which remains one of the biggest producers of cricket balls.

I would normally not have made my annual trip to the Big Apple until the second week in September, as I always liked to be in New York for the second week of the US Open and the beginning of the NFL Season. I am one of those few Brits who prefers the game known in the States as Football, to that which they term Soccer. However, I needed to be back in the UK, and in Liverpool by Friday 7 September, to enrol and register upon a new course of learning at Liverpool John Moores University.

I was sad to leave, but knew that I would be back the next year, and had much to look forward to. Besides, that parting view of the skyline, particularly the Chrysler Building and of course those landmark twins standing proudly at the southern tip of Manhattan Island, left an imprint in my soul. I swear that evening, that had I looked to my left, I would have seen Derek Jeter depositing a home run into the Bronx from Yankee Stadium, so perfect was the scene that I left behind.

I had spent much of the previous fortnight in the shadow of the World Trade Centre, as I would on most days catch the C-Train from Liberty Avenue, alighting at the Subway Station that bears the same name to those iconic landmarks that it once primarily served.

I would often walk to the North of the island, on one occasion walking all the way from WTC to Harlem, taking in every sight around me, stopping only for coffee at the café at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, standing on the terrace made famous in modern times by the sitcom Friends, and breathing in deeply at the mesmeric view over Central Park, past Rockefeller, Empire State, down to the World Trade Centre I had earlier left.

Despite visiting the usual tourist attractions such as the aforementioned Empire State Building – after all, who would not want to walk in the shoes of Cary Grant but for a minute – and the Statue of Liberty, I never really saw the Twin Towers as such. It was of course an iconic and celebrated landmark, but perhaps lacked the romance of other buildings on the island. I would always be drawn to it as I loved spending time on South Street Seaport, often meeting friends or cousins for lunch during my stay.

However, on that particular visit, I had decided to take the trip up the South Tower to the viewing deck on the ‘roof of the world’ as it was marketed. I vividly remember that the last stage of the ‘journey’ to the roof was taken up an escalator where I was next to a window looking out at the world beneath. For someone ill at ease on ‘The Big One’ at Blackpool Pleasure Beach, it was at once breathtaking and unnerving. The views from up there were like nothing else however, looking east out on to The Hudson River and over to The Bronx, and then west out across Brooklyn and across to New Jersey. It was a feeling that I have never again experienced, but I just felt at that moment that I was as close to heaven as I ever had been.

Romance and reality are of course two uncomfortable bedmates, and it would merely be a week later that our world had changed forever. I recall walking down Liverpool’s Bold Street with my friend Cristina. I specifically remember being bedecked in a Liverpool shirt that I had bought that morning, supporters will have memories of it as the one that was worn in Europe in 2001/2. I was also wearing one of a few New York Yankees caps that I had brought back with me from my holiday.

We wandered aimlessly as we really had no idea as to the best place to grab lunch on our newly inherited student budgets. The decision would be forced on us by the incredulous scenes that we could see on the television screen as we walked past O’Neills on Wood Street.

At that point, only the Northern Tower had been hit, and it was unsure as to whether it was some ‘small plane’ or heinous accident. I ordered a sandwich but would never end up eating it. I was full of nausea and it was also quite cold by the time I next looked down disbelievingly from the screen.

By that point, a further hour or so had passed, and there is no need to recount those events here, I think that they are already known.

The next few days were spent frantically trying to track down and speak to friends and family in New York City. However, it was about as easy as getting through to parts of the Caribbean on Christmas Day … not very! Lines were either dead or very busy, not surprising given the cosmopolitan nature of New York, and that people were trying to do the same as me from every corner of the globe. If we think that our major cities are diverse and rich in culture, well this city takes it to another level.

2 people were lost that day that I knew fairly well, but it was nothing like the pain of those that lost sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, mothers and fathers. It is the latter of those which still chills me to the bone, especially when I think of the significant anniversary approaching. How can any of us ever comfort the young 3 and 4 year olds, now 13 and 14, that kissed parents good-bye that morning never to see them again?

I have not returned to New York City in these past 10 years. It is not that I cannot or that I fear what I will find, simply the circumstances which come from working life.

I will visit at some point in the coming years. After all, I’ve not visited the new Yankee Stadium yet, and am still to see the Knicks at Madison Square Garden. I do not know what my emotions will be when I look towards that southern edge of Manhattan Island and don’t see what I once did.

However, I know that I will find a city which is the embodiment of bravery and character, a city which still never sleeps, a city which has displayed the type of dignity so lacking in other parts of the world. A city brought to its knees but unwilling to lose the biggest fight of its proud history. New York City, the world will salute you and your heroes this Friday, and you will remain always in my prayers.