Our daughter's graduation ceremony.

Our daughter's graduation ceremony.

So it was that our wonderful daughter received her just desserts. Amid the pomp and ceremony of the Bournemouth Pavilion, all of that dedicated commitment, all those hours of relentless endeavour and all of those precious hours of study, swotting, contemplation, worry, panic and a good deal of sweaty trepidation had been deservedly  rewarded. Our daughter got there in the end because we knew she would.

In front of a huge audience of parents, grandparents, friends and families, the students of Bournemouth university held their heads up high and showed to the rest of the world the full extent of their vast capabilities. Here before us was a new generation of youngsters who would bring their fulsome talents, their wide breadth of knowledge and infectious personalities to the people who knew from the start that they'd succeed. Of course it was a sometimes long and punishing journey but we were fully confident that they would never ever disappoint us.

Wherever you looked there was the familiar sight of those very academic caps and gowns, a hall dripping with centuries of tradition and a very marked formality. But this was a fundamental recognition of our girl, a daughter whose vast intellectual achievements were now being rightly acclaimed, properly acknowledged and now she was shaking hands with eminent professors.

Looking right to the very back of the auditorium you craned your neck to see a seemingly interminable procession of young students, carefully inching forward to a most theatrical stage. They were polite, well mannered naturally and bursting with elation, a happiness that could never be defined because this was their day and how determined they were to enjoy it, milking as they did so the rapturous applause which seemed to dominate the whole day quite understandably.

But we were far more concerned about our daughter, the lady we'd lovingly nurtured, warmly encouraged, nagged, coaxed, persuaded and convinced. She was told repeatedly that she could reach the pinnacle and she knew she could make the grade. And so it was that the longest queue you're ever likely to see moved forward, our delicate offspring stepping gingerly into the spotlight. The inevitable smile lit up her face, her eyes dancing with the sheer thrill of the moment before phone cameras were suitably adjusted for the best possible picture.

One after the other they came, walked the walk, long, black, flowing gowns of academia billowing behind them, the very personification of tomorrow, the epitome of everything that is so healthy and good about the future, an exciting glimpse of what the British education system can still produce. There were endless textile students, art students, design students, photography students, students of wit and massive intelligence, constantly inquiring, lively minds who were now the centre of our attention.

And here is the telling observation. Almost the whole of the graduation ceremony was a predominantly female celebration. Now for the fathers and grandfathers this was undoubtedly one of their greatest days. But as the hours ticked by inexorably,  some of us were beginning to feel rather outnumbered and in the minority. When all was said and done though this wasn't just about female solidarity. It was about revelling in the glow of the moment, taking enormous pleasure in your children's most significant achievements. And how we loved every single minute and hour.

After all the honours were performed and the trumpeters blasted their most resounding of classical themes, we retired to the outside of the complex, where we were showered with endless flutes of champagne and initially elusive cake. The band played on melodiously and for those now wandering around the pleasure gardens of Bournemouth it almost seemed too good to be true. Outside on a high and very imposing terrace, parents, grandfathers, and grandmothers laughed and smiled, joked and giggled in much the way that our children once had.

Because we do think back to those far off days of the past when our children abandoned themselves to hours of play in shrill, excited playgrounds, jumping around uninhibitedly on Pontins ball ponds, swinging about ecstatically on ropes, climbing intrepidly onto soft, colourful, yet padded playthings, before plunging quite magnificently over each other and screaming with joy for the umpteenth time.

We still remember how they slid onto those Pontins evening entertainment disco floors, showing off their latest dance techniques. Then we recalled how they once all sat down in very disciplined rows as if knowing that if they did that, one of the blue coated entertainers would invariably ask them to join them on stage for a magic trick or to sing one of those appropriately childlike songs.

For now we looked at our daughter by Bournemouth beach and thought how very lucky we were. The waves were lapping at their most leisurely pace, the sea providing a vaguely nautical backdrop to the day. Phone cameras were now being continuously flashed for fun, toasts were raised, back slapping exchanged at a fairly rapid rate and yet more yahoo congratulations filling the salty air. It's only when you become a parent that you realise that the sweet scented bouquet of life has to be taken in and that the children you bring into the world are both beautiful, cherishable, our flesh and blood and the very best.