In our later years as we begin separating ourselves from the wear and tear of busy years as mothers or fathers or from full time employment, there will be more chances to reflect on what might have been but never was: a lost first love. This is true for both women and men. In fact I have circles of male friends in several countries in their sixties and seventies who, at odd moments, drift in and out of nostalgia marked by both joy and regret for those days, or weeks or months when they were very young and very much in love for the first time.

I have sometimes thought that this process of remembering, even if it is painful as well as something to be celebrated, is a form of rebirth for those who are becoming old. Quite often in our discussions there is laughter, or a tear or two and sometimes even embarrassment more appropriate for a teenager perhaps then for men who went through life without confessing or disclosing much to their loved ones. Years fall away as these stories of a woman they knew intimately or a girl they met on a bus or even someone they adored who they saw and never met, are unfurled among close male friends. You reach back, and back, and back and remembering becomes a kind of magic in which you are young again.

Here is one story, for example. I am 76. A good friend of mine is 72. I have already gone through the process of remembering and commemorating a first love. My friend was asking me about that experience as if I had somehow injured myself. "Oh," he said. "But didn't that hurt to remember her smile? You kept her letters. Why did you do that? You read them and it is like she is haunting you." I looked at him, closely. "I have the feeling," I said, "that you have letters too. Or maybe a keepsake? Or is it just memories?" He looked chagrined. "I have a lock of her red hair," he said. "When my wife died I snipped it off. She was my first love, you see, and I could never let her go. Every time I touch her hair I think back to the moment I first met her. It was on the beach. She was laughing and running and kicking sand. That, I can never forget. When I remember that, all my years of pain fall away."

In the last couple of years I have had several conversations with total strangers, usually woman, who are curious to know what I have been writing. Here is a phrase often repeated. "Every woman wants to know if he remembers them." They are remembering their first love. Often they are middle aged or they have gone further into life and have grey hair. They have no idea what happened to the boy they knew in their youth. But he is clearly still there with them, a shy youngster they remember who held their hand, or who had a shy smile, or who wrote them a poem or gave them a flower when they were young enough to giggle and flirt and feel the first flush of joyful excitement and wonder. "I am sure he remembers you," I say. "I am sure."

Some older men and women I know have, like me, attempted to trace those they loved when they were young. It is easier now to do that because of the Internet. Type in someone's name at Google, or on Facebook, or pay a small amount to a search service, and surprising things sometimes emerge. Sometimes, of course, there is nothing.

In my case, about five years ago for some unexplainable reason I became curious to know what had happened to a young woman I knew romantically years ago. She was not a first love. But we loved each other briefly with the passion and joy of a first love: actually a really stormy love. I had not had contact with her for 45 years. She had an unusual name. When I knew her she lived in a foreign country. I tried typing her name into Google several times over several months. There was nothing. Maybe she married, I thought, and now had a different surname. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she did not wish to be found by me, or anyone.

And then one day I noticed a brief mention of her name in a very short news article which said she had enrolled her daughter in the same finishing school she had attended as a girl. My heart skipped several beats. I emailed the school, explaining who I was, and I said I would like to make contact with her. There was no reply for a couple of weeks. But then an email appeared from the woman I knew, expressing shock and delight. "If you are who you say you are," she said playfully, "What is my nickname?"

She was married. She had two children. Her husband was a gracious host and invited me to visit. I flew across the ocean. She and I had several dinners together and discovered we were still friends.

Paul's new book Please Enjoy Your Happiness is published by Bluebird and is available from books shops and Amazon. Leave a comment below to be entered into the draw to win one of three copies of the book.