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Angola. I traveled to that war-torn country, an official visit, and went specifically to several placeswhere daily life had been poisoned by land mines, including one town believed to be the mostheavily mined place in all of Africa.

August 2013.

I wore the same protective gear my mother had worn when she visited Angola on her historictrip. I even worked with the same charity that had invited her: Halo Trust. I was deeply frustratedto learn from the charity’s executives and fieldworkers that the job she’d spotlighted, indeed theentire global crusade my mother had helped launch, was now stalled. Lack of resources, lack ofresolve.

This had been Mummy’s most passionate cause at the end. (She’d gone to Bosnia three weeksbefore she’d gone to Paris in August 1997.) Many could still remember her walking alone into alive minefield, detonating a mine via remote control, announcing bravely: “One down, seventeenmillion to go.” Her vision of a world rid of land mines seemed within reach back then. Now theworld was going backwards.

Taking up her cause, detonating a land mine myself, made me feel closer to her, and gave mestrength, and hope. For a brief moment. But overall I felt that I was walking each day through apsychological, emotional minefield. I never knew when the next explosion of panic might be.

Upon returning to Britain, I did another dive into the research. I was desperate to find a cause,a treatment. I even spoke to Pa, took him into my confidence. Pa, I’m really struggling with panicattacks and anxiety. He sent me to a doctor, which was kind of him, but the doctor was a generalpractitioner with no knowledge or new ideas. He wanted to give me pills.

I didn’t want to take pills.

Not until I’d exhausted other remedies, including homeopathic ones. In my research I cameacross many people recommending magnesium, which was said to have a calming effect. True, itdid. But in large quantities it also had unpleasant side effects—loosens the bowels—which Ilearned the hard way at a mate’s wedding.

Over dinner one night at Highgrove, Pa and I spoke at some length about what I’d beensuffering. I gave him the particulars, told him story after story. Towards the end of the meal helooked down at his plate and said softly: I suppose it’s my fault. I should’ve got you the help youneeded years ago.

I assured him that it wasn’t his fault. But I appreciated the apology.

As autumn neared my anxiety was heightened, I think, by my impending birthday, the last ofmy twenties. Dregs of my youth, I thought. I was beset by all the traditional doubts and fears,asked myself all the basic questions people ask when they get older. Who am I? Where am Igoing? Normal, I told myself, except that the press was abnormally echoing my self-questioning.

Prince Harry…Why Won’t He Marry?

They dredged up every relationship I’d ever had, every girl I’d ever been seen with, put it allinto a blender, hired “experts,” a.k.a. quacks, to try to make sense of it. Books about me dived intomy love life, homed in on each romantic failure and near miss. I seem to recall one detailing myflirtation with Cameron Diaz. Harry just couldn’t see himself with her, the author reported. IndeedI couldn’t, since we’d never met. I was never within fifty meters of Ms. Diaz, further proof that ifyou like reading pure bollocks then royal biographies are just your thing.

Behind all this hand-wringing about me was something more substantive than “tittle-tattle.” Itwent to the whole underpinning of the monarchy, which was based on marriage. The greatcontroversies about kings and queens, going back centuries, generally centered on whom theymarried, and whom they didn’t, and the children who issued from those unions. You weren’t afully vested member of the Royal Family, indeed a true human being, until you were wed. Nocoincidence that Granny, head of state in sixteen countries, started every speech: “My husband andI…” When Willy and Kate married they became The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, but moreimportant they became a Household, and as such were entitled to more staff, more cars, biggerhome, grander office, extra resources, engraved letterheads. I didn’t care about such perks, but Idid care about respect. As a confirmed bachelor I was an outsider, a nonperson within my ownfamily. If I wanted that to change, I had to get hitched. That simple.

All of which made my twenty-ninth birthday a complex milestone, and some days a complexmigraine.

I shuddered to think of how I might feel on the next birthday: thirty. Truly over-the-hill. Tosay nothing of the inheritance it would trigger. Upon reaching thirty I’d receive a large sum left tome by Mummy. I scolded myself for being gloomy about that: most people would kill to inheritmoney. To me, however, it was another reminder of her absence, another sign of the void she’dleft, which pounds and euros could never fill.

The best thing, I decided, was to get away from birthdays, get away from everything. I decidedto mark the anniversary of my arrival on Earth by traveling to its end. I’d already been to theNorth Pole. Now I’d walk to the South.

Another trek in the company of Walking With The Wounded.

People warned me that the South Pole was even colder than the North. I laughed. How couldthat be possible? I’d already frozen my penis, mate—wasn’t that the very definition of worst-casescenario?

Also, this time I’d know how to take proper precautions—snugger underwear, more padding,etc. Better yet, one very close mate hired a seamstress to make me a bespoke cock cushion.

Square, supportive, it was sewn from pieces of the softest fleece and…Enough said.