DRIVEN by a keen mind and a thirst for knowledge beyond the mere curiosity of youth, the five-year-old Frank Williams would spend hours wandering the streets of his home town.

Jarrow, South Tyneside, circa 1949, was a safe enough place. Frank's wanderlust would generally take him to the River Tyne, the Jarrow Slacks where the tankers would tie up, and Frank would get up to the eyes in mud and spilt oil.

"I used to go home considerably dirtier than I left," recalls the 59-year-old, South Shields-born head of one of the most successful Formula One teams in Grand Prix history. "I used to spend whole days wandering and I could certainly go back to Jarrow now and retrace my steps."

It was his first experience of oil under the fingernails and a fascination with machinery that would later put him on the road to Grand Prix glory. And the expression on Sir Frank Williams's face is one of genuine affection as he recounts his North-Eastern days. "I love the place," he says. "I have an astonishing affection for it and I still call myself a Geordie. My roots are there."

And before outraged Newcastle folk reach for their pens to complain that to be a Geordie you have to come from their fair city, consider this: Sir Frank is a big fan of Newcastle United and in his time he's been asked to start the Great North Run.

But Frank does gloss over one part of his formative years. His father was an RAF pilot, but Sir Frank can't remember him as he left some time around his birth. Frank's mother, a school teacher, made huge sacrifices to ensure her son got the best education possible. She sent him to a Scottish Catholic boarding school in Dumfries, where he was to develop the fierce competitive streak which continues to drive him today.

"When I was there, half the boys were English, half were Scots and there was border country warfare all the time. The Scottish boys were full of themselves because the racing team Ecurie Ecosse was having a lot of success with D-Type Jags. But we won most of the time."

This did spark his interest in motorsport and motor vehicles generally. "Anyone who could give me a ride in a car or a bus... I was fascinated by it."

Then, when he was about 15, he managed to get behind the wheel of his mother's car. "She had a Morris 1000, the stalwart car of country people and middle-aged ladies. In that I had my first taste of teenage angst, my first bit of opposite lock, my first bump. It was fantastic, I loved it, I was totally overwhelmed by it."

His first drive led him to his first job, as a management trainee for a Hillman, Humber and Sunbeam dealer. He also got the chance to get his hands dirty with coachbuilding and heavy duty earth- movers.

"They sent me to technical college, but I was always playing truant because I knew all the answers - they fired me," he recalls. "I had to work selling petrol in a garage to make ends meet."

Soon after, it was time to head south to seek his fortune and again it was his mother who helped. "We bought a beaten up Austin A35, which had once been owned by Graham Hill," he says. "By the time it had reached me it had had a few accidents. I had my first race at Mallory Park in the Midlands - I crashed and had to climb out of the back window. I was helped up the bank by Jonathan Williams (no relation) and he introduced me to a lot of motor racing."

From there the rest is history - a brilliant partner in crime called Patrick Head; a procession of successful racing cars, FW06 to FW23; nine constructor's titles; and the best drivers working for him, including Alan Jones, Alain Prost, Nigel Mansell, Jacques Villeneuve, Ayrton Senna and Damon Hill.

But success in a dangerous sport doesn't come without a price and Sir Frank's life has been tinged with tragedy. In 1970 his close friend, brewery heir Piers Courage, died at the wheel of a Williams De Tamaso. Senna's amazing career was also tragically cut short in 1994 when his Williams crashed at the Imola circuit in Italy.

And it's fair to say that Sir Frank's obsession with speed has got him where he is today - at the top of the Grand Prix world, yes, but also in a wheelchair, after he lost control of his Ford Sierra hire car in Southern France, plunging six feet into a field, breaking his neck. But while his frame, like so many of his race cars, was wrecked, his sense of purpose ran on.

Home is now a shiny factory nestling among trees in a pretty part of Oxfordshire, all low-rise, all smoked glass, all gleaming metal. Walk through the doors and it's floor-to-ceiling marble, exotic plants, spotlights and chrome. The walls are covered in F1 racing pictures and there's a racing car in the middle of the lobby, the FW23 which sits under an atrium ceiling.

Motorsport books sit on top of perspex tables in front of trendy sofas. In the corner are displayed nine huge trophies, the true measure of the race team's success. The drivers who brought them here come and go, but the factory remains a symbol of something far more permanent.

German executive saloons by far out-number anything else in the huge car park, hinting at the new partner in Sir Frank's life, BMW. And after being in the wilderness since losing the factory Renault engine in 1998, the team has "crossed the desert" and is back on the podium, a true force to be reckoned with.

"We are doing better than we thought but we have a number of weaknesses," he says modestly. "We need to win two or three races to look at the championship next year."

The Monaco Grand Prix this weekend is one of Sir Frank's favourites, despite the fact his team has only ever won there twice in 21 years. "Monza is lovely because of the crowd. Belgium is a circuit for men, but Monaco is very exciting and challenging," he says. "You are incredibly close to the cars and the speed they are going ...it's just phenomenal."

A bit like the man himself.