Why Robert Plant still has a Whole Lotta Love for the Black Country

Yet he reckons there are few experiences that beat walking out of Molineux on a wet, windy night.

"I shuffle away from the ground in the rain and the dark, and all that, and go past some guys and they'll say 'all right Rob, all right Rob, still doing a bit?'," he says. "The answer is 'just about'. It's all you need, familiar faces that make you smile."

The former Led Zeppelin frontman was in a reflective mood in this week's edition of BBC Radio Four's Desert Island Discs, talking at length about his youth in the Black Country, and the close – if occasionally strained – relationship with his parents.

In one poignant moment, he told presenter Lauren Laverne how he recently discovered an unopened letter which his mother Celia had written to him in 1968, shortly after he had turned his back on a career in accountancy to seek fame and fortune as a singer:

"It said 'Dear Robert, I know you are out there somewhere. We have had a word with the accountancy company and your job is still available, and your girlfriend would like to know when you are coming back.'

"It was just so beautiful," he says.

Plant was born in West Bromwich in 1948, but grew up in Hayley Green, Halesowen, and attended King Edward VI Grammar School in Stourbridge.

He said he had a close relationship with his father – also called Robert – while growing up, in part due to their shared hobby of cycling. But Robert Snr became concerned his son was wasting his life as his passion for music began to interfere with his education and career plans.

"My dad was a real gentleman, always concerned that I shouldn't go too close to whatever this thing was that I was immersed in," he told Laverne.

"My dad was slightly concerned that I would throw away an education.

"My dad used to tell people 'he's gone off the rails'. And then, about 18 months later, 'he's back on the rails'. Very funny."

His choice of luxury item – a wicker basket containing three pairs of Black Country homing pigeons, caused something of a flutter on the show, as livestock is not permitted.

He explained: I can keep two with me to stay and be my friends, because I have got two outside the window right now where I live, the other four will have to take notes back to the Black Country and say 'I'm here, it's ok, don't worry, help!'"

After being told that homing pigeons would not be allowed, he modified his request.

"I'll just have a basket with some pictures of Black Country homing pigeons with the hope that some birdie will go, he's over there," he said. "That will remind me of the beauty of the canals in Tipton."

He told Laverne that he carries a notebook around with him wherever he goes.

"The front side of the book has got detail and reminders of what I have got to do, and I flip the book over, anything I see or feel, or find slightly ironic or ridiculous or funny or really sad, I just write it down.

"My imagination is like a tinderbox, suddenly I hear another element or contribution within whatever zone I am in, it just lights me up."

He said he could see some of his own traits in in his mother Celia, who he described as being "seriously and joyously combustible".

"She was like a big fizzy bottle of pop," he said. "She was like me, she didn't quite know how to harness it properly, but she loved song, she had a great voice and used to dance around the house, twirling and swirling, singing these remarkable songs, whether it be Kathleen Ferrier or some Skye boat song.

"She was hysterical, she was very funny, good Black Country stock," he said, recalling one Christmas when he recorded the family opening their presents together.

"My mum said 'who's that, I said 'it's yo mum'. She said 'that can't be right, I had elocution lessons'."

He talked about the early days of his career, where he combined music with work as a labourer in West Bromwich, and how he met his former wife Maureen.

"I met this magnificent lady who would later become my wife, she was from a great Anglo-Indian family who gave me a home," he said.

"I would go to work and I would put bitumen on West Bromwich High Street, drive the dumper and stuff, and then at the end of it all I would end up in the Casa Bamboo in West Bromwich with a bunch of West Indians, largely Jamaicans, listening to the most deep ska."

But the death of his son Karac from a stomach virus caused him to re-evaluate his life, and he considered quitting music altogether to become a teacher at the Elfield Rudolf Steiner School in Stourbridge.

"I came back gathered what was left of the shards of the family, and tried to put it together," he said. "I didn't really want to do anything after that, in that whole world, really. But time is time and momentum, and encouragement and kindness from everybody, especially John Bonham, he and his wife were really good for me and Maureen at the time.

"The kids, Carmel and Karac, had been at the Steiner School in Stourbridge, and I thought I could do much better than be a singer. I went to Forest Row, where the Steiner centre is, and walked around it, then John Bonham was at the gate and said 'come on! Get in the car'."

Going back to his love affair with Wolves – he became the club's vice-president in 2009 – he said his passion for the club had got stronger as he got older.

"It was always a place to escape to, but I never was quite so knowledgeable and intense about it as I am now," he said. "And probably one of the main things, along with all that, is the songs."