Growing up down the fields

I, or rather we, grew up ‘down’ the fields in those days. Life in a small village on a hill in Wiltshire always meant that we were ‘down’ the fields. We never saw it as adventure – it’s just what we did.

On this occasion we were three 10 year olds, me, Jackie and Ann, tasked by Mrs Collins to look after Ann’s little 3 year old sister Pauline for the day.

Setting off on a hot summer's day (they were always like that in my memories) with a bit of a picnic and Pauline’s hot, pudgy, sticky hand clutching ours, we headed to a special place that us older girls had recently discovered whilst exploring our childhood boundaries.

Down the lane past the shoe shop on the corner it eventually led us to the fields and Hanger Hill. The hill was covered in seasonal meadow flowers and grasses, or mown, the prickly stalks scratching our bare legs and summer scents always in the air, this was the easy part. Over the stream at the bottom we headed across the next field and clambered over the big gate at the far side, helping Pauline with her little legs to climb with us. One more field to cross and then finally a big push through the hedge.

We had arrived in Paradise Place.

Paradise Place was a small, open, grassy valley bordered on two sides by woodland. It had a narrow, gurgling stream running through and in places we could jump across, except Pauline. Before we could stop her Pauline stepped straight in and immediately flooded her wellies, after all she only had little legs. We simply took them off and hung both wellies and socks out to dry then set to work making our camp.

The afternoon was spent dabbling our bare feet in the stream or stepping into mud and screaming when it oozed up between our toes, or sitting on the grassy bank making daisy-chains and quickly eating our sandwiches. Occasionally we would explore the edge of the woods before returning to our camp again.

It’s funny how we always knew when it was time to go home and that time had arrived. This was when we realised that Pauline’s wellies and socks were still wet!

There was never any discussion, we simply agreed to carry Pauline home between us, along with her boots and the bags that we had.

Picking Pauline up we made our way back through the hedge, across the fields, finally arriving at the bottom of Hanger Hill. Home was at the top. Sharing the load, hungry, hot, tired and stopping often we slowly made our way.

Reaching the edge of the village the smell from the local bakery made our hunger pangs even stronger and still we had a little further to go. The last remaining village pump allowed us to quench our thirst and cool off before we were finally home.

Heading straight to Ann and Pauline’s house we deposited our charge back to her mum. I will always remember us apologising that Pauline’s boots had got wet, that we had tried to dry them and then carried her all the way home.

‘Oh’ said Mrs Collins ‘you should have put them back on and made her walk’!

I continued going home to the village I grew up in for decades, including a few years with my own young family. My own children were given the freedom to explore whilst I went with the dog for company now. However everything was constantly changing or changed. Both childhood friends and family had either moved away, including myself, moved on, or sadly passed away.

Decades later and divorced I finally accepted that I no longer belonged in the place that I grew up in but my love for adventure had not diminished.

In 2021 I travelled up to Scotland again with my bike on board my little ‘van home’. Leaving my van I set off on my bike to cycle to Fort William via Inverness. Little did I know what lay ahead but I was willing to open myself up to every opportunity to explore despite my age.

Quite unexpectedly and very happily, I now find myself in a new relationship and a new home here in Scotland.

To this day I have never thought of my life as an Adventure, after all it’s just what I do.