We’re always told that childhood is the best time of our lives. Usually by people who’ve forgotten the horrors of lukewarm school milk and itchy jumpers. But looking back over fifty years, from the comforting safety of elasticated waistbands and early bedtimes, it does seem that way. Childhood memories soften over time—like weathered pottery shards turned up in a ploughed field. The sharp edges are smoothed out, the embarrassing bits quietly edited, and the whole thing glows with a suspiciously warm, sepia filter, as though your brain hired a nostalgic cinematographer.
Back in the late 60s and early 70s, summers were outrageously hot and suspiciously endless. The sky was a ridiculous shade of blue, like someone had gone mad with the felt tips, and clouds—when they bothered to turn up—were fluffy and innocent-looking, like marshmallows that hadn’t yet betrayed you by raining on your picnic.
Stannington was our kingdom, our domain, our very own Narnia, only with more nettles and fewer talking animals. The world was smaller then, but so much bigger in our imaginations. Come with me now, dear reader, and revisit those halcyon days when dinosaurs definitely still roamed the streets (well, in sticker books), Blue Peter was the social event of the week, and England were still World Cup champions—permanently frozen in a golden footballing time warp.
Nestled snugly in the valley between Stannington and Loxley lies the mythic tangle of greenery known as Little Matlock Woods. Legend—probably made up by a bored geography teacher—claims this was the very spot where Robin Hood honed his bushcraft, built dens of questionable structural integrity, and fled the Sheriff of Nottingham on a BMX. The forest is so dense in places that bits of it are rumoured to remain uncharted to this day, mostly because no one’s been brave enough to face the midges.
To us, though, it wasn’t just a woodland—it was a sprawling, wild playground, the perfect backdrop for a Secret Seven caper or a Famous Five-style frolic (with added sandwiches and fewer kidnappings). Every twisted tree root was a trip hazard and a potential clue. Every hollow log could hide either a treasure map or a hedgehog.
I’d like to take you on one such adventure. For the sake of privacy, legal plausibility, and because the details may have been gently massaged by time and imagination (memories, eh?), I’ve changed the names of the innocent—and the guilty. From here on, we’ll be diving into the tale the proper way. In the third person. Because that’s how Enid Blyton would have done it, and frankly, who are we to argue with a woman who made sandwiches and ginger beer sound more exciting than international espionage?
It was the start of the summer holidays, and the sun beamed down upon the village of Stannington as if it had something to prove. Bob, Terry, Thelma, Barbara, and their West Highland White Terrier, Claude, were gathered outside the corner shop, pockets bulging with liquorice whips, crisps of dubious origin, and something called a “meat-flavoured cereal bar” that Terry had bought by mistake.
“I say,” said Thelma, adjusting her enormous sunhat. “Shall we go exploring?”
“Let’s!” said Barbara, who had recently learned to tie complicated knots and wanted to use them on something other than shoes.
Bob, the natural leader by virtue of being loudest, raised a finger. “To Little Matlock Woods!”
Claude barked, although it sounded more like a sceptical sneeze.
They marched off, whistling tunelessly, along the winding path past Farmer Hargreaves’s goose field (where the geese glared menacingly) and into the tangled wilderness of Little Matlock Woods—a place rumoured to contain secrets, mystery, and at least three types of fungus with criminal records.
The woods were dark and shady, filled with the scent of damp bark, overachieving moss, and forgotten sandwiches. Birds chirped. A squirrel launched an acorn at Bob’s head with sniper-like precision.
“This is definitely a place for an adventure,” said Barbara, tying a length of twine around a suspicious-looking tree stump. “This could be the headquarters of a gang of international smugglers.”
“Or a badger toilet,” muttered Terry, who was more practical and less prone to flights of imagination. Claude lifted a leg in agreement.
Suddenly, Thelma gasped and pointed. “What’s that?”
They all peered through the undergrowth to see a small, dilapidated hut, roof sagging like a custard tart in the sun.
Bob’s eyes lit up. “A hideout! Let’s investigate!”
They crept up to the hut, dramatically and inefficiently, each treading on a twig with comic timing. Inside, the hut contained:
“Clearly a base of operations for a criminal gang,” said Thelma, pointing to the kettle. “This screams smuggler's tea break.”
Just then, a gruff voice barked from behind them: “Oi! What you lot doing in me shed?!”
They spun around to find Old Mr. Bobbins, the village odd-job man and amateur trombone player, glaring at them.
Bob stood tall. “We’re investigating suspicious activities, sir. Are you a smuggler?”
Mr. Bobbins blinked. “I’m boiling water for my flask, yer daft turnip. And that’s m’ pork pie.”
Barbara looked sheepish. Claude sneezed again, possibly from embarrassment.
After a round of heartfelt apologies and a shared bag of crisps (salt and vinegar, naturally), Mr. Bobbins forgave them and even played a melancholy tune on his pocket trombone.
As the sun dipped behind the trees and the smell of woodland nettles filled the air, the gang trudged home.
“Well,” said Thelma, “we didn’t find smugglers, but we did discover that Claude has hayfever.”
“And that pork pies shouldn’t be left unattended,” added Terry, picking pastry from his sleeve.
“Another jolly good adventure,” said Bob.
Claude farted gently in agreement.
From a writing prompt about childhood pastimes
