Narnia has Nothing on this

as far as i remember i had a normal if not lonlely childhood as i would spend a lot of time at my aunts, my nan or my uncles to spend time with my lovely cousins.

never out with family that consisted of my elder brother Marc and my elder sister Nicola; they were six and one year older than me, respectively. They always went out with Mum and Dad for days out, visiting places like the beach or the amusement park, as Dad stated that his car only had two seats in the back and he was sure I’d be happier with a relative than squished into the seat of a car.

I would often imagine the fun they were having, sharing laughter and enjoying ice cream under the sun. And how I loved his cars; he had at this time a pristine white Triumph Herald Vitesse inline 6-cylinder 3.0 litre, a vehicle that gleamed under the sunlight and roared to life with a satisfying purr. Its smooth curves and polished chrome brought me joy each time I laid eyes on it, as I dreamt of the adventures we could have taken together, traveling down winding roads with a winding, almost flight-like movement as we transitioned from one curve to the next effortlessly.

it wasnt just the days out it was the hom elife as well. elder siblings were always first inline for clothes and toys and gifts. i got the hand-me-downs as per usual for the early sixties on a council estate where men wanted the best car parked in the road and the women wanted the best red cardinal polished front step.

I spent a great deal of time alone in the native fields and lanes of the area we lived in, immersing myself in the quiet beauty of the landscape. It was above the now flattened Joyce Green Hospital Dartford, which once echoed with the sounds of healing but is now just a memory, that was incidentally adjacent to the smallpox hospital, a relic of a bygone era. This place was notable for its original Roman road that ran in between the two, down to the River Thames, a waterway that has witnessed centuries of history, trade, and life.

Nearby, a pub sat upon the actual river bank called the Long Reach Tavern, famous for its historic reputation of being a bare-knuckle fight venue, where the local men would lay down their hard-earned cash for a shot at doubling the bet or losing teeth and money. The tavern was often filled with the raucous laughter and shouts of patrons, each vying for glory and a chance to claim victory in the gritty brawls that took place under dim lighting and a haze of smoke, creating a vivid tapestry of life in this small yet vibrant community.

I remember spending time wandering the river bank for long periods of my younger days, filled with a sense of wonder and curiosity, repeatedly turning my head across the fields to the housing estate to see the lampposts glowing faintly in the distance, as it was the golden rule that my mother would always bellow at me, “Be home before the streetlights come on.” Those words echoed in my mind, a reminder of the comfort and safety of home as twilight began to settle in. I would rummage through the debris along the margins of the river, searching for treasures hidden beneath the layers of mud and silt, a practice now called “mudlarking.” Each find was like a prized possession, a small piece of history that sparked my imagination and connected me to the past. I still have a few finds from those days, some 50-odd years later, carefully preserved in a box, each item holding a story of its own. I am a bad one for keeping things that hold memories, as they serve as tangible links to the joyful adventures of my youth and the simple pleasures of exploring nature by the river.

as i grew i receieved a bycicle from my unkle Bob, not a real blood uncle just a close friend of my dads who looked after things while my dad was away a lot with his job in communications.

It was a little raleigh Pathfinder, it was blue with a red vynil seat and it was my ticket to freedom, my speedy rocket as i raced around the estate didging through alleyways amid the shouts of ” Oi bloody slow down” as i shot past people walking in the alleys that ran between roads and back gardens. soon i found the courage to ride further afield and ended up in stone by the railway crossing and stone marshes.i felt like i had conquered the world and then ridden half way around it.

I never told mum how far I had gone as I knew that would have resulted in the backs of my legs stinging, and my trusty steed would be thrown in the locked shed for days as a punishment and as a way of “clipping my wings,” as dad put it. The memory of those secret adventures lingered in my mind, filled with the thrill of freedom and the scent of wildflowers that danced in the breeze as I raced through the fields. Each ride felt like an escape from reality, a chance to explore my own boundaries and push against the gentle tether of parental authority, but I also understood that the consequences of my actions could result in disappointment and harsh reprimands from my family. Thus, I kept silent, cherishing the exhilarating moments while avoiding the risks that honesty could bring.