Time was when children played alone, in fields, and along the lanes, I was one such, who sought mushrooms as it was approaching dark, came back with cycle lamps along Biddle's Lane.

Such happiness is rarely found, being shown by the boy next door the country things – nests and chicks, lizards, owls, stink horn growing in the woods. No fear, no hidden claw just summer nights, with sister-friends and pony rides.

My parents had always said the same – before or during or after the war how things were so much better then. I can but imagine the proper meadows as a near heaven.

The Italian rye grass of my young days, the thick blade swathe was yet not so poor that we could not find puff balls by the field gate.

Happiness was a lad's own game – I say it straight, scrumping apples, a bonus if they were sweet. I'll say the least of the salmon I caught on the river sluice ... it's 40 years I've evaded the police.

For these our darlings, nephew, niece, I hope for such an open land to play to their hearts' content as scouts and guides, more organised perhaps, but girls and boys are lasses and lads, fishing, swimming and collecting stamps.

There were tales of sherry drinking tramps in copses out by the field's edge; I do but pray the butterflies are once again the same, that we cease to poison spray, the spring, the vernal flower clock, will unwind each year the same.

We carved our names on beech in the Hudnall's and other woods. Bloom children, go take a walk.

(In memory of Lindsey Venner) – Jules Horsfield, Coleford.