Like all small boys growing up in the country back in the 1950's, our playground was the woods and parkland surrounding the area, and I was no different, other than perhaps having what I still consider to be some of the finest parkland for any child to play in. There were trees galore that simply begged to be climbed, and plenty of places where it was possible to make a den, even though it might only last for a few weeks or even days.
Going across the fields to a wood known as the Dry Arch wood, there was a small copse to your right where the trees and brambles grew in dense profusion, and it was there that the best den of all was constructed. Made, I believe, out of hazel branches that were cut and trimmed, it was a woven hut, more or less in the shape of a square box. Here it was possible to play out almost any imaginary battle or exploration, ranging from the ever-popular cowboys and indians to war games, from being stranded on a desert island to travelling to a distant planet. That hut became our very own Tardis, although at that time we'd never heard of a Tardis of course. The many adventures that took place there were countless and the enjoyment gained was immeasurable.
In my youngest years we often used to play in the woods that were just beyond the paddock to the rear of our garden, and even though the trees were not so dense as in some of the surrounding woods, nevertheless it still afforded us with hours of fun. Sometimes the fun was a bit one-sided such as the time that one of the boys in our gang brought an air-pistol and decided to liven up a game of cops and robbers by shooting pellets at us. At one point I was thankful for the fact that for some reason I was wearing my school cap, which considering that I often tried not to wear it leaves me wondering why I was on that occasion. However, back to the story. I was the one hiding from the others, and was hiding behind a tree. When I poked my head out to see why everything was so quiet the boy with the air-pistol, who had been waiting for just such a moment, fired at me, the pellet lodging in the peak of my cap! Quickly realising the danger that I was in I 'legged it' back home as fast as I could. Needless to say, trouble was in store for the boy concerned once parents became involved!
The other occasion involving an airgun was when I was out with my older brother who had been charged with looking after me, not something that any older brother relished of course. He and his friends took me across the park and one of them, Douggie Watts, whose mother ran the sweetshop at the bottom of the High Street, brought along his air-rifle. Aiming for my legs he ordered me to "Dance! or else I'll shoot!" Of course, discretion being the better part of valour, looking at the grin on his face, I danced a sort of a jig, although after a while my legs got tired and I stopped. "I mean it!" he said, "Keep on dancing or I'll shoot." However, my legs were really tired and i didn't believe that he would shoot anything other than the ground near me, just enough to scare me. How wrong I was! He pulled the trigger and I felt a stinging pain in my right calf, the scar still being with me to this day. Once again I went home as fast as I could seeking out my Mum in a flood of tears, more, I think, from the shock than the pain. I don't know what was said to my brother, but I can well imagine what it probably was!
Yes, Corsham Park was a great green playground, a place where you could let your imagination run wild or a place where you could commune with nature in a real way. With the lake, the woods and the fields, there was something very special about it, special enough to revive many warm memories of growing up with such a luxurious playground. How lucky we were!
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