That reminds me of... childhood, flicks and games

"Beyond Milford's noisy town there was, and is, a sometime-remembered playground place. Freed from our housebound, restrictive play and parents' guiding hands, we jogged carefree between walking Cellar Hill cottages, disturbing stretching cat and basking dog. Excitedly we chattered amongst the long morning shadows and the wafts of breakfast rashers. Before us, the tide gently pulsated and nudged into the contours of the Pill. The smooth and olive shimmering grassiness broken by the widening ripples of our skimming stones. Dunlin dipped and dabbed along the receding shoreline. Oyster catchers wheeled and dived in their intermittent aerial dance.

"The shore, it seems was scattered with the 'ribs' of long dead dinosaurs, exposed from their muddy grave. Lopsided boats 'Three and Two,' 'Cherry,' and 'Lilac' in oozy shoreline grip. Bulging, clinker built and workmanlike they waited for the coming, releasing flow. And yet, below the avenue's gaze we hardly noticed ' J.C. Oils' discarded, rusting barrel, its black oily dregs slowly seeping snakelike, contaminating even this peaceful place.

"Here, traced in the grey green ooze, the wandering footprints became to us the night-time comings and goings of storybook pirates and smugglers. Whilst nearby, piratical sounding names like Deadman's Lake and the Black Bridge confirmed this a place of treasure seeking pirates. Surely the cellars were the store for loot or contraband?

"Beyond the bridge lay Hilton Woods, a place where childhoods grew. This 'little haven,' a valley gently folded, caressed, draped in a verdant foam. High overhead above these 'broccoli-topped' trees, occasional ravens soared, looped and glided in acrobatic play.

"Our cheerful voices rose to meet the circling birds with half-remembered pop songs that faded amongst the branches.

"Astoria's Saturday 'flicks' were relived in this technological free playground. A film star Robin Hood leaped from tree to tree and landed laughing into your imagination. Pygmy paths wound to Amazonian streams. Roped together by string we climbed some 'Everest' bank.

"Sliding and tumbling down a grassy bank through the mottled sunlight like some disaster bound bob sleigh team. Tarzan swung through these branches to our aid. A fallen bough became a circus tightrope--fall, and you hurtled into laughter.

"Here we lay on Robin Hood's bank in summer's dappled warmth and watched glimpses of the sky through the stain glass leaves. In this childhood haven the world of adults was far away, half-remembered conversations of risks and perils. Barefoot, we wandered on the grassy slopes or laughing we hesitantly dipped our toes in the chill, refreshing stream.

"Smoke curled lazily through the boughs from our gypsy imagined fire as we coughed and spluttered around the make-believe roasting spit.

"Time passed and as fresh-faced youths we walked hand in hand and plucked from the banks the signs of springtime hope. April's artists had spread a palette of new life in yellow, pink and white within the wood. These mute trees and plants shouted new hope and fresh life. A startled nesting blackbird might fly alarmed along the woodland floor; whilst tiny eager eyes watched hidden from a nesting bush. On these ancient sentinel trees other walkers had traced their heart shaped covenant and overhead the rustling canopy seem to whisper 'Cariad, my little one.' A spring shower might sweep in like folds in an opaque curtain and briefly hide the Pill's eastern shoreline cottages. Briefly we would run and shelter beneath the guardian elms.

"For us, this unfairness of the weather was all that troubled our life. We did not understand the adults' phrase 'life's not fair.' And all the while courting swans on the lake below swam in co-ordinated glides and shook the rain from arching necks.

"We might lounge in the red stone ivy ruins that gave the Pill its name and talk of hopes - and as we did, we gazed unfocused beyond these ruins. Looking, but only seeing better. Below these ancient walls, long ago a Norse longship may have silently stolen ashore in gloomy solitude.

"And did we not watch from here the sea fog mysteriously tentacle like, creep like those early longboat raiders up the Pill towards the land of Jordan, Steyn and Scoves. Even as we laughed and talked, we were naively unaware of those who lawlessly and stealthily continued to use these secret routes.

"Amongst the sometime frosted autumn fall, this became a place of conkers, late October's fruits and grey drifting strands of mist. It was easy to imagine how folktale characters could roam these mossy, ferny and dappled hollows. Arcs of crisp sprays preceded our wild kicks of the amber leafy drifts. Halting, hushed and misty breathed from our excited laugh, there would be stillness save for a robin's piercing notes among the barren boughs.

"Warmed by Atlantic breezes, winter's snow seldom fell it seemed on this vale. Snow, when it did fall, was short lived, silent, white, pure and unblemished. An undulating covering, broken only by Reynard and Brock's wandering imprints. Below on the Pill side a curlew might call hauntingly across the frozen silence in its stilted, food probing meanders.

"All too soon dimming dusk came, lengthening shadows and the shoreline cottages reflecting the last of evening's light. Withdrawing tide, glistening ooze, tinged by the grey and reddening sky. Unaccustomed noises, a fleeting glimpse and a moving shadow urged us from this peaceful haven. We mount the slope, a backwards glance, leaving the woods to creatures of the dark. Turning now we cross the meadow, as we had always done, past the swaying swing to our homes, where TV's half understood adult dramas, flickered behind the closing curtains.

"Time has passed and now I am in aged and reflective slumber. Pain eased and freed now from all the thorns of life's flaws. Perhaps it is 'time' not the 'sea' that "washes away all the ills of man." Soothing, happy memories of those innocent, pre-adult days are real once more. For my breath becomes the gentle breeze flowing through the woodland trees, my voice the babbling stream and my heart, the lapping tide."

Thanks David, as usual, beautifully written. Here's a snap to go with it.

Teaser time. Last week's unravelled conundrum (LPHRETGEA) was TELEGRAPH, as worked out by Cynthia Edwards, Elinor Jones, Les Haynes, Margaret Jones, Anne and Jets Llewellyn, Tom Brown and Phil Jones.

This week's poser comes from Les Haynes: Which nine-letter word contains all the vowels in alphabetical order?

My final thought: I'm 77: but if there were 15 months in a year, I'd be 61!

Take care, stay safe.