When I was a child I spent much of the summer holidays with one set of grandparents or the other.
Both sets of grandparents were polls apart, but both promised days filled with fun.
When it was our turn to visit my Nan and Pops our days would follow a similar pattern. But all in all we were pretty much left to make our own adventures for the day and that was fine by us.
I think we’d probably read books and keep distracted for an hour whilst Nan got on with her jobs and get herself ready to walk to the village.
It was only a short walk but she would always have her trusty shopping trolly with her.
Our destination Budgens – the local village supermarket.
My sister would always choose cheddar biscuits. You know the ones like mini cheddars but full size. And we would always buy Ribena that Nan would make so much stronger than my mother ever did. And sometimes we had it warm from the china teapot that was in the play set.
On our return to their house Nan would busy herself with preparing dinner. A dinner eaten at lunchtime, something that always confused me. And we would be sent off in search of Pop.
He was usually in his workshop or tending to the garden.
On a really good day we’d find him in his greenhouse and he would let us test the tomatoes growing.
Freshly picked tomatoes from a warm greenhouse are the ultimate tomato experience, and if you have never had the pleasure of testing a just picked tomato thats still warm from the sunshine I suggest you get planting now as they are just the best.
If Pop was somewhere in the workshop it would be like entering wonderland in a seach of him.
The first room was where he kept his bike and a fridge full of maggots he kept for his fishing trips. We would dare each other to open it. The smell was foul.
The next room was just a garage with all the usual paraphernalia you would expect to find. But past this point is where the wonders began.
The remainder of the workshop was divided into partitions each filled to the rafters.
There was a darkroom filled with furniture in various states of disrepair. All collected from house clearances that my grandfather used to carry out.
The walkways were stacked with row upon row of old paintings. Some scenery, some animals and some of ladies dressed in the most glorious gowns.
The farthest room was filled with tools and a large wooden work bench. Around the room were what felt like hundred of draws in cabinets. Vines from the garden had found their way intertwining their way between all the spaces making it feel ethereal.
Opening the draws was always a little scary as you were never sure if it would house a family of spiders that would scuttle out in all directions making my sister and I squeal.
Other draws were filled with old and rusted woodworking tools, screws and fasteners. Ornate hinges and beautiful draw knobs and handles. But my favourite draw was the one filled with keys.
There must have been a thousand keys in this draw all of different shapes and sizes, rusted and old. Some tiny to secret locked boxes and some bigger than my hand to old church doorways. I used to pretend that one day I would find a key to unlock a secret door hidden somewhere in the workshop that would take me into a secret kingdom like Alice entering Wonderland.
After getting washed up we would all sit for a dinner of meat and potatoes at the table. The table was a gateleg table and we would have to pull up the side leaf to accommodate us all. It was only later in life I learnt this kind of table was known as a coffin table. Quite fitting considering my grandfather had been the local gravedigger for most of his life.
Pudding was usually stewed plums picked from the garden and custard served in a butter-coloured dish with a squared decorated rim of a garden scene. We would line up the stones from the plums around the edge of the dish and count them up playing Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich man, Poor man, Beggar man, Thief. For some reason, I thought being a tinker always sounded like a life of fun and adventure. And if I didn’t land on a number I liked I would try to secretly add or pinch stones from my sisters dish when she wasn’t looking.
In the afternoons we would be left to entertain ourselves. In the colder weather, this usually entailed sitting on Pops lap before he fell asleep, being read stories of goldilocks or the magic porridge pot smelling the rich smell of his pipe tobacco. Playing with the farm toys or playing house. Using the Bakelite toy saucepans on the top of the coal stove and melting mars bars and getting ourselves in a sticky mess.
But the best days were the hot summer days.
We would swing in the hammock under the apple trees, feed the goldfish, hunt for ladybirds and we’d play perfume maker.
My grandand Pop had the most stunning roses lining the path to the formal front door – not that anyone ever used that door, but it did look grand.
These roses must have been his pride and joy as they were always filled with an abundance of fragrant heads of every colour you could imagine. And having tried to grow roses unsuccessfully myself for several years these must have taken alot of care and attention to get the blooms so perfect. But being the kind carefree grandad that he was, he would have no problem whatsoever with my sister and me pulling the heads of these roses, smashing the petals into a pulp and turning them into perfume.
We’d strain the petals out with nans best tea strainer and be left with a foul-looking brown liquid which we would douse ourselves with pretending to be proper and posh.
It’s sad to think now that kids don’t have days filled with mischief and adventure like my sister and I had. Most kids I know get sat with a screen in front of them either tv or console. Gone are the days hunting ladybirds, finding magic keys and potions making in the garden.