Very occasionally, we’d go on the bus. It was four miles to Marsh Lane where blackberry brambles tangled by the airdrome, and Austers came in low, and the sun was always hot. We were young and explained things excitedly to our accompanying mothers.
More usually, though, it was Taylor’s Field, a waste-patch created by the enclosure of the terrace-houses of Dunstall Road, Staveley Road, Francis Street and Waterloo Road.
The West Park, thick now with strange tongues, then seemed to have endless acres as we hunted and hid in its deep bushes, fingers becoming forty-fives.
Through Fowler’s Fields ran a real stream, the only one I ever recall.
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