Background Geoff wrote for this website. It isn’t in the book: Building the Iron picks up the story.
It was a field which just invited children to play.
We lived at the top of Druslyn Road, a long sloping hill in West Cross. At the top a lane ran down almost to the Mumbles Road; the other way it led to a farm gate with cross bars we could stand on, looking over the meadow to the prefabs of the Mayals estate and out across the bay.
The field at the top of the hill was part of Collier’s Farm: long meadow grass full of giant buttercups, dog daisies, cowslips and clover. We’d crawl up the bank, duck under the wire and invade our own adventure land, chasing butterflies and dragonflies while Mr Collier’s geese chased us. Fortunately without casualties on either side.
In spring the gully filled with bluebells, and I’d take some home to my mother. I also harvested the cows’ contributions into my little wooden wheelbarrow, nicely patted down by hand. She was less keen on those.
We were the future, and the grown-ups’ quiet watchfulness made sure no harm came to us. I’ve been back since. The idyll, of course, is long gone.
