Freeloading

Do not underestimate the value of something if it is free.

That was my philosophy in the early years of my children and seeing the fully rounded and informed adults that they now are I am happy that the experiment worked. It was an experiment, the whole thing of bringing up kids is so, and do not be persuaded otherwise by the weighty volumes of authoratative works and self help manuals produced to the ultimate bank balance benefit of doctors, psychologists and celebrity parents.

That is not to say that we, setting out on the very responsible path of parenthood did not go with the trend and indeed Dr Miriam Stoppard in particular appeared to have moved in to our house like a friendly apparition to be summoned and consulted at the first sign of fevers, colics or fractious behaviour.

The children, bright and inquisitive, demanded  to be entertained and educated and although tired and worn out from work and daily chores we, as doting parents, feel that we did our best.

Even when themselves worn out and sleepy there was an unquenchable thirst for information and mental stimulation from the offspring but it was a perfect end to the day to see them nod off whilst being read a fairy tale, a fantastical fable or just, from memory, the plot of a Disney production.

The sight of double buggy, two dogs in harness and a full family contingent did cause pedestrians to hurry out of our way as we headed out of our street towards some of our favourite local walks. The river foreshore was a regular destination and we could spend hours exploring the old chalk quarry or the equivalent to beachcombing but on a very muddy and smelly estuary bank. A few interesting artefacts were found by keen eyed children and I still keep in the car boot, even today, a twisted metal rod which must have been used by employees of the London and North East Railway in the late 19th Century to lift up slotted drain covers and it is very useful as such a tool.

Water streaked and smoothed sticks, up to small log size and numerous stones and pebbles were dragged or ferried back attached to or under the buggy for a future playtime. These things, I occasionally dig up in the garden some 16 years later.

We thoroughly exploited the neighbourhood on a seasonal basis from late summer conker hunts to pulling up early Spring daffodils from neglected borders to be repatriated by the children and duly proudly presented to their mother.

Ranging further afield there was, with a bit of forward planning a lot of non-cost element activities to keep the children interested.

We went to a sideways ship launch with George, their late Grandfather, and he kept them enthralled by the story of when he got his head stuck in the riverside railings and had to be cut free by the fire brigade.

Art Gallery visits were free and frequent. The main city centre collection was arranged in a series of interlinking rooms which really gave a sense of covering a great distance. We always made a point of standing and staring at the huge Peter Howson oil painting of the crouched, pockmarked faced fighter which had pride of place near the entrance. The children enyoyed the art and there would be no comments or tantrums if we left out the Gift Shop even after passing it, tantalisingly, many times in our circumnavigation.

Living in a Maritime Port meant a good range of museums and other related attractions and thanks to a social minded Local Authority these were nil-cost.

The Transport Museum was packed with exhibits for climbing on. We could also sit in the seating on a tram and listen to the soundtrack of a bustling load of passengers from the halcyon days of urban commuting by electric overhead power. The greatest interest was from clambering up into a horse drawn Hansom Cab complete with authentic rocking movement and strong odours of manure and a city pre-smoke free legislation.

We would skirt quickly through the Archaeological Museum which was adjacent as the static displays of mannequins in various period settings were really quite scary, even to me as the responsible adult.

The signs of having a good day out were clear. The children would be happily weary but still bright eyed and excited with tales to tell of what they had seen and done. They would be holding tightly the spoils of the outing, a handful of informative leaflets on all manner of subjects, perhaps a sticker worn on their coats indicating they had indeed visited a museum and even a few more pebbles and pieces of debris collected from municipal verges and open space.

It is ironic, but infinitely pleasing to me that even after extending the experience of the children when older to trips abroad, as far as Singapore and Australia and through the Mediterranean they still seem to have the fondest recollections of a day out with their father when he spent nothing.