The Freedom of Twydall

For kids growing up in the 60’s, everywhere was a playground. If I wasn’t out with my brothers and the kids from our street I was out with friends from school, exploring and learning. Street games like kerby and hopscotch were okay for killing an hour before tea, but there was always an incentive to roam and in arrow chase, we had a ticket to freedom that stretched our boundaries and introduced us to every short cut and alleyway in Twydall.

On Petham Green I picked buttercups in the sunshine and passed the do-you-like-butter test. On Woodchurch Crescent I played on the swings and got sickly dizzy on the roundabout. On the huge mound of earth that became Harbledown Manor I scrambled to the summit; King of the Castle and a dirty rascal in shoes full of soil.

I knew the thrill of finding free rhubarb on something called an allotment, off Lower Pump Lane. And the joy of running through the daisy field, on Broadway. And the excitement of playing in the newly built Benenden Manor, until a glance over the balcony sent me on a wall hugging retreat to the staircase. 

And sometimes I picked the wrong company, as happened down the Lower Rainham Road one summer evening when I, along with some big kids I’d tagged along with, came across some a gypsy camp. From a crouched position behind a hedge it was suggested we each grab a handful of gravel and on the count of three, let them have it. So we did, but in the milliseconds it took for the hail to clatter the caravans, I was already up and running.

On the grass facing the bottom of Hawthorne Avenue, the Battle of Rorke’s Drift was fought with cardboard shields. On the mountain of rubble where the Tech was built, I got my head lumped in a stone fight. When they built a catholic school on Romany Road, I played in the foundations. Sharps Green? Yes. The chalk pit? Yes. 

Scrumping in the orchard on Pump Lane? Scavenging at the back of Twydall shops? Getting up to rude things with girls in the wasteland opposite the golf course on Beechings Way? Yes, yes, yes, between 1962 and 1966 I did all those things. And I once strayed beyond the forbidden zone, crossing the top road to visit the glorious Darland Banks, where I whizzed down its slopes on an upturned car bonnet.

This story, from late ‘62, tells of one memorable adventure…

Brendan Wright lived next door to me on Crundale Road. Being ten, and a couple of years older than most of us, he was our natural leader. When he suggested we go for a walk, we put our trust in him and walked.

And so it came to pass that one grey winter’s day, on the run up to Christmas, Brendan led a handful of kids from Crundale Road into the unknown. Without a care in the world, we walked and walked, till eventually we came to a monument on the other side of a bustling High Street. As monuments go it was average in size but to me, it seemed huge, and when our worldly sage informed us ‘that’s where Billy Bunter is buried,’ I didn’t question it. As privileged as I felt to gaze upon Bunter’s last resting place, it saddened me greatly. Billy Bunter had been on telly just weeks before and it shook me to learn he’d died.

From there we came upon a wilderness so vast that it brought a collective ‘Wow!’ After some exploration we were drawn to a distant horizon, where we found ourselves gazing down a sweeping incline. Something inside compels a child to run down a hill and off we went, yelling and shrieking. Inevitably, momentum and gravity took over and as euphoria turned to fear, one by one we tumbled, gaining a few scratches and bruises on the way.

At the bottom of the steep slope, branches were selected and snapped from an abundance of leafless trees. These were used for swishing, most notably in the decapitation of monster weeds. Brendan said we should take the best branches home to make longbows. A brilliant idea, I thought. In fading light I and other boys gathered the best and set off on the long walk home, filled with the spirit of Agincourt. But our burden was cumbersome and when we reached to civilisation, we reached it empty handed.

 

Two thirds of the way home our weary band came to a corner shop with an outside display of seasonal fruit and vegetables (where Canadian Avenue meets Woodlands Road). The temptation was too much for our leader, who quickly ushered everyone back to the cover of a wall. After establishing everyone was hungry, he came up with a plan, targeting the big oranges at the front of the display. ‘Just watch me,’ he said. Stepping casually from the cover of the wall, Brendan had a sly look around. Then, in a flash, he swiped an orange and darted across the road.

Timing was crucial if we were to make the snatch and get cross the road in one piece, but in ones and twos the rest followed, until all but one had joined our leader on the other side of the junction (on the corner of Cornwallis Avenue).

I didn’t expect the brazen scallywags to start peeling their ill gotten gains there and then, but in full view of the shop, they did and that cranked up the pressure on me. Theft was theft and my dad was as stricter than most. I wanted an orange, of course I did, but I knew I’d be in for a leathering if I got found out. 

I made my move, made the snatch and flew across the road, only I’d shied away from the oranges at the last second and grabbed a nut instead; a single, solitary brazil nut. 

Stealing a brazil nut is not a good idea. While my orange slurping friends strolled along Cornwallis Avenue, I trailed behind, repeatedly bouncing the nut off the pavement in a futile attempt to crack it. I was still at it on the footpath by the golf course, till, on the gradient up to Featherby Road, I gave up and slung it away.

A few mothers were out in the street when the bedraggled army arrived home, but there was no undue fuss. We’d all gone missing together and we’d all returned together. It had been a marvellous day, and though I had mixed feelings about the nut theft, I’d seen Billy Bunter’s grave and I was quietly proud of that.

You can read more Twydall Tales here.