I often remember those war games at Runcorn hill, with a stick for a gun, or pretending to be cavemen, for a moment the whole landscape would change, and we would be back in prehistoric times hunting the lost dinosaurs of Weston, searching for the lost cavemen of the hill.

Following ancient footsteps and eating our prehistoric meat paste sandwiches, drinking water from a glass milk bottle from a lost tribe called the co-op.

We played American Civil war games searching for Yankees among the ferns.

My little brother would be the little drummer boy, and march us round Runcorn hill.

Soon the dear Doctor would treat our wounds with doc leaves.

In the distance we could see smoke signals from fort I C I.

Later in the year, as the autumn weather came and leaves littered the pathways; we climbed trees for conkers to string.

We also used our old jams jars to go blackberry picking, the ones we had collected tadpoles in, but had to throw them back as Dad would go mad if we took anymore home. We washed the old jam jars in the dirty pond water, then we went blackberry picking at Runcorn hill, The blackberries were always at their best in mid to late September.

We took them home and Mum made homemade blackberry pie and a rice pudding to go with it. I can still taste that pie now.