I grew up without screens, making mud pies and perfume. I want that childhood for my son.

My childhood was full of rose petal perfume, muddy knees and my afternoons were spent exploring the outdoors. Becoming a mother at 40 made me want those same experiences for Cyrus. But first, we had to turn a rather uninspiring garden into somewhere he could grow up.

When childhood didn’t need a Wi-Fi connection

As a child, I was convinced I could make perfume from rose petals. Armed with a handful of flowers and some water, I’d spend afternoons concocting what I imagined was a luxury fragrance. The resulting mixture usually resembled pond water, but I was convinced I’d created Chanel.

Growing up in the North East, much of my childhood was spent climbing trees, making daisy chains and exploring whatever patch of greenery happened to be nearby. There were fields to run through, streams to check for tadpoles in and gardens that were pretty big when you were small. We’d return home with scratched knees, muddy shoes and pockets stuffed with conkers, twigs and other treasures that adults don’t appreciate being brought into the house.

I remember sitting beneath an old oak tree at primary school, making up stories with friends and treating the banks of a nearby stream as though we’d discovered some unexplored corner of the world. We didn’t have smartphones or tablets. If we were bored, we just went outside and found something to do.

That’s not to suggest my childhood was perfect or that today’s children have somehow forgotten how to play. But there was freedom in those unstructured afternoons that I remember fondly. Nobody organised every minute.

When Cyrus was a baby, I found myself looking back at those afternoons and wondering how I could give him some of that same freedom.

I don’t want Cyrus to grow up without technology. I do want him to know there’s a whole world beyond a screen, and that the best adventures begin with a little imagination.

Rose bushes and ladybirds in full colour

Our garden was a fascinating place when I was growing up. Snapdragons, marigolds and rose bushes filled the borders, while butterflies and ladybirds provided endless entertainment. I loved the smell of freshly turned soil, the excitement of finding something crawling beneath a leaf and planting something and watching it grow.

The garden wasn’t grand, but to a child with an imagination, it offered plenty of possibilities. Rose petals became perfume, sticks became tools and a patch of earth could be transformed into anything from a vegetable garden to an archaeological dig.

Looking back, I realise how much those ordinary experiences shaped my appreciation of nature. I learnt to notice the changing seasons and recognise flowers. It definitely didn’t feel educational at the time, which was why I enjoyed it so much.

When I became pregnant with Cyrus at 40, those memories began to take on a different significance. I found myself thinking about the childhood I wanted him to have and the things I’d enjoyed that didn’t cost a penny. I wanted him to know the excitement of discovering a ladybird on a leaf, the smell of summer flowers and the pleasure of being outside because there was something interesting to investigate.

And for that, I decided, we needed a proper garden.

I didn’t want a show garden. I wanted somewhere Cyrus could dig, explore, get muddy and discover that the world was rather more interesting than anything on a screen.

Why a garden mattered when I became a mother at 40

When H and I started looking for a new home, having a private garden was high on my list of priorities. I wasn’t dreaming of an immaculate lawn or borders worthy of the Chelsea Flower Show. I just wanted somewhere we could sit outside with a coffee, enjoy a little sunshine and watch our son discover the joys of getting his hands dirty.

Our previous home had a yard rather than a garden. We did our best to brighten it up, painting the walls and making small improvements, but it remained a cold and uninspiring space. There was only so much enthusiasm I could muster for that outdoor area.

I longed for grass, flowers and somewhere to plant things without having to arrange everything in pots. I imagined climbing roses, fragrant shrubs and hostas spilling over the borders. There would be herbs for cooking, flowers for cutting and perhaps a small vegetable patch where Cyrus could discover that carrots don’t arrive in the world washed, chopped and sealed in plastic.

Privacy was also important because while I’m perfectly happy chatting to neighbours, I don’t necessarily want an audience every time I venture outside with a cup of coffee, when I’m wearing whatever happens to be nearest the bedroom door.

When we moved in, there was no lawn or shrubs, just a sizeable patch of bare ground, with an impressive amount of work ahead. Unfortunately, there was one fairly significant obstacle between me and my grand gardening ambitions. I’d just had a baby.

At a stage when bending down to put on my shoes had become something of an engineering exercise, digging borders and shifting bags of compost were hardly sensible weekend activities. The garden would have to wait.

Eight months a garden still waiting to bloom

Eight months after Cyrus arrived, progress was being made, although I wouldn’t have recommended inviting the gardening press round just yet.

We’d planted a few shrubs, painted the decking and given the back gate some attention. These might sound like modest achievements, but anyone who has attempted home improvements while caring for a baby will understand that even finishing a tin of paint can feel like a win.

There was always something else demanding attention. A feed, a nappy change, another pile of washing or the rather pressing need to sit down for five minutes with a hot coffee. Gardening had to fit around family life, which meant progress happened in small bursts. But among the unfinished borders and jobs still waiting to be tackled, there was one addition to the garden that meant more to me than all the others.

We’d planted a young oak tree to mark Cyrus’s birth. It was still small, but I loved the thought of it growing taller as Cyrus grew older. As the years passed, the tree would become part of the garden’s history and, I hoped, part of his childhood memories.

One day I hoped he’d sit beneath it with a book or take it for granted, as children often do with things that have always been there. Whatever happened, I liked knowing that something we’d planted to celebrate his arrival would continue growing long after he’d outgrown his first pair of wellies.

Giving Cyrus the freedom to get muddy

I don’t expect Cyrus to grow up without technology. But I do want him to discover that entertainment doesn’t always need to come from a screen. I want him to experience the satisfaction of planting a seed and waiting for it to grow. I want him to find worms beneath stones, watch butterflies settle on flowers and learn that muddy hands aren’t a problem.

I’d love him to make daisy chains, collect autumn leaves and invent games that make no sense to adults. Most of all, I want him to have somewhere he can explore without every moment being organised, photographed or turned into an educational activity.

Becoming a mother later in life has made me more conscious of how quickly time passes. It’s because I’ve had longer to think about what sort of parent I want to be, or because I remember my own childhood so clearly. Either way, I find myself wanting to hold on to these early years while also looking forward to everything that’s still to come.

And I’m learning that the garden doesn’t have to be finished before we can enjoy it.  I’ve come to appreciate the process rather than constantly worrying about the finished result. A new leaf or the first flower on a shrub. In the middle of family life, where days can disappear into feeding, cleaning and trying to remember when I last had an uninterrupted conversation with H, the garden also gives me a reason to slow down.

Even ten minutes outside with a coffee, preferably while it’s still hot, feels like a small luxury.

The best childhood memories aren’t made in perfect gardens

For all my plans involving climbing roses and fragrant shrubs, that little oak was the most important thing we’d put in the ground. The garden could take its time. Childhood, after all, wouldn’t wait for us to finish the landscaping.

Three ways to create a family-friendly garden

What do you remember about playing outdoors?

Did you grow up making mud pies, climbing trees and disappearing into the garden until teatime? Or are you now trying to create those same experiences for your own children?

I’d love to hear what you remember most about playing outdoors as a child, and whether you think today’s children have the same opportunities to explore.

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