These are the railway sidings a few hundred yards from my childhood home in Liverpool. They are reputedly the source of the famous ‘Aintree Iron’ made famous by the Scaffold in 1967.
But, like Camelot, there are other contenders for that particular honour, each fiercely guarded by their champions.
No matter, it was where we played as kids, blowing up trains on their way to Heidelberg or Berlin, evading the shadowy but ruthless Gestapo—more usually the railway police. Either way, the imagination was fed and sometimes I wish I could play similar games now without being locked up as an idiot.
It’s in marked contrast with my present environment—one which makes me equally happy but in a different way. Now my only excitement is dodging Covid 19. No Gestapo at least, not for the moment.
Sunlight in a country lane
Monmouth across Vauxhall fields