Regent's Park by Lola

Lola  Jan 2011

The best times I’ve had going to the park with my mum, are when it’s around five PM. It’s a warm, late summer afternoon and my mum’s made a picnic – a full, colourful three course meal that’s so tempting and so good you can feel the fresh smell on the road when I’m carrying the bags of food and tableware (or picnic-ware) on my lap in the car, passing the posh, huge houses by Queen’s park, and the busy grey tube station. Though the area wouldn’t win many awards it does have one of the best ice-cream places in London. The summer evenings are a bit colder now, so we go to the playground with my sister or for midday picnic instead, surrounded by people sunbathing in the heat.

 My dad and I go to our closest park. I put on my flowered bike helmet and get on my purple bike and get ready to go to Regent’s Park, my dad next to me on his bike. Best on a warm summer’s day (mild – it’s never too hot in London!) We go past our block of flats and turn the corner around a patch of muddy green grass. We pass the immense Lord’s Cricket Ground with the pictures and quotes from famous cricketers. Then down the steep downhill, by Regent’s Park mosque and into the park for a drive, an ice cream or maybe a boat ride.

The mint green grass, its cooling moisture on my hot arms and feet is delightful, whether I’m eating roast chicken and feta salad or taking a rest from biking around the park and dodging the hungry, grey pigeons. The sounds of ducks, geese and seagulls in Regent’s Park Boating lake and the laughing, running and shouting children in Queen’s Park around the playground or bandstand spraying cold water out of bottles and running, completely drenched, to their mothers.

Portsmouth Harbour by Beatrice

Portsmouth Harbour

            The rocks are grey and dull. The never ending tunnels weaving in and out, between the rocks. The colourful sea life that seek refuge among the caves. The mountainous rocks that tower above their heads, keeping the birds of prey famished and thirsty. Boats are scattered around, blue, red and white are the main colours on McFly. There is one building that is like one big spike, it sort of twists in the air.

            The McFly was always my favourite boat of my uncle’s. He had it for three years I remember a week or two after he bought it he let me sail a bit with him. I remember all of the other boats, just bobbing in the water. I remember asking if I could have my own boat and being really disappointed when my mum told me that I was too young to have my own boat. My great uncle brought out his boat, The Wheel, and we had a race, it only lasted for a couple of hours because my little sister, Elizabeth, got scared of the fish. Why? I have got no idea!

            The salty spray of water hydrates my face, keeping it wet and cool, in the weather that heats my face, the rays of sun light pour onto me. The beams of light like a fiery substance falling from the sun its own burning body.

            The rancid smell of rotting seaweed lingers in the air. The stench of my wet dog, Dora,  floats in the air and through my jacket, into my nose. There are of course some good smells in that one special place. The horses stables near by, they always have fresh hay. What I think of as the beautiful smell of the countryside.

            The gentle sounds of far away ships, the loud barks of playful dogs, my sister throwing rocks at other rocks probably trying to make her own sand. More fierce sounds are harboured in my ears, like party crasher, ruining the lovely peaceful sounds. The ruthless gray waves crash on the rocks, those sorry  rocks who suffer this punishment every day, because I think they know that is how this works, that one day the must break apart to become soft and nice to touch

            I can taste the air, an unusual sensation; I can taste the salt, just like I feel it and see it. The salt lands softly on my lips, where I lick it off, determined to not taste the salt, to imagine it is only pure water, not the strange substance from the sea that it really is.

            I have many memories from this one place, but this one place is one of the most special memories that I treasure. The day when I found the star. It was in the summer holidays, we all wanted to go for a walk so we set off with our two whippets. the walk down to the beach took longer than usual because my little sister decided to fall over and start crying. After 20 minutes we arrived. I ran to my rock, there on the rock was a star! It was a simple starfish, but I thought it had fallen from the sky for me, as a present. This felt like the most amazing thing that could ever happen. But, it was stuck to the rock, my present from the sky didn’t want to come home with me, this crushed me, I felt hated and unwanted. The star didn’t like me! When I got older I realized this was just the stars means of survival.

Ruskin Park by Saharah

I have a tree that was planted especially for me when I was only a year old.

When I go to Ruskin Park I know my tree is waiting for me, it fills me with an unimaginable excitement. My tree is always covered with gold, red, amber and green leaves that delight my imagination… I remember going to see my tree when I was about six or seven and the beautiful leaves had hundreds of small gaping holes in each one. I was distraught when I found out that it had disease and the park keepers had to chop off all the diseased leaves and they did not grow back until the next spring. Every time I go up the steep hill and under the canopy of the humungous oak trees I feel as if I am as free as a bird, soaring over the treetops. Nothing can catch me.

            The first time I ever saw my tree I remember running straight to it as if I was being pulled by an invisible magnetic force. I had never been to Ruskin Park, yet my one and a half year old self just knew that it was mine. I have visited my tree so many times but I can remember everything that ever happened, I remember when I was little I would run all the way from the minuscule, colourful ice cream van that was always bursting with life and energy. I remember that I always got a small plastic cone filled with a sweet vanilla ice cream topped with a red, sugary strawberry sauce that was so syrupy my teeth were glued together.

            When I was little I thought that Ruskin Park was separated from the rest of the world and it appeared to be of such great size I sometimes felt that I would be lost in the soft pink blossoms from the small, narrow entrance to the clearing which held my tree. Surrounding my tree is a fifty year old Oak the height of a mast on an old fashioned pirate ship, with the leaves as the flag that waves that flutter and ripple in the wind, surging forward with each gust of air that passes through it brown and gold leaves.

            To get to my tree you have to venture through winding paths, across playgrounds in which young children play on the swings trying to swing high into the aqua sky. Past the tennis courts where the bright yellowy green tennis balls lay abandoned by exhausted players. Up the steep hill to the duck pond filled with mysterious deep blue water covered with hundreds of brown, green, blue and silver feathered ducks, then a flash of white, a beautiful swan gliding across the water, its powerful wings spread wide. Then under the canopy of green leaves, pink blossoms and warm brown wood beneath the summer sun, to the glade which possesses my tree. 

            I always feel really calm when I go to Ruskin Park as it is not a particularly busy park however there is always something to do. I remember when I was younger there was a huge tree with a massive branch that my Dad put me on as if it were a large swing. Unfortunately the tree became diseased so the branch was chopped off and now sits next to the destroyed tree like a dismal stump. My tree is twelve years old, the same as me… it is about 6’5’’ and its highest branches stretch high above my head. Despite this it is small enough for me to put my arms around it easily. Ruskin Park is near Denmark Hill in London and I nearly moved there once but my Dad decided to say no way.

             

Ruby's Balcony

Although it is small and hidden away, my balcony is my favourite place in the whole World. I live on a quiet road in Highbury, and all the gardens I can see are in tidy rows, like a stack of books, in a quiet peaceful library. My balcony is my own special place to think, with no one there to interrupt my thoughts.

My balcony is quite an interesting place to look at. The floor is a dark misty grey, as if snow had fallen the night before and left a permanent stain. The concrete walls and metal railings ruin the beautiful atmosphere, as they make my balcony look like a cage, ready to capture you and never let you go. On the other hand, when the weather is warm, and the sun is shining, the balcony looks warm and welcoming. The sun bounces off the ground, like an exited squirrel trying desperately to catch its tail.

The view from my balcony is spectacular. I can see all the gardens in the street, and I often lean out and shout to my neighbours who are cheerfully gardening in the sunlight. When it comes to evening, and the sun is setting in the distance, my balcony looks mystical, like a place in a fairytale, not believable and all imagination.

Now that I am used to the smell of my balcony, I don’t really notice the smell of my balcony, but the first time I went out there, the smell was overpowering. It was a very different, unique smell, and at first, I couldn’t work out what it was. And then I suddenly realised what it was. It was the smell of wildlife, nature, the outdoors! Seeing as I live in the city, I had never really smelt wildlife, except when I went on holiday, but at home, I didn’t go in the garden much. I absolutely loved this smell, even though I had hay fever and it made me sneeze.

I remember in the summer of 2009, when my friend and I were being chased by my next-door neighbours, we ran into the kitchen, grabbed some muffins and then flew up the stairs to my balcony. We locked the neighbours out and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, eating our toffee muffins and thinking up evil schemes to somehow get rid of the neighbours!

I love my balcony. I find it beautiful, yet sometimes scary. I will never forget all the special thoughts and memories that I have had there, and I will keep them tucked away in a little box that nobody knows about.  J    

My Dreams by Rachel

MY DREAMS



Water Lilies at Kew Gardens

  In my World I can go any place I want; it’s not always fun even sometimes scary but the thing I enjoy the most is that I can escape to my world when I drift off into the land of sleep. Where is my place you ask?  In My Dreams. A world where you create moving pictures unintentionally, created from your memories. My special place changes every night according to my mood, like when you watch a scary movie at night. You always seem to have nightmares…

For example when I’m angry I always lie in bed waiting, waiting to fall asleep. I can hear the faint repetitive water drops from the tap in the bathroom. Always. Anger hits me in the face, in my dream and I end up waking up with a frown or tears down my cheek. Divorced parent doesn’t make it any easier. No one to talk to. That affects my dream too.

When I’m happy I normally think about the first time I set foot in Kew Gardens, nervously approaching the counter, rain droplets falling on my face.

Reliving that day fills me with happiness and life. Seeing that flashback makes me wake up in a bright mood with a smile all day.

 About my place? It is impossible to have an exact answer, for my Dream is a blur of memories put together. My Dreams always start off with imagination, otherwise how would writers create an amazing book without the help of imagination. I imagine walking down the high peeks of mountains, fresh air filling my nostrils. Or taking a stroll in the park feeling the crimson trunks of trees, their wrinkly branches brushing against my skin. The roaring planes passing by above me, blowing away the delicate petals of the cherry blossom tree. The Cherry Blossom tree in the park that I’ll never forget.

 When I’m relieved or fulfilled with happiness, I can picture the best place in the world. The forest. Crackling twigs as I pass by, the sun seemed to bloom through the trees’ shadows constantly at my back. Water trickles down my spine from the leaf up above me, repetitive sounds of mellow droplets falling onto the floor. When I reach the end of the forest it seems a meadow appears with its picturesque views of flowers, shrubs and bushes of all kind. The fragrance coming from the meadow, succulent and sweet. Golden sun shining into my eyes, then it departed behind the clouds.

 I feel the prickly Canadian thistle, spreading along the path taking over like shadows beyond the sunrise, going on for miles. Radiant flowers from the colour ebony to ivory, aquamarine to bronze. All shapes and sizes, angular or not. I touch navy blue pansies, the delicate petals swaying together with the wind in perfect harmony. Hair in my face I can smell the shampoo I used yesterday. I jump, landing on two feet.

I wake with a jolt, finding myself smothered in softness from the duvet of my bed. It feels like floating on thin air, my plump pillow gone down. I get off

Skye's Tree

Whenever I go to my special tree in my garden full of plants, flowers, animals and birds, I know that I can always stay there for the whole day and not do anything but sit there looking at my beautiful forest-like garden, waiting for it to blossom with joy, but when it gets cold we would never go out we would just stay inside and wait for the summer so we can go outside and see how much it has grown. Normally when it turns cold again my dad cut one or two branches off so it doesn’t invade the garden, but if you think about it I think it would be amazing!

Whenever I go there I feel the peeling bark of the trunk and the engravings that we made when we were little with our friends from next door and my sister’s best friend that moved to the Netherlands. So it means a lot to me and my sister.

Whenever we sit by the tree we can almost taste the watermelon, the grapes, the chocolate and the mango that we ate around the tree in the summer with our friends from next door, and the fizzy berry or orange juice that they always offered us.

The way the tree is bent is the way we always see it if it wasn’t we would think that something was wrong, and the one branch that we always used to get up onto it with and the ladder to get onto the wall are all part of my special tree.

The sounds that we hear are amazing the way that the birds sing to each other and the sound of my rabbit rustling in and out of the bamboo that we’ve had all our life and the cars going past and people on their phones as they walk past on the street next to our house.

Under My Bed by Anna

My special place is a bit unusual but it can make a good hiding place (which can be handy at times) and a nice space to be calm and peaceful when we have visitors. I also write my diary under my bed to make it extra secret and read books like Goosebumps, I occasionally phone people there to. You may be wondering how I get under my bed but the simple reason is I have a cabin bed like a bunk bed with only one bed.

I have lots of cushions under my bed and a blue bean bag I also have some soft toys (including a big red mouse and a puppet rabbit) and three sheep skin rugs which have seen better days; there are some tropical animal stickers I stuck to the bed post which are now peeling off because they are about five years old.

 Because I live near to Heathrow airport I always hear the planes overhead. My cousin who wants to be in the R.A.F timed how frequently one passes and the answer is one every two minutes. Other sounds include grating, clanging, chatting, and sizzling because my room is right above the kitchen and dining room. 

I always feel the soft sheep-skin rugs under my bed that are compiled by an army of cushions and soft toys. There is also the bed frame that I swing on which feels slightly rough under my finger tips, and the mattress that is heavy and solid.

So you might still think my special place is unusual but the good thing about it is that it is never going to disappear because I will always have a ‘under my bed’ and that is one of the many things that make it special to me.

Regent's Park by Moey

The mini heart- attacks I feel when the wind breeze rushes at my face whilst I’m in mid-air, swinging back and forth. And that only means one thing; the park. But not as good as Regent’s Park. It was beautiful. The emerald green grass is always occupied by thousands of people; covering the beautiful colour to something more colourful and bubbly. In summer, the azure blue sky clashes with the canary yellow Sun.  It feels like the sun is about to cry a million golden tears and the sky is about to spread happiness by making little clouds disappear.

The little children running towards the ice cream van as soon as they hear the ice cream van tune. Some are asking their parents for money. Some are eating their ice cream happily but most of them are waiting impatiently for the goodness of ice cream. The cheers and shouts of the little children running and playing around the evergreen grass.  Enjoying every moment of their time.

The loud quacks of the ducks by the lake. The little steps of the children and the massive steps of the adults. It made a good combination. The whooshing of the birds, soaring through the sky. Gliding and flying until they lands safely.

The wind breeze touching my skin softly.  The soft petals brushing through my fingertips softly as I pick one petal at a time. The smooth grass every time I tear it off and put it on my sisters’ head.

The vanilla ice cream tasted incredibly wonderful every time I licked it. I loved every single bit of it. Especially in summer, where everything is shining and hot. There’s nothing better than that park.

  My favourite part of this amazing park is the massive aisle towards this beautiful fountain. The aisle had a gravel pavement separating two sides; one on the left and one on the right. The sides had evergreens on both side aligning each other.  There were a variety of flowers; red, pink, blue, yellow. At the end of the long wide aisle is a beautiful fountain which spurted pure water.  

North Wales by Maisy

My Favourite place

By Maisy

North Wales:

When holidays arrive in grand carriages, I can feel my heart warming at the thought of going to Wales.  As I stand in the field of the horse that helped teach me to ride, memories come alive. From the moment he was born before me, to the moment he passed away, I remember him with a heart flooding with love…

I drift into a distant land that I find when I am only relaxed. I can hear only the sharp gusts of wind and the soft “neigh” of a horse beside me. The gentle purr of a distant car among the meadows and the muffled whisper of willowing trees. The rich and fragrant scent of the silken air fills my nostrils. I can smell sweet soil scattered with early morning dew that sparkles and glistens in the sunlight.

The lime glazed trees stand portly under the royal, turquoise sky. A delicate blanket of silver frost sweeps over the fields like a giant spider’s web. The emerald, green countryside takes your eyes on holiday.  The plum, branching, knotted heather gets swept at a slanted angle by the powerful wind across the human featured hills. As I stand under the sailor’s blue blanket, I can feel the wind whip my face like an Eskimo to his pack. The warm, puckered lips of an inquisitive horse, scavenging for food in my large coat pocket gives a sense of safety, and a sensation of joy races down my spine. The inquisitive friend (who eventually finds a polo), tickles me like a father his child.

I can taste the country air; it dances across my tongue like a skater on ice, like a break dancer to a crowd, a ballerina to a barre and like an old couple to a waltz. It swims down my throat and settles in my stomach. I can taste life: a ball bouncing with joy, a rubber band stretched with anxiety, all emotions in the world swamp me like a duvet to toddler.

Do you see it now, my favourite place? A world without an end, a land so far away from life that it disappears, a secret place that only those who read this can picture.

Life in my world is perfect and I feel 100% at home. However life cannot always be the way you want it.  That’s why I love my special place.                                                                                                                

The Roof of My House by Maisie

 My special place

My special place is the roof on my house; my house is in a quiet road in London, I have lived in it all my life and have many great memories there but my favourite ones take place on my roof. Each year I go out onto my roof less and less, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy it. I remember hot summer days sitting on the roof with my friends; we would throw water balloons at anyone who went in the garden. Then my nanny would rush out and yell for me to get down but we wouldn’t and there was no way she could get us to because we had locked the bathroom door. There are to windows in my bathroom and both lead out onto the roof, one is small and a tight fit; to get through it you have to stand on the closed lid of the toilet. The other one is big and easy to get through as it is above the bath, but you need to find the key to open it first which is close to impossible as it is usually lost somewhere. Above the roof I claim as mine is my mum’s roof as her room used to be an attic but she had it converted into a bedroom and it is very hard to get onto as it a big climb from my roof and a big drop from her window. My cat once got stuck up on her roof and we had to lower a ladder down and then my brother, the rescue mission was a success  although my mum managed to pull a muscle in he arm while pulling my brother back in.

My special place, a place to calm down, play games and hide from my troubles.  The only place where I truly am alone in the busy city of London. A place that neither of my siblings know about. The place with the beautiful views of my streets colourful gardens. The place is my roof, though in my imaginary games when I was younger it could’ve been anything from a pirate ship to a spaceship, even through the ever changing weather of London it still manages to maintain its natural beauty.

I remember in the summer when my cousin and I were up on the roof playing one of our imaginary games, I am not quite sure but I think the game was “lost” were we where survivors floating through the ocean on nothing but a raft. The sweet aroma of honeysuckle surrounded us, it was coming from my neighbours’ honeysuckle bush which had overgrown into our garden but did not bother us as it smelt so sweetly. The shade from the houses on either side gave us protection like a suit of armour from the sun; towels were spread across the ground as a makeshift raft and also to protect our bare feet from the boiling ground that was not protected by the shadows. This particular game had a surprising twist as it ended by us finding a “castle” which in real life was just house. A few years later a remember holding a meeting for our “secret club” on the roof, it was winter and the sharp wind was dulled by the protective walls that surrounded us and often were useful in the unpredictable weathers of England. The dulled wind wrapped around us sending shivers down our spines as we discussed if we should let my brother join. No matter what happened on the roof it always managed to be fun.

What I enjoy most about my roof had to be the sense of danger I get when I go up there, when I was younger I felt like a villain, clambering around on my roof and having pretend wars with my friends. The roof overlooks my neighbour hood, the feeling that anyone could look out their window and see us and tell my parents just made it more addictive. What I liked most is that the plain walls made it easy to change it into anything I wanted in my mind. The roof was a canvas for my imagination.

The smell of the honey suckle worked as a natural calmer, but my new neighbours moved in and hacked it down; only leaving chunks behind and even then they didn’t water it. The honey suckle now is a pile of dead leafs and their once beautiful garden is an un-cleaned litter tray for their dog. Our carefully nurtured garden has become a public toilet to their new kitten that doesn’t even bother to go in the bushes but out on the beautifully paved floor. But even then the magic of the roof is still there. The aroma is replaced by freshly cut grass, the rough floor of the roof is smoother from the many years of rain. Then sound of my other neighbours singing as they garden still fills my ear and although it is not as perfect as it was before, the roof is still my special place.

From my roof I could see the whole neighbourhood; it was like my very own watchtower. The garden opposite had carefully clipped roses, a neat patio held a barbeque though they would only use it in the summer so it was left to rust in the winter.  The garden to my left had an always carefully mowed forest green grass with beautiful sprouts of purple and pink flowers, their washing line swaying gently in the breeze as the warm summer air slowly dries it. When you quickly skimmed over the gardens the general image is carefully nurtured gardens, full with green bushes and colourful flowers.

A Narrow Boat by Kiran

My special place is on a narrow boat when I went away on a weekend to stay on one. This is my special place because it brings me warm and comforting memories. I went with my family (my mum, dad and my sister) and my mum’s friend. I went there when I was about 5 years old and I still have the memories stuck into my head.

A narrow boat is a boat that is made to fit narrow canals. It is very long and very narrow (like in the name). It has many windows where there are amazing views that you can see.

The memory I remember most was when my mum’s friend crashed into a tree while she was controlling the boat. It was the first time I went there and it was an amazing experience. I was as excited as a child who had eaten dozens of sweets.

When I was there I saw amazing places that I can’t even name, we went shopping in different places and we ate strange mysterious kinds of food that I had never tried before.

A picturesque scene surrounded the boat. I heard the birds tweeting as well as the loud roar of the boat’s engine. I smelt the strong salty water coming from the outside of the boat. I breathed in the fresh air that filled my lungs with happiness. I felt excited, wondering what we were going to see next…         

                  

Grandma's House by Keeley

The White Cliffs of Dover

My special place 

By Keeley

My special place is my Grandma’s garden. My Grandma and my Auntie live in the middle of Folkestone and Dover in a large house with four bedrooms. They have two dogs, Jack and Gizzy. Normally you would think the boy would be the craziest but little old Jack wont hurt a fly, however he does like to chase rabbits! Gizzy is a hyper, crazy little dog (or shall I say big puppy!) but is so caring and kind.  Dover is very different from London and India; it has very little traffic and is very peaceful. My Grandma lives on a very wide hill with only a few cottages and is miles away from even a corner shop! So if you drive to the nearest shop and forget something, you have to travel ages to go and get it. The nearest shop will have to be a farm shop. It has loads of fresh fruit, vegetables, freshly baked cakes and pies and even fresh meat! The best thing about it is the apple juice, it is the best apple juice you will ever taste and will make your tongue jump up like an acrobat! Because it has such wide open space you can have any pet you please! We have the two dogs, three chickens and some small fish in the front garden pond.  The best thing about it is that, even though it is in the countryside it is just a short drive from the beaches in Folkestone and Dover!  

In front of my Grandma’s house there is a small garden but behind it there is a garden nearly as big as a football pitch! It has a bright green layer of grass and loads of flowers as my Grandma likes gardening, and many many plants of fruit and vegetables. We have a cherry tree and lines of strawberries as well as a greenhouse full of surprises.  Those plants smell as fresh as a spring day and are very ideal! From my bedroom you can see a rainbow of flowers and white cotton balls of sheep. There are a forest of trees and leaves blocking the view of the dazzling, blue sea. Behind the garden there is a field of horses and when I was a little girl my Auntie and my Nanny used to take me to stroke them. Their fur was like feathers and the sound of them neighing was like a lullaby to me however their pong made my eyes water and my nose shrivel up and die.

When I am at my Grandma’s house the first thing I do is sit down on the sofa and play with Jack, you have to as he sits next to you. If you move away from him he will put his paw on your leg, hitting you again and again! Gizzy will just lie down on your feet, nuzzling her teddy. When you are properly settled down automatically Gizzy lies down on you for a stroke. She has the softest fur any dog could have.

One of the best things about my Grandma's house is her cooking. She makes all kinds of foods but one of her best is the pork, crackling and rainbow of vegetables, sadly she only makes that on Sundays. L On normal days she cooks normal things like fish and chips, lasagne, wraps etc however they are not like normal foods, they give your taste buds full life!

My special place has everything anyone could imagine. My Grandma is the best cook ever, my Auntie is the craziest auntie in the world, my dad is the best dad ever and I have two mongrels that are like my best friends. The garden is as big as a football pitch, the house like a mansion. That’s why my Grandma’s house is my special place.

Joy's Bedroom

My Dream Room

My bedroom

My special place is somewhere I go everyday- probably a place where everybody goes everyday! But as it happens, the place that you go everyday, is the place you seem to take for granted. I don’t take this for granted- this is why my place is so special. My bedroom is on the top floor of my home, and is meters away from other members of my family – that make my place even more special!

When entering my room I feel as if I am walking into the aquamarine sky, with the wind beneath my wings, and the clouds barring members of my family from breaching. (This time is just for me!) My spongy, warm double bed lures me into its way, using its softness as bait. But I always seem to not resist jumping into it and falling asleep.

I feel the atmosphere take me in… by then I am acknowledged by posters, pillows…and of course my bed!   We meet in mid-air sharing a beautiful but emotional embrace. I hold tight to my pillow not wanting to let it go, and lay in my bed silently.

The mattress is midnight blue… the perfect colour for a first-class snooze! My bedroom walls are covered in clouds above the night sky. It’s as if the wallpaper is an extract from the heavens itself. But whenever it reaches the end of the day…I forget my fate, and give into temptation.

I feel this is the only place where I can stop family terminating my time to myself. It’s a place where I can just be me. As it is full of all the things I like my interests, me and my life.

Leaving my bedroom is the hardest thing for me to do, whether it’s the early morning and I’m tired or it’s late in the day and I have been forced to get out and have some fresh air by my parents. There’s always a chance that I won’t be willing to go… I could stay there a whole week without being tired of it!

Holly's Aunt's House in Scotland

Scotland is just above England and it’s a lot colder. Rural land makes up for all the missing shopping centres where I go. I sit there for hours on end just watching, every year, just watching in the chair. It now seems to be my second skeleton, like my second body. Its lime green silk skin which covers its wooden skeleton caresses my body and cradles me like a new born baby. It sits in the warmth of the inside of the house. Where the fire splinters and the wood burns and the smoke swirls and spirals up the chimney towards the Scottish sky.

The wind wails screeching along the frozen horizon its great bellowing body flinging carelessly the dainty ballerina’s that pirouette through the fuming wind. Snowflakes spill from the sky as if someone had dropped a crystal glitter pot from the heavens. Great blinding piles of whiteness pile on top of each other like a white tiger sleeping in hibernation.

 The icicles dangling like a hanging man suspended above the window as they glisten and crack owning the air for a couple of seconds before they shatter and become nothingness. The forest homes in on you; the blackness swallows you up with one gulp. Its throat is a winding black hole that never seems to end. On the other side of the frosty land there is a thin line of murky greyness that seeps its way across the stretching sky.

A lone red blur trots across the thick slippery ice. Its beady eyes scan across the land. A long sleek fiery tail shadows the fox. Its fur ruffling in the shattering, howling, screeching wind. It stops stands stock still. Its eyes pin point a rabbit, a hare, a duck something it’d like to feast on. The fox creeps forward his body getting low, his stomach barely touching the frosted lake. It creeps a little forward one delicate foot after the next. Then……. he's gone. Flying, skidding down the icy ground after his prey. Then within seconds he's gone off behind a hill slipping and sliding but still speeding. His prey would have no chance until the sight of sleek white beating wings batter the air and his prey flutters into the sky. Its great orange beak looking down at the empty mouthed fox then the wings take hold and it thumps at the angry wind. It’s not nuch later before a white dot disappears into the blue starching sky.

 Little white dots scatter the sheeted white ground. A small groaning ‘baa’ echoes in the distance. 

Away from the shivers and prey of the outside, the comforting crackle of the fire sends warm goose bumps up your arms. The wood splinters as the fire prances over it, twirling and jumping going over and over their dance rehearsals. The smoke crawls and creeps its way up the red brick chimney murmuring and whispering words until it reaches the sky and pours out over the lonely Scottish land.

A call of my names winds its way through the endless rooms and empty corridors until it reaches me telling me to leave, that its time to take the train back to London. I leave the life outside to get on with what it wants without being watched by a small girl. As I step away from the scenic view the wooden floorboards groan at my weight. Seconds later the room is empty: the scene alone in its own peace. The chair now empty, waiting, just waiting till next year.

Francesca's View

My special place is my bedroom window sill I sit on it whenever I can.  I live in Bethnal Green, my bedroom is on the ground floor the first door on the right. When I sit on my window sill my feet can’t touch the ground, they dangle there freely.  

I see trees swaying slowly in the breeze like people swaying slowly in time to music. Cars parked neatly like books on a shelf.  Grass as green as green and flowers as pretty as a bride’s wedding dress. In winter there are no leaves on the trees but the park is still beautiful. When you look out in summer, spring and autumn you can see different age groups running and playing, climbing trees. There is one tree everyone likes to climb. 

I hear the quiet sound of cars in the distance, the gentle wind hitting my ears and the leaves on the trees. If my cat is there I hear her purring or meowing on my lap, next to me.

I smell the fresh air and the greenery waft up my nose slowly like snails having a race. As a car passes by I smell the petrol from its engine.

I taste the air and trees. The grass that has been cut early in the morning.

I feel the wind or the sun, the rain or the snow whichever one is out. I feel the soft fur of my cat, they sit relaxing on my lap.  The soft fur on their chins is like a bag of fluffy pink candy floss about to melt in your mouth.

I have had loads of memories in the park such as my dad’s 49^th and 50^th birthday. On his 49^th birthday we got 11 people to sit in one tree, it was really cool. Another thing was when it snowed a few years ago we made an igloo out of the harder brick like snow, we put it in a rectangular box and stacked them up high like two tables on top of each other.  The memories are endless.

I feel calm like a humming bird taking nectar from a lily. I feel happy as the days go by.

Gloucesterhire by Esme

The soft call of a bird far away,

The emerald dappled light, mossy dampness swirls through the air. A small breeze rustles the green canopy of leaves, the bark bird hops into view and shakes its feathers and starts to call.

Trees crowd around like green watchers, looking over me just standing there watching, the canopy is  a safe tent protecting me from the outside world. The trees sway to and fro lulling me like a sea of green. The waterfall tinkles like fairies chimes , the forest starts to hypnotise me in to a sense of calm and poise.

The waterfall flows over cold stone splashing into a dark pool at the bottom of its cascade. A small shape swims through the brown mottled water. Two more shapes join in the parade. My reflection stares up into the endless greenery and out into the sky. I wonder what it sees.

Rotten leaves soggy and brown cover the mud floor, tawny light dances through the tree top world glancing off murky puddles lighting birds’ secretive worlds. I stumble out of my peaceful bubble in a daze, my legs are working but my mind is trapped thinking, just thinking of space. My legs carry me over the damp and mossy stile and I find myself back on the concrete road almost blinded by the light. Then I turn and amble home back to the smell of compost cow-pats and rich fudge cake.   

In my perfect world that would be the end but as it is there’s a story left untold so here I go…

As I walk the smells get stronger, I see my scraggly mongrel pup twirling round and round, his mouth clamped on the rope swing. No sign of that evil brother of mine. Everything is normal, little sister’s in the stream, mum and dad are sun bathing, don’t know why it’s freezing out here, but still it is too obscurely quiet. I reach the wooden gate I walk down the paved stone catwalk to the patio. On the table I see some cakes best not eat them after all little sister did say she “want to make cakesss” but that squash does look good with ice and fresh garden mint. Keep on walking then it hits me in the face. The long cold blast of water, river water from our river. Just keep on screaming. No it was not quiet -  it never is. it seems you can not escape the sounds of life even in the heart of Gloucestershire, the Cotswolds, England. 

Cym Ivy by Ellis

My special place in Cym Ivy

 My brother and I hurtle down the hill, wind flying past us, Betsy running up the hill to greet us. The little white house sits at the bottom, its mint green door wide open. Grouse Cottage. Above our heads is the sign of welcome. My best friend Oshen is rolling on the floor with Betsy playfully biting his ear. Betsy is a spotted spaniel about the size of a ruler. Dreddy crashes through the door standing tall and proud, wagging his tail. He leaps on top of me forcing me to the floor with Oshen, licking my face and drenching me in dog slobber. Every time he does this I have to have a shower but I love it any way. First thing we do (after I’ve had shower) is take a long walk to Rhossilli Down with Oshen and Betsy.

   The ice cold wind brushes past our faces making us shiver. The waves far down below us crash on the golden seashore. We hear the petrifying shriek of the children in their swimming costumes as they dip their feet in the freezing water. My special place is like the top of Mount Everest looking over the whole of the World.

Out on the Worm’s Head we see tourists scrambling over the rocks trying to make it back; before the tide rises. We smell the sea salt and we hear the whispers carried through the wind. We taste the salt on our tongues like the sea is rising up to greet us. As the sun goes down great big shadows spread over the seashore like a growing monster taking over. The sun beams down its blinding rays to us and the sheep, giving me a goodbye present as it slowly slips away.

We will have to go soon, it’s starting to get dark and our parents will be worrying but the top of Rhossili Down is so magical we can’t leave. Just five more minutes we tell ourselves. An hour later my phone buzzes with a text: WHERE ARE YOU! MUM  We check the time. We should be home by now. We start to walk back with the sun glimmering on my back; it’s almost begging us to stay.