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Easter Sunday tends to bring with it a few guarantees—family time, a mountain of chocolate, and usually some good old-fashioned British bank holiday rain. But today, something rare happened. The weather held up. In fact, it was surprisingly glorious. And with the kids having devoured their body weight in chocolate before the clock even hit 9am, it became very clear that staying indoors wasn’t an option—not if we valued our sanity anyway.

So, we packed up the chaos and turned it into an adventure.

But this wasn’t just any family walk. Today, I decided to take everyone *back*—back to where it all began for me. To the woods where my own childhood unfolded, long before smartphones, YouTube, or even the internet meant anything to us. These were my stomping grounds in the 1980s, and returning there today felt like opening an old photo album you didn’t realise you missed so much.

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The moment we stepped foot in those woods, something stirred. Sure, the trees had grown taller and thicker, and the river had snuck its way a few metres off course over the decades—but somehow, it all still felt *familiar*. There was comfort in the crunch of the forest floor beneath our boots, and in the way the light filtered through the leaves like it always used to.

I could still picture my younger self bombing through the undergrowth, shouting to friends, clutching sticks like swords, mud-caked knees and wild hair. We built dens from fallen branches, daring each other to swing over the river on fraying rope swings, and swimming in the cold water until our lips turned blue and our parents told us off for getting soaked (again). It was a childhood lived outdoors, full throttle, and it shaped me in ways I probably didn't realise until today.

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Walking those same trails now, hand-in-hand with my kids—who were just as wide-eyed and curious as I remember being—it felt like time folded in on itself. They climbed fallen trees, poked around in the undergrowth for bugs, and asked endless questions about what mischief I used to get up to “back in the day.” I might’ve embellished a few tales. That’s what dads are for, right?

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But what really struck me was how something that’s changed so much could still feel exactly the same. The woods weren’t identical to what they once were, but they didn’t need to be. The *feeling* was still there. And that’s the magic of going back—not to relive the past, but to bring it forward and share it.

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We didn’t stay for hours, but we didn’t need to. It was long enough for the kids to burn off their sugar buzz, long enough for us to breathe in some fresh air and soak up the sun, and long enough for me to reconnect with a part of myself I hadn’t visited in years.

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We’ll be going back again soon, no doubt about it. Because while Easter is about new beginnings, today reminded me that sometimes, the best place to start something new... is by going back to where it all began.