The lights were on again all over the world and we young people were eager for a new adventure. Mr. Weir, our Sunday School Superintendent, had organised a trip. There hadn't been a Sunday school trip during the war but now that the conflict was over, we were finally going to have one again.
The trip was to Walton farm at the far edge of Castlecary Glen. Walton's farmer had kindly allowed us to use his open field for our sports day. The field was about 2 miles from our village of Allandale and I pleaded with my mother to come with us, with one year old Christine in her big pram. Besides, other mothers would be there to walk with her. Another local farmer, who had a clydesdale and a large flat cart, offered to take the youngest children. Wull McFarlane, our bin collector, cleaned up his cart so he could lift some of the bigger children.
The great day arrived with favourable weather. My pal, Nettie Cunningham, and I wearing our pretty cotton dresses waited beside our Sunday School teacher, Isobel Miller, who was also the cub mistress. My brothers, Charlie and Jim loved Miss Miller. She told her class, which included Nettie and me, to hop aboard quickly. The strange procession was on the move with everybody in high spirits and we sang “Oor bus is the best bus”, as we trotted along. My mother pushing her pram walked beside the flat cart in case any of her children should fall off.
We passed Dundas Cottages, up the hill by Castlecary School, through the viaduct and along past the castle, until we came to the open farmland where we entered the field. When we advanced into the park, Noddy, Watson's horse, decided to do an emergency stop, causing Miss Miller to fall backwards, over the back of the gig. We just saw knickers, legs and feet disappearing over the end of the cart. Shame on us for making fun in the light of disaster. Although she didn't suffer any broken bones, Farmer Watson had to take her home early because she had had a terrible fright and her back ached.
Once we were settled in the meadow, we sat and ate the sandwiches we had brought from home. My siblings and I surrounded Christine's pram where my mother spread jam on the bread she had brought and issued the pieces to her hungry brood. There was no shortage of milk as the farmers had brought large churns, so we drank milk until we were full.
We children gathered in the centre of the field for our races. We ran various races for every age. We had a wheel-barrow race where your partner held your legs and you had to dash along on your hands. I'm afraid my wheel-barrow collapsed. I hadn't much success in the three-legged race either. Now, the egg and spoon race was right up my street. I chose a large spoon like a ladle and placed my wee egg in the centre. I ran like a flash past the winning post and I was awarded with a shining sixpence which I quickly handed over to mother. The adults were allowed to participate in the blind man's bluff race where our eyes were bound tightly with a scarf and then we were given directions to follow – like take 5 paces forward and turn to you right, etc. The winner was the one who ended nearest to auld Wull's boots. Good! another sixpence for mother. She was getting a wee bit anxious in case she wasn't home to make her working man's dinner and she decided to head back.
Time had flown by and it was time for us all to trail home. The only cart that was still in the park was the flat cart which took the younger children back safely but the rest of us had to take "shank's pony".
My heart is glad when I look back at this golden age. I remember the endurance of my dear mother, the warm companionship of my siblings and pals – especially Nettie who I still keep in touch by phone. We still relate our childhood adventures to one another. I tell her many times, ’I had holes in my shoes but we had a happy childhood!’