The walk round Greno Woods isn’t more than a couple of miles but when I was little it felt like a great odyssey across the rambling landscape of South Yorkshire.

In winter someone would wrap me up in a mustard coat and matching hat and my Granddad would thread those mittens attached with string through my coat arms. The string always lay uncomfortably across my back and my hat would slip down my forehead so I could feel it grazing my eyelashes before gradually covering my eyes. I remember this used to irritate me but I’d sooner tilt my head back awkwardly and peek through the bottom of the hat than push it back up my head.

“We’re all going to the crocodile tree, Nanny, Nethrop, Clothlegs and me. Hey Queeko, are you coming?

That’s my grandad talking. He had his own words for everything. Queeko meant clever and Nerthrop meant naughty and nobody wanted to be Clothlegs.

The walk began with a treacherous ascent, slippy with wet mud and sodden leaves and at the peak was a stile wedged between a dry stone wall – a frontier between us and the evergreen wood. There was wool on wire and wet dog smell and big bits of bark which we’d peel from the trees.

“We’re all going to the crocodile tree, Nanny, Nerthrop, Clothlegs and me. It’s just up here, have you got Nanny with you?”

A little further into the woods there was a clearing and that’s where the crocodile lived. It had been there for years, quietly resting, rotting away and infested with woodworm. I was brave and would sit by his mouth, gripping his one bulging eyeball while he reared his head.

“He’s stirring, can you feel him moving?”

By now my socks would have come completely off my feet. They’d be nestled in the tips of my wellies and my mittens would be wet through. One by one the trees would turn black as the approaching night swallowed up winter’s daylight and we would know it was time to head back to the orange glow of Greno Lane.

“Okay you lot, the spiders are coming out to play, time to go home.”