I don’t think there’s been a day since we arrived in Germany that we haven’t been to one playground or another.
Yes, we have them at home – but it’s just not the same. I feel like here, I don’t even have to look, and I find real gems. At home, well, I have to look a lot harder.
Our current favourite is a few minutes walk from my mother’s house. We pack my sister’s old buggy with shovels, a ‘bucket’ (really, a mixing bowl. Couldn’t find a bucket. The bowl does just fine though) and a sieve. Diggers are optional.
I pack my bag with a snack and a water bottle, my book and my knitting, and we set off.
I have my regular bench, (usually) in the sunshine.
We have been the only people there on quiet mornings, and I have shared my bench with various others at busier times. We’ve been in blazing sunshine, barefoot and t-shirted, the suncream still sticky. We have been with wellies and rain coats and drizzle.
Kaya loves the climbing and sliding, and ‘selling ice cream’ from the little yellow house, for “one hundred thirteen nine pounds” a scoop to unsuspecting mothers and children.
But his real love is the sand.
(I don’t know why we only ever get grass or that rubbery surface stuff on our playgrounds at home. Sand should be the key ingredient.)
Many a playground friendship have been made this week over shared shovels, digging up and filling holes together. Sand piles have been build, and castles and houses, and diggers have worked ever so hard on sandy building sites.
All the while I sit, knit, help settle the odd quarrel, supply snacks, kiss bumps better, and dig my toes in the sand (unless it’s muddy. Then I keep my boots on).