I had a magical childhood, full of fairies, Father Christmas and the sandman who came every night to fill my eyes with sleep so that I would drift off to a mystical dreamland full of princesses, knights and wondrous castles in the clouds. Even now on a lovely summer day with skies full of cotton wool clouds I still find myself hoping that if I dived into them I would wake up in a magical kingdom.
Where did all these dreams come from? Well I had two of the most amazing parents ever. For five summers when I was small they took me to the Isle of Man for holidays. They tiptoed me round glens so that I didn't wake those fairies, my father used to get down on his hands and knees with me to look under the toadstools to see if we could see them sleeping, my mother would sit by the streams with me and listen to hear the sound of fairy wings fluttering by and we often did hear them. We had to say good morning to the men in green each morning or they would not have been happy! In the bottom corner of the garden my parents grew herbs and that was where the fairies lived in our garden. I could run all around the garden but I always tiptoed by their elfin grotto.
As I grew up and became more sensible I began to lose some of that magic and wonder. After all people laugh if you believe in the impossible. Well, I thought I had lost it. Then when our daughter was nearly one, my husband and I took her to the Isle of Man to see the places I went to as a child. I was disappointed at first because the magic didn't seem to be there and the weather wasn't too good either. Then one evening I said to my husband "I know why the weather is so awful, we haven't been leaving gifts for the fairies." He gave me his usual look of 'The woman's a complete idiot but I love her so I'll go with it!' and we left a drink and biscuits for the fairies. The next day we woke to glorious sunshine and had a lovely day exploring. We left gifts for the fairies every night after that and the next eleven days before our return were blessed with blue skies and sunshine and a little of that magic returned.
Both our children grew up being told to listen for fairies flying by and watching for their footsteps dancing in puddles on rainy days. My daughter loved this and looked and listened with so much glee. Sadly our son is affected by the cynical rationality of the modern day and believes nothing he hasn't seen with his own eyes. At six he told me to stop talking about Santa because 'it's not really possible Mum'. I cried. When our daughter was nine I was still leaving bits of Santa's beard on the sherry glass on Christmas Eve. Well okay, I still lie awake on Christmas Eve with one ear listening just in case!
My husband took me to Haworth for a short break in February and made a short detour to take me to Cottingley - he knows me so well. Now I know this was a major hoax. I really am not a complete idiot. But there is still part of me that hopes to wander down by the stream and catch them flying about or maybe hear their wings beating as they flutter by.
Last month my son made me cry - he said "I don't believe in fairies" and I realised that I wasn't upset because he was being his usual rational self but because J M Barrie wrote that every time someone said that, a fairy died and there are so few of them left.
So please tread carefully when passing toadstool circles, never disturb the quiet corners of your garden, leave a treat if you visit the Isle of Man and if you are a non-believer don't ever say those words out loud. Because I'm afraid
I really do believe in fairies!
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