Day 169 - Treehouse

 TREEHOUSE

Prompt - Treehouse : Write about your own secret treehouse hideaway

I guess most of us, when we're kids, imagine some kind of hideaway, or assembly point, or club house.  Somewhere beyond adults, hidden from the world where kids get to act out kid things.  For many it would be a treehouse, especially if they live in an area near woodland.  It might be a fantasy, or even partial reality, shared with siblings or friends.

I was an only child, mixed infrequently with other kids, and lived on a bland housing estate with no clumps of trees within a mile of home.  So did I engage in total fantasy, creating an environment for myself, or limit myself to the real world and make use of whatever was near by.  being of a prosaic turn of mind I opted for the latter, and imagined a hidey hole that grew with me as I turned into a teenager, and was a staple of much of my childhood.

We lived in a street of 1950s terraces, a narrow stett of narrow houses, and, predominantly, narrow people.  My mother was certainly one of those.  Our rear garden backed on to the gardens of the semis in the street behind, a setting where everyone saw everyone and everything.  But on the opposite side of the road the terraces backed on to a steep earth banking that sloped up to the road behind.This banking was left to go wild, and could be accessed either through the driveways that separated the eight home terraces, or from the upper road which had a simple wire fence and wide gaps, plenty big enough for a child to get through.  

Most of the banking was covered in long weeds, a few small bushes, nothing that provided much by way of concealment.  But at one point, near the back of the home of one of my acquaintances, there was small tree.  Dark, prickly, pressed up hard against the wire fence, overhanging the slope in the other direction.  There was a natural hollow at it's base, in amongst the roots, and we would sometimes go in there, out of sight from all but the most persistent viewer, our secret place.

It didn't amount to much.  Shade and dirt.  The most unromantic of spots, and far removed from the treehouses of childhood fiction.  Except in my head.  Not when I was there - reality loomed too hard upon my imagination.  Back back in my room the fantasies began.

There was no room in the stunted overgrowth for any kind of hiding place, so my head turned underground.  This puzzles me, for I always suffered from claustrophobia to some extent, so the notion of an underground lair should have terrified me.  But this wasn't reality, and my weaknesses and foibles were of no count.  If I could have a fantasy location I could have a fantasy me too.

To begin with it was a simple underground room, with little light, but a secret place where treasures could be stored, examined, and adventures planned.  Except I wasn't really one for adventures either, so I turned further inward, downward.  Over the years the dingle room became an underground complex, more like the lair of a Bond villain than a child's play place.

I can no longer remember what plots I hatched.  Not world domination at least.  It's possible there was no real plan for what I had, the enjoyment was in having it.  A place, albeit imaginary, where I had control - something we never have as children, and still rarely find as adults.  A place where I was confident, competent, respected by... whoever was there.  I know there were people, but can't recall any of them - except for one of my history teachers!

The fantasy lasted well beyond the time when, on a few occasions, I crouched in the dark earth under the black branches and thought myself brave to be there.  But it obviously made a lasting impact, for as soon as I saw today's writing prompt it was what immediately came to mind.  ButI was a strange child...