When they were tiny it was easy to satisfy them with a bowl of water in the middle of the lawn, but as they grew older a nearby river claimed their attention.

One day a playmate of theirs came running to the house to tell me that two of my boys were in the river. MERCY! I ran like the wind in time to see two dripping, shivering little figures just starting for home. Evidently the five year old fell in reaching for flotsam, and the older boy fell in whilst attempting a rescue. Somehow they had managed to scrabble their way out again.

Although there was a six-foot link fence all along the river bank for safety, its object was defeated by the inclusion of a stile. Almost every week someone's offspring got a soaking, and his parents got a real fright. Incidentally, Cliff Richard the singer lived in our road, near that river bank, as a boy.

Ron and I were glad to move away from that death trap, for such it surely was - a tiny mite was drowned there shortly after we left for Ipswich, and it could so easily have been one of ours.

Here in our own garden we have the constant hazard of a fish pond, not very deep however, and at one time or another all my children and lots of their friends have had a wetting. Many a one I've had to rescue, strip dry and send home to a startled Mum dressed in strange garb. There lies just another advantage in having a large brood. I can always rake through the airing cupboard and find garments to fit little bodies of all shapes and sizes.

Slipping into the pond is not exclusive to the kids.

One evening after a day at Burnham-on-Crouch we reached home in the dark. Nevertheless we emptied the boot of wet towels, swimming costumes etc., and I came upon a bucket of mussels which the youngsters had collected from under the jetty.

As I picked it up the mass of shells began to move and blow bubbles. "Ron dear, do you think you could dispose of these?" I asked. "All right, love, I'll put them in the pond" he replied, and switched on the car headlights which shone through the garage window and part lit the pathway and water beyond.

He took the bucket and departed. The light proved misleading, for he stepped on what looked like an edging stone but turned out to be a water-lily leaf, and dow he trod into the deepest part of the stagnant water. He dragged his trouser leg out oozing pond slime and smelling to high heaven. You may think we're crazy when I tell you that we stood laughing fit to burst for quite a few minutes before he squelched his way to the house.

I suppose I ought to be wary of water myself, quite apart from the yachting experience. When I was very young I was a tomboy and was very proud to be accepted and tolerated by my brothers and their friends. We had exciting places in which to play, claypits, woods and sawmills.

If some of our exploits were carried out by the youngsters of today, they'd certainly be branded as budding juvenile delinquents. In one particular wood there was a terrific Delph and on Saturday mornings, weather permitting, a couple of dozen of us would go there for a 'War'. Sides would be chosen and with half our numbers on one bank of the ravine, and half on the other, it was a case of 'let battle commence'.

My duties consisted of breaking up sandstone into handy pieces, and keeping the 'warriors' supplied with ammunition. Showers of these stones were then flung from both sides. Few of us ever got hurt as the distance was considerable. The stones reaching their marks were seen and dodged, and the majority fell harmlessly into the brambles below.

When a truce was called we joined forces again and played 'Tarzan', building platforms in likely trees with dead wood and bracken, or 'hides' on the ground.

When we felt exceptionally daring we would scramble over the padlocked gate of the water tower, climb the ladder and run round the catwalk surrounding the tank. This was thrilling - it was so high that we could see practically the whole town, and so we were never caught.

During one game of 'hide and seek' I hid at the edge of the wood. Roger was 'seeking' and directly he spotted me I ran up a grassy bank and scrabbled down the other side, with him whooping in pursuit. My feet began to sink in soft ground but I kept on and suddenly I was up to my knees in a quagmire, unable to move one way or the other, shrieking that I didn't want to be 'caught'.

It took four of the boys to pull me out of that mess and afterwards they lit a fire to dry my petticoats and thick stockings.

For weeks after that event haunted my dreams, and even now thirty years later, it takes no effort to bring back the feel of the clinging mud and the sight of that green surface writhing about me.