Grown-ups need play time too

When I go on vacation in Britain, I look for a number of particular things in the vicinity of my destination: good places to eat; National Trust properties; hills or other interesting natural features; and heritage railways. You’d be hard-pressed to find a place in the UK that doesn’t have at least one of these going for it. And who could want anything else?

On a recent trip away to the Norfolk coast, we were spoilt for choice, torn between shingle spits and stately homes. And the North Norfolk Railway, also known as the Poppy Line, was a must-see, linking Holt – the town in which we were staying – with Sheringham, by the sea.

There were no steam engines in use when we visited, the chance of lineside fires too great a risk thanks to the ongoing drought; but the deployment of some 1950s diesel locos hardly diminished the experience – charming to me, twee and a bit faux to others, but each to their own.

As with most of the heritage railway lines around, volunteers made up the bulk of the staff: men in dirty overalls driving the engines; men in three-piece suits and peaked caps acting as stationmasters; men in a range of other smart, retro outfits checking tickets or waving off the train with their green flags and whistles. All of them having a lovely time, playing.

For some of these men – and a tiny number of women – it is perhaps simply a bigger version of a toy train set. The engine and the carriages move from A to B and back, points and signals are changed, and everything is to scale and historically correct. For others, it is a game of imagination, in which they play a role that can not only take them away from their real lives, but transport them to a different time – maybe a better one. Yet whichever way you cut it, playing is what they are doing. I may have been the one on holiday, but they were having the more serene time.

And frankly, good for them. Adults don’t really have much chance to just play. We might take part in some sporting endeavour, either to stay fit or to feel competitive, but it’s often not carefree. Or we might have a blow-out with friends, probably overdoing it in the name of a good time, and usually regretting it. Sometimes we keep the kids entertained with a game, but even then, there is a constant calculation about ensuring that the “playing” ends nicely. It can all feel quite stressy.

For the past week, my son has been attending a cricket camp. Shortly before 10 o’clock in the morning each day, I pack his lunchbox, slather him with sun-cream and drop him off at the cricket club. For the next five hours he throws, bowls and bats to his heart’s content, making new friends, chattering incessantly to the people in charge, and generally wearing himself out. There are various mini matches each day, but there is nothing on the line, nothing at stake beyond doing your best and having fun.

And every day, when I pick him up at 3pm, I wonder why there shouldn’t be a cricket camp for grown-ups. I can just imagine it. A little light warm-up first thing, then some skills-based exercises to focus minds, hopefully accompanied by some glowing words of encouragement from the cheerful coaches. Biscuits all round at break time, then some batting and bowling in the nets before sandwiches and crisps for lunch. In the afternoon, we’d probably get out into the middle for a match, but playing for the joy, not for the win. Finally, unlike the kids, a pint of shandy to end the day. Then repeat for the rest of the week. It would be utterly glorious.

I’m convinced that a few days of proper play-time each year would do wonders for the adult population of the country. For those not keen on cricket, there might the option of some large-scale tag, or hide-and-seek, followed by a few rounds of wink murder. Other groups might prefer to play shop.

In the meantime, I’m going to search out my nearest steam railway and get kitted out as a signaller. Choo, choo!