I was lucky enough to grow up with fantastic Grandparents. They’d take me and my cousins out and we’d go and explore the castles, cliffs and coasts of North Lancashire and Cumbria. Of course it was mainly ruse on my Grandad’s behalf to find a country pub he could get a decent pint in.
He had a knack of telling stories, and the knack of sitting in the front of the car ‘reminiscing’ with my Gran such that those 6-7-year olds eavesdropping from the back seat would find it all the more believable. Tales of how he stormed Lancaster Castle with Robin Hood to save Marion. Of how he hid Excalibur from Mordred in a hollowed-out oak in Silverdale, taking care of the sword for Arthur. It was he who burned the cakes, but Alfred took the blame as my Grandad was always getting in trouble for doing something wrong. This was further evidenced by my Gran’s constant berations. He’d even been at Hastings, told William to stop waving sharp sticks about as he’d have somebody's eye out. We saw a copy of the Bayeux Tapestry, and there he was, right there, the one with the big nose.