Being young and running around naked and free
Guest Blog by: George S Mycroft
Running around naked and free as kid:
At one time in my life, I used to live in a gatehouse cottage attached to the stables and outbuildings of an old grain mill situated in the rolling dales of the East Riding of Yorkshire, in England.
The mill had long since ceased its honest trade, had fallen into disuse, and had then been converted into a private house, owned by a local surgeon of some repute as I recall.
His wife was an artist and, at her behest, a studio with large northlights had been adapted in part of the structure.
This was no windmill, though, but a water mill, and its new owners had retained the mill race as a distinctive and pleasant feature, flowing alongside and then under their new home.
Below the house, with its becurtained french windows gazing blankly over the formal gardens nearby, the diverted waters fell in a merry cascade under the balustrade of a terrace, into a holding pond surrounded by lawns, before meandering their way back to their mother-flow, the nearby river.
The whole house and gardens lay quietly at the end of a long drive between some fields and, although situated on the outskirts of a small market town whose modern, developing housing estates had encroached to the very edge of its domain, it still retained the quiet and privacy which was much beloved by the wildlife of the area.
The river formed one border to the whole property, with wild, unkempt and often waterlogged land beyond. Wild rabbits, ducks, hedgehogs and the occasional fox visited and enjoyed those green lawns of the old mill, skirting their way around the ever-present earthen domes of molehills, which lay like brown, bulging pustules on the lawns’ overgrown faces.
The house, when I lived there, was empty – sold on to a local hotelier and publican who intended to eventually renovate the property and live in it himself.
It was old now and in need of some tender, loving care; a slightly careworn house with drooping, decaying outbuildings and an old-fashioned, draughty cottage which we consequently rented for a song.
However, the lack of human habitation had allowed nature to re-colonise the area, as she always does. Young birds chirped and then flew from nests buried under the old pantile roofs of the stables, wild flowers grew where more formal flowerbeds had once held sway, and the formerly pristine roses were straggly and tortuously intertwined, with many shoots of their wild ancestors happily in evidence.
It was a quiet, happy, tranquil, secret place then and an utter delight to live alongside – which rather compensated for the cottage’s less-than-ideal interior and draughty doors and windows. Moving in during late winter, those icy jets were all too quickly discovered and suffered, but the arrival of spring brought undreamed-of delights.
The dawning daylight and the birds’ morning chorus used to wake me early. Slipping naked from beneath warm and snuggly sheets and blankets, the night-chilled air of the house nipped every tactile point on my air-clad skin and heralded a swift awakening!
Moving silently downstairs, missing those inevitable squeaky steps, I padded barefoot through the living room, smelling the dead coals’ scent from last night’s open fire. A quick double-creak of the wooden back door and I stood naked at the outer limits of what became a most memorable and enjoyable, regular adventure.
My first task was to silently stand and utilize all my senses to absorb every aspect of this new day. I listened intently, detecting distant noises from houses and roads close by, but divorced from this secret world, for they were as though intruding from another dimension. They merely impinged on one’s aural senses.
More immediately, there was birdsong, and rustles in nearby bushes; a blackbird tugging determinedly at a recalcitrant worm in a nearby bed of earth. Then that delicious, damp, almost-fecund smell of newly dawning day.
I breathed it in deeply and savored its musty flavors its earthiness, feeling its chill flooding into my welcoming lungs. Cool zephyrs caressed their way over my tightened skin as my eyes took in every detail of the courtyard and the garden before me.
Fully alerted to my surroundings, I then trotted forwards towards the old mill, reveling in my physical freedom and my nakedness in the cool air, feeling the small pebbles of the driveway on the balls of my feet sending sharp reminders of my barefooted-ness rocketing to my brain.
My eyes scanned the driveway as I moved forward, alert for any signs of unwanted company on the driveway to the house, an early morning walker perchance, who might see me moving pink-skinned and clothes-free away from the cottage.
Reaching the safety of the hedgerow at the far side of the drive, my feet encountered the wet grass of the garden pathway —- and I was off!!
It was a very large garden, mainly laid out to lawn, open and wide and uncut, and it was here, unseen by the outside world, that I ran in utter and complete naked freedom as fast as my legs would carry me, feeling the cool earth pounding beneath my feet and the trickling droplets of heel-kicked dew hitting my bare buttocks and coursing their way down my backside and legs.
I ran and I ran and I ran, the chill air now flooding into my gasping lungs, legs flashing freely, over the ornamental bridge at the far end of the holding pond, past the trees and out of sight of the house, in my very own green-and-silver, flashing world, until I espied the end of the garden and, with a mental yell of utter joy, I threw myself length-ways into that dew-bedecked, grassy heaven and rolled over and over and over in sheer sensual delight until I was saturated, spent, chilled and joyfully happy.
It was utter and complete sensation, a total aliveness; pure, delicious, enveloping, sensory contact —- and, god, it felt good!!
Memories Of Being Young Naked and Free was published by – Young Naturists and Nudists America