You can hand a young child the keys to a soft play empire, a sensory board engineered by NASA and a fully assembled Lego Death Star, and they will still choose the plank on two chains.

Bang for buck, nothing in modern parenting beats the humble swing. For the price of a dodgy lower back you can generate hours of wind-in-hair, lungs-out shrieking joy.

But there comes a moment when you’ve done the alternating hand push, pushed from behind, and watched them try sitting, standing, twisting and the dreaded “look Dad, no hands.”

And you both know it. The municipal playground pendulum; reliable, squeaky and lightly splattered in bird turd has taken you as far as it can.

It’s time for level 2: the rope swing.

Last Wednesday the sun was out, and with a whiff of spring in the air, Luna and I jumped on our bikes and went looking for a tree sturdy enough to introduce her properly to gravity.

We pedalled a few k’s through country lanes to a patch of forest fast becoming my favourite. Home to an ancient spring-fed well frequented by adventurous wild swimmers, it’s ringed with tall beech trees clinging theatrically to a steep hillside.

Borrowing a phrase typically aired three bottles deep at a dubious dinner party, it was prime swinging territory.

We scrambled up the bank scanning for limbs. The branch that winked at me sat about eight metres up, jutting over the steepest part of the slope. It also appeared to have winked at several others before us: frayed rope remnants dangled beneath it like the ghosts of previous ambition.

We’d barely tied the final knot of our woodland fairground ride (instructions found below) when two women arrived at the well, eyeing our operation with the calm scrutiny of Ofsted inspectors on a surprise visit.

Their expression was clear: “If that branch snaps, we’re calling it in.”

It was time.

Luna stepped forward and clambered onto the swing. Eyes bright, little hands gripping the rope.

“Let’s go!!”

This is the bit no one warns you about: you can prepare the environment, do the safety checks, and give the pep talks, but at some point you’ve done all you can. You have to let go. They’re on their own.

So I did, and off she flew.

There is a specific whoop Luna makes when adrenaline courses through her body, usually on a bike, a sound somewhere between a battle cry and pure electricity. It never fails to put the biggest smile on my face.

The older of the two women stood watching, smiling in that distant, nostalgic way adults do when confronted with unfiltered joy. Meanwhile, I grabbed my camera to snap Luna mid-swing.

Whilst lining up the shot I suddenly locked eyes with the second, younger woman who had, at some point during proceedings, removed every single item of her clothing and was preparing for a perfectly committed nudie plunge into the water.

Sweaty and concerned she might think I’m a woodland pervert, we swiftly relocated for lunch to the very audible commentary of, “She’s naked, Dad!” The rope swing resumed after cheese and pickle sandwiches, and we both had an absolute riot soaring through the forest.

Somewhere within this adventure and the existential jolt of letting go, I was reminded that maybe all this outdoor play isn’t just about building a better childhood for my kids.

Maybe it’s also about building the nerve to release them. When you strip it right back, parenting is basically a long series of moments where you set things up, check the knots, take a deep breath and eventually release the rope.

Your microadventure challenge this year is to buy some rope and go find a tree to rig a swing off. Practise your knots on something lower first, then cast, swing and let them fly.