There’s something about dens. Not just the sticks and foliage, but the feeling - of escape, of boundless creativity, of crafting your own ridiculous little world from nothing.
Dens are the architecture of childhood chaos and imagination. They’re portals to other worlds. But more than anything, they’re monuments to freedom - the kind of raw, unfiltered creativity that blooms when adults bugger off and kids are left with nothing but dirt and time.
And maybe we love building them with our own kids because somewhere in the back of our minds… we remember.
Second from the left. That’s the one I remember.
A scraggly conifer at the bottom of our garden. Its long, sweeping branches practically begged to be pulled back, revealing the kind of hideout MI5 would mark as 'inconclusive' after three classified flyovers. My twin brother and I stripped the non-essential limbs, reinforced the frame with strategic stick placement, and carpeted the forest floor with a thick, bouncy layer of pine needles. Four seasons. All-terrain. Bombproof.