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Creating our own mysteries

Article by Keith Robinson

Even though my mate Geoff and I couldn't find Peterswood, we still had our own little town of Aldershot, Hampshire. Not quite as picturesque as Peterswood, admittedly, but it's all we had. So we set about creating our own mysteries, with one of us burying clues in the dirt or up trees and then phoning the other to get him started. We'd put on a sinister voice and leave some clue or other, seemingly "by mistake." Yeah, hours of fun.

We even interviewed a nice old lady next door, with a tape recorder, and got her to tell us about strange noises and stuff like that. The purpose was to bring in another friend—a sort of Ern—and lead him on a false hunt. But he didn't go for it, the spoilsport. Where was his sense of adventure?

Oh, and of course we went through the phase early on where we had to be "club members" in order to do anything remotely adventurous. Making passports and club IDs was a ton of fun, and we even inaugurated other kids (and then banished them because they really weren't any good). This was when we experimented with Enid Blyton's invisible ink—lemon juice, which was invisible until heated with an iron or lightbulb.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to Geoff. Does he still reminisce over the old days? Does he remember our "secret" meeting place, The Gorge, a coffee shop with fake cave-like walls painted red? And I wonder if Sara remembers me. I introduced her to the Five Find-Outers, so she was obviously pretty cool. She lived above a pub, which mysteriously burned to the ground years later. The Mystery of the Burnt Pub...? Hmm.

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