The other day I looked out the kitchen window and saw my children dragging half the contents of the house across the garden.

There were blankets. Cushions. A torch. Several teddy bears. A mixing bowl for reasons that were never fully explained. At one point I believe a broom was involved.

They were building something. Not a fort. Not a den. Not a treehouse. Something far grander. An entire world. For the next few hours the ordinary rules of life ceased to apply. The trampoline became a mountain. The hedge became a dark forest. The treehouse became a castle. Various stuffed animals took on important political roles. There were alliances. Betrayals. Secret missions. A great deal of shouting.

And not once did anybody ask for a screen.

Watching them, I found myself thinking about my own childhood summers.

Not the holidays abroad. Not the expensive days out.

The things I remember most are strangely ordinary.

The smell of cut grass. The feeling of bare feet on warm paving stones. Staying outside until it was almost dark. Cousins appearing at the door without warning. The excitement of being allowed roam a little further than usual. The sense that something interesting might happen.

As children, we were experts at transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.

A ditch became the Amazon rainforest. A field became a battlefield. A tree became a pirate ship. A stick became whatever the story required.

Children are natural storytellers. They don’t simply play. They create narratives. They assign roles. They invent rules. They build worlds from almost nothing.

The strange thing is that somewhere along the way we stop doing it.

Adults become practical. Efficient. Productive. We stop looking at a treehouse and seeing a castle. We stop looking at a garden and seeing an adventure.

We stop believing that an ordinary afternoon can become memorable.

And yet, whenever I talk to people about childhood, those are exactly the moments they remember. The feeling of belonging to something larger than themselves.

Perhaps that is why I have always loved mysteries. At heart, every mystery is really an invitation to imagine. The mystery gives us permission to play. To wonder. To become part of the story.

As a writer, and perhaps even more as a mother, I’ve become increasingly aware that childhood is made up of a finite number of summers.

The school holidays have arrived. Many parents are already wondering how they’re going to fill the weeks ahead. I understand the feeling. I’m right there with you.

But I also know that one day I’d give almost anything to look out the window and see my children dragging blankets across the garden to build another kingdom.

So this summer, if the opportunity presents itself, say yes. If you want to create some magic for your kids this summer, take a look at our wizard school mystery game.