To satiate any hungry grumbling we first ate cake in the greenhouse – the children picking raspberry jelly off the top. “That’s a pretty tree, Mama!” they shouted as the ran away from us down the path. Looking at the colour seeping back into their peaky cheeks, I felt like Heidi’s grandfather ordering a strict diet of creamy milk and wholesome bread for the ailing Clara. But here, with the skyline of the city still in sight, where the goats don’t produce, it was jelly and cherry blossom that did it.

The thought to be so adventurous with our bank holiday outing had not occurred to me. A friend with a car and a dog-earred copy of a city tips magazine for children suggested heading to the edge of the city, where the Botanic garden is wild and children can roam free. As I sat squashed between the car seats, knees up to my chin, I realised a hard winter and two years constrained by early twin motherhood had made my ideas for days out rather cautious and unambitious. This was the spur I needed.

All afternoon the children raced and whooped and pulled up wild flowers in their sticky fingers. Emboldened by the wide expanse of open sky, they pointed at the man doing tai chi in the distance and began to imitate his slow and loping walk. Hilarity ensued. It turns out playgrounds are not enough for city children. Hamster wheels on a human scale, they are too prescriptive for real excursions.