My four-year-old granddaughter, Freyja, did not walk much.

She ran.

Across the grass. Around the trees. In wide circles that made no practical sense at all — and yet made perfect childhood sense.

She ran with her arms slightly out, as if she were testing whether she might lift off.
She ran simply because there was room to run.

No fences pressing in.
No traffic noise.
No walls.

Just space.

And in that space, she was utterly alive.

There is something deeply healing about watching a child experience freedom without even knowing the word for it. She did not say, “I feel liberated.” She did not analyse the moment.

She just moved.

And I stood there, watching her, thinking how precious it is that children still know how to respond instinctively to beauty and openness.

I sometimes wonder if my grandmother ever stood watching me like that.
If she felt the same mixture of joy and tiredness.
The same silent prayer: Let this moment last.

Now I understand her better.

Now I know that being a grandmother is not just about spoiling little ones with treats — it is about witnessing. About holding moments quietly. About knowing how quickly these running feet will grow steady and purposeful.

There was no loud entertainment at the Fig Farm.

Just trees heavy with fruit. Dry earth underfoot. Sunlight resting on leaves. The hum of insects. The smell of warm soil.

And yet, it was enough.

More than enough.

Sometimes I think children need wide spaces more than toys.
And perhaps adults do too.

Watching Freyja run reminded me that joy does not need structuring. It needs room.

Room to explore.
Room to imagine.
Room to simply be.

As we packed up to leave, I felt that familiar tug — the quiet sadness that comes when something good ends.

But I have learned something over the years.

Places stay with us.

The fig trees, the open paddock, the sound of little feet on dry grass — they fold themselves into memory. And memory, when tended gently, becomes a kind of inner landscape we can revisit.

Freyja may not remember every detail of this day.

But her body will remember the feeling of running freely.
Her heart will remember that wide, open joy.

And I will remember standing still long enough to notice.