GROWING up, I once lived in a house where the garden conveniently backed on to my primary school. It was handy whenever I was late as my parents could simply lift me over the fence into the grounds rather than walk the long way round.

Several years later, in another home in another land, we lived in a block of flats where the living room and balcony overlooked my school playground. It wasn’t unusual then for me and my older brothers to walk home on our own and let ourselves in while my parents were still at work.

As I remember we didn’t always obey the rule to go home, go straight home, do not give in to temptation and divert to the play park.

That rule was broken fairly regularly and we’d stay out, making dens, riding our bikes or swinging along the park’s zip wire at such high speed, it’s remarkable no injury was done.

I remember one occasion quite clearly when I forgot the time, saw our camper van, with my mum at the wheel, winging its way round the corner at the top of the hill while I was still playing in a neighbouring block of flats further down the slope.

The empty space between the two buildings seemed like a giant chasm as I nervously weighed up my chances of getting from one block back to home base without being spotted.

I probably went to bed early that night after stern words were said.

My eight-year-old self wouldn’t have understood the reason behind the wrath.

But, roll forward 30-plus years, as a parent now I’m fully aware of the worry that goes with bringing children into the world and watching them grow. The challenge of trying to take care of them while giving them the space to find their own way can be a difficult balancing act, and I suspect my sons have less freedom today than my childhood in the 1970s and 80s.

My eldest is 10 but doesn’t yet walk to and from school on his own, as I had been doing for quite some time by his age. There’s a busy road to cross without any official crossing to offer a safe passage.

I’m aware that in just over a year he’ll be making his own way to secondary school which will mean a 30-minute walk with many more roads to take on.

It’s something for us to work on, which may be more about me having the confidence to let go than his ability to remember to look left and right before stepping off the pavement.

When I first left my sons at nursery years ago, it was an emotional wrench. Without grandparents within easy reach to help out during their early years, it had been a rare occurrence to be apart from my sons, and then I suddenly found myself handing over responsibility for the most precious things in my life to complete strangers.

A few years later, when they first started braving the steps up to steep slides or reached the top of the monkey climbing frame at Rowntree Park my heart was in my mouth, “what if...?” scenarios at the forefront of my mind.

Working on a newspaper, and reporting about mishaps, freak accidents and tragedies has made me more aware of possible risks than I’d like to be.

My eldest son is about to embark on his first real taste of independence – a three-day school residential trip to the Yorkshire Dales.

He’s excited about the experience, and hasn’t yet shown any flicker of nerves or sense that he might feel homesick. He’ll be back in the blink of an eye but, apart from the occasional sleepover with relatives or friends, it will be his first time away without family.

His enthusiasm and excitement is in many ways reassuring, unless he surprises me with a last-minute emotional wobble.

I lay awake one night this week after it had dawned on me how imminent his departure was, and felt incredibly nostalgic for the tiny tot he once was.

He’ll hopefully have a ball in the Dales, and any separation anxiety will be purely on my side – as I suspect it will be throughout his life.