Reports show that children who take part in risky play without constant adult supervision do better when it comes to both their mental and physical health. In the age of the helicopter parent, this news couldn’t come sooner — or be more welcome. 

As a mother of five children ranging from seven to 19, we have always encouraged our kids to play outside independently. We don’t hover nearby, watching them continuously like hawks. 

Helen Dodd, a Professor of Child Psychology and Director of the Outdoor Play Research Centre at the University of Exeter, who conducted the study, points out that independent children aren’t “waiting for an adult to take them, put them in the car and drive them somewhere. Physical activity increases when kids have that kind of freedom.” 

I couldn’t agree more. When every single moment of the day isn’t meticulously scheduled, children learn to make their own fun, rather than waiting for a busy parent to do it for them. Not only does it build resilience, but we now have scientific proof that it is inherently good for their health. 

But risky play isn’t for the faint-hearted. Our 12-year-old daughter, Celestia, takes after her late grandfather. When she was younger, she would scale every tree in sight, regularly yelling for help like a cat stuck on a branch. We would hear her, come rushing out, and guide her back down to safety. 

We live in a farmhouse surrounded by seven acres of garden and rolling countryside and we encourage the children to go on walks. Of course, boundaries are necessary; I drew the line when my 15-year-old went for a run around the local reservoir at dusk and didn’t tell anyone.  I told her not to do it again on her own, but the more I can get them outside walking or horse riding, the better. I used to worry about them falling off a horse, but you cannot wrap children in cotton wool.

The time my children have spent getting lost, scrambling over fallen trees acting as bridges over streams and splashing in shallow water is all time well spent. Nature provides its own adventures. This past summer, they stumbled across a baby owl, carefully wrapped it in a pair of grey joggers, and went back every day to check on it. On another occasion, they found an injured red kite and tried to coax it into a cardboard box. They have had countless adventures thanks to the veritable nature reserve on their doorstep. 

Sometimes, independence causes a bit of marital friction. This summer, fed up with playing taxi, I told the kids to walk to their riding stables themselves. Kitted out in high-visibility jackets, with a charged phone and some water, they made the hour-and-a-half trek. When my husband found out, he went through the roof. He doesn’t quite share my zeal for risky play. 

I, however, remain convinced that children need freedom. We live in a rural part of Essex where you are far more likely to bump into a muntjac deer than a person, despite being just 44 miles north of Canary Wharf.  Of course, the rules are constantly under review and need to be age-appropriate to keep them safe but I think my children are extremely uncoddled, which I think has done them a huge service.

Mistakes happen: Celestia recently went for a long walk to the village with a friend at 4pm and got lost on the way back. Their phone battery had died and it was getting dark.  By some miracle, they stumbled upon my friend’s sister’s house. They peered through the window, spotted a friendly face watching TV, and knocked. I was duly phoned and raced over to collect them. 

While not ideal, it harks back to an Enid Blyton, 1950s era of Great Britain, when children were trusted to safely explore the countryside, discover streams, and watch wildlife unfold in real time. 

But freedom does come with bruises. When my fifth child, Benny, was four, he broke his arm falling off a rope swing. On reflection, his elder sister had placed him too high up for comfort. Benny fell because he spotted an empty packet of Hula Hoops on the ground and, wanting to keep our garden litter-free, he reached down to pick it up,  promptly breaking his arm. We had sent him outside to reduce his screen time, but in the painful weeks of hospital visits that followed, I found myself wishing we hadn’t. 

Lightning struck twice when, a year later, he broke his wrist on the very first day of the summer holidays. He was climbing a friend’s monkey bars – again, too high for my liking – so I told him to stay on the ground. I turned my back for a moment to answer an upset phone call from my daughter. Suddenly, a blood-curdling yell cut through the air. An X-ray confirmed a buckle fracture. 

Today, a year on from that incident, I am writing this from the seats of the paediatric waiting room. We think Benny has now broken his finger playing football with his brother. 

My father — who, like his granddaughter, was an inveterate climber of trees — recently passed away. Hospitals were a familiar backdrop to his own childhood, usually due to riding accidents. As his brother fondly remarked at his passing: “He was always needing stitches, lying in bed with blood smeared all over his face and a huge grin.” 

I know exactly what my father’s advice would be today. Allow children to practice risky play. Let them climb trees, go on long walks, and swing from high ropes. Life is for living, not for worrying. It is advice I intend to keep following.