Attack of the late-night rambler

ONE night, many summers ago, my children went through one of those rites of passage that I think happen to most children. They were going to spend their first night camping out alone — two brothers aged seven and eight.

The adventure required a lot of preparation. The tent was erected on the lawn, about three metres from the front door and then stocked with survival gear — sleeping bags, toy guns, flashlights and quite an amazing quantity of drinks, bars and biscuits. Eventually it started to get dark and the younger one asked casually if I’d mind leaving the front door open — in case they’d forgotten anything. Then the questions started.

“Dad, are there any wolves in Ireland?”