We often talk about the outdoors in serious terms - wellbeing, resilience, access, stewardship, environmental responsibility. All important, all necessary. But landscapes are also places of play. Places where imagination stretches, where silliness is allowed, where joy becomes a form of connection.
As children, the world feels enormous. Every hedge is a forest, every puddle a lake, every hill a mountain. Picasso once remarked that “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” Heinrich Heine added, “Every child is a kind of genius.” And Christopher Paolini wrote, “Children see magic because they look for it.” These ideas coalesce around something simple: youthful playfulness is not something we outgrow - it’s something we forget. And forgetting it makes the landscape feel smaller, flatter, more predictable than it really is.
Play is a mode of access, a way of seeing, and a way of belonging.
One place that captures this beautifully is the Giant’s Stride at Glendurgan Garden near Falmouth - a historic rotating rope swing built for fun, exploration, and a little bit of chaos. You grab the high‑mounted ropes and run in circles until momentum lifts you off your feet. The world spins. You feel small and airborne, toes no longer touching the ground. For a moment you become a butterfly, an eagle, an astronaut. The spinning juxtaposition of bodies sends out cries of laughter, freedom, fear, and giddiness.
Created by the Fox family - prominent Cornish Quakers - Glendurgan was designed in the 1820s as a garden of play for their twelve children. In 1913, their successors built the Giant’s Stride, a simple structure that has delighted generations. The faster you run, the bigger your strides, the more airborne you become. The more people join in, the more joyful the chaos. Like the maze nearby, it is as fun to watch as it is to take part - a corner of the garden characterised by laughter.
It reminds us that landscapes are not only places to walk through, but spaces to play in. Do we ever truly “know” a place? Or is it far better, sometimes, to throw your head back and laugh - to let joy be a form of understanding? We talk a lot about health, wellbeing, mindfulness, and the reasons to spend time outdoors. But if you’re not smiling, not laughing, not feeling the spark of delight, perhaps it’s time to add a little mischief.
Children see magic because they look for it.
Play doesn’t have to be elaborate. It can be tiny, spontaneous, and wonderfully ridiculous.
Walk like a funny animal for one minute.
Take a silly photo of a cloud that looks like a face.
Hide in a tree and build your own castle.
Invent a game with stones, sticks, or shadows.
Try laughing yoga around a campfire.
Turn something ordinary on its head.
These small acts shift perspective. They loosen seriousness. They remind us that landscapes are not only ecological systems or design challenges, they are places of wonder. Play also changes how we relate to each other. Shared laughter builds community. Shared silliness dissolves hierarchy. Shared joy makes the outdoors feel more welcoming, more accessible, more human. And importantly, play is not frivolous.
When we allow ourselves to be playful, we see the landscape differently. We notice textures, colours, sounds, and shapes we might otherwise overlook. We become curious again. We become open. We become artists, geniuses, magicians - just as we were when we were small.
So do something unpredictable.
Do something memorable.
Do something that shifts your perspective.
Do something that challenges your preconceptions.
And above all, go have some fun in the landscape. Safely, joyfully, wholeheartedly.
The outdoors is serious, yes. But it is also whimsical, and we need both.