Before There Was a Meadow

Before there was a meadow, there was a love of crafts—and a feeling that I wanted to make something that mattered.

I wanted to turn something I enjoyed into something helpful. Something more than another toy. I liked the sentiment behind Build-A-Bear, but that idea had already been done very successfully. I wanted to find something of my own.

I tried different crafts I’d enjoyed over the years, but nothing felt quite right. I didn’t want something generic with a logo added to it. I wanted there to be a reason behind what I was making, although finding that reason was proving harder than I’d imagined.

For a while, I settled on the idea of a support bear with little medical devices to mirror what poorly children were going through. It felt closer, but there was still something missing.

While I was thinking about how to reach the children who might benefit, I began thinking about all the other reasons children need support as they find their way through growing up.

And that took me back to my own childhood.

Conkers, tiny helicopters and worms in our pockets

I’m in my fifties now, so it’s a little while since I was small. I’m sure every generation thinks the next has grown up in a completely different world.

When I look back, so much of my childhood was built around time spent together, imagination, making the things we played with and finding wonders outside in the fresh air.

Unusual trees had magical powers. Spinning jennies were tiny helicopters. Conkers were jewels.

Our worries included what had happened to the worms in our pockets when we got home, and whether the rain would wash away the hopscotch we’d chalked on the pavement.

Children today have an extraordinary world of technology at their fingertips. There is so much to discover, learn and enjoy. But I kept coming back to the value of imagination, and having time to get lost in a world you’ve created.

For me, there’s room for both.

That’s where “ten minutes together” began.

Devices put away, television off. Just ten minutes to read a story, look at pictures and share a little time with whoever is reading alongside you.

Those ordinary moments can become the memories we carry into adulthood—and perhaps recreate with children of our own. They can’t be bought or replaced.

Just one story, at first

I began to wonder whether I could reach more little minds by creating an opportunity for those ten minutes together.

So I thought I’d write a story. Just one, at first.

I knew I wanted a real book that could be held. Pictures that could tell the story to a child too young to read the words, and little details they could get lost in before they could even explain what had caught their attention.

I still remember being tiny and choosing a bedtime book I’d heard a million times. I knew the ending. I knew the characters. I’d seen every picture.

And yet, every time, I could disappear into its magic again.

I wanted a little of that feeling in my own stories. I hoped the grown-up reading would enjoy them too, and perhaps remember something of their own childhood along the way.

Then, of course, I had to decide what to write about.

I wanted the stories to feel magical, but I wasn’t imagining fairies or magicians. I wanted the magic to come from feeling as though you were really there. From recognising something of yourself in a character, or understanding how they felt.

There were so many possibilities that it took a while to find my way.

A bear, a cottage and a place to belong

The support bear idea had never quite left me.

What if the comfort he offered came through everyday feelings and experiences? A little bear to hold when something felt new, uncertain or difficult.

We give and receive support in so many small ways, often without even realising it. I wanted that feeling to run gently through the stories, without needing to announce itself.

The bear needed somewhere to live, and I began picturing a little cottage: cosy, warm and safe.

Perhaps Goldilocks had made more of an impression on me than I remembered.

From there, things began to ripple out. The bear needed a name. His home needed a place. And he needed friends, each with their own personality.

Together, they could experience the sorts of things we all go through: feeling nervous, being lonely, finding friendship, helping someone or beginning something new.

The moments.

And that was how Moment Meadow began to grow.

Little reminders of moments that matter

As the first story unfolded, I knew kindness, consideration and empathy belonged at its heart.

They’re things we begin learning when we’re very small, long before we know what to call them.

I wanted children to recognise feelings in the characters and see how a little kindness or someone beside us can help us find our way. Perhaps they might find comfort when they needed it—or recognise a chance to offer it to somebody else.

I also liked that a moment could mean different things to different readers. A story about a new beginning might bring one experience to mind for one family, and something quite different for another.

Then I began thinking about a little reminder to keep after the story had ended.

First came a card with a few meaningful words. Then a charm to go with it: a keepsake connected to the moment in the story.

Towards the end of the first book, I wanted the bear to have somewhere to keep the memories that mattered to him.

That became his Memory Box.

Finally, the animals needed names. I liked alliteration—the way the names rolled off the tongue and were easy to remember. Each friend began to find their own character and their own place in the meadow.

And somewhere along the way, the idea I’d been searching for had become a world.

Bobbie Bear was now real.