BY JOHN CAIRNEY

I TURNED 87 last month, so I have long memories of parks in Glasgow. The first involves being taken to Bellahouston park in a tram-car with the rest of my primary school from Parkhead at the cost of a penny each to see the Great Exhibition there in 1938. I don't remember much about that wonderful event except being in awe of the Exhibition Tower. This park memory is all the more acute because my Uncle Jimmy McNamee was the tram conductor that day and I got my penny back.

Such outings were quite common in Glasgow then, particularly to Rouken Glen in Giffnock, which seemed so far away to the south that going to the park seemed like going on holiday; but a day out there was a holiday.

Then, when I was nine, the war came and trains took all us children off on what was called the "evacuation", when all cities were cleared of under-12s and we landed up in what seemed, to many of us, another park. To my brother Jim and I, at any rate, it was the Dumfriesshire mansion home of Sir Malcolm Campbell, the famous racing driver, where we were to stay while the German air raids happened over Clydeside. But our stay among the gentry was short and we entrained back to Glasgow just in time to hear our first air raid siren – a sound that still makes me shiver.

It was the period known as the "phoney war" [the first eight months of the conflict before military operations began in earnest on the Western Front.]. But it was real enough as we were bundled into brick and concrete air raid shelters which suddenly sprung up all over the city to become the bedrooms for citizens between dusk and dawn – the exact times when all the city parks were closed in those days.

I always thought it was lovely phrase – dusk and dawn. But no time for lovely phrases now. There was a war and there we were with coats on over our pyjamas, each clutching a favourite toy or book, huddled in on either side of our mother hoping the raid would last until after 2am. If it did, we didn't have to go to school the next day. Even in a war, we boys had our priorities right.

All ears would be on the steady engine drone overhead. In the pauses, we would mutter to ourselves: "Come on, Gerry, where are ye?" But then, we lived in Parkhead, not Clydebank, which suffered badly.

Our innocence was our best protection as mothers wept in the semi-darkness and old women prayed their rosaries aloud. Meantime, air raid wardens flashed their torches around the squeeze of huddled bodies and blew their whistles when it was all clear again and we climbed wearily up our tenement stairs to listen to the news on the wireless.

To us young boys, war was a big adventure. Everything was turned upside down, conditions were not normal. Rationing was universal, blackouts at night were the norm so that the whole day seemed to be a few hours of light in the afternoon when the local park was our saving. We went there to "dig for victory", we were told, as acres were put over for the planting of vegetables for later distribution among bombed-out families. People saw the park, like the local church and school, the pub on the corner, the football ground as the last survivors of normality, no matter what hailed down from the sky at night – and even during the day. Some things didn't change. Survival in any situation is a matter of spirit.

This was why many city folk virtually lived in the parks at that time. There was space, air, running water, trees, flowers, hill views and other kinds of shelters all at hand. Pleasure wasn't rationed among so much greenery and the freedom merely to run as you liked was a positive medicine. As a child, I didn't know all this then. I was only happy to take it for granted and celebrate the fact of being alive.

We heard the adults talk, however; we saw the telegrams being delivered by big boys on motor-bikes, and we couldn't help hearing the news. Children are not daft and can even be disturbingly perceptive but they keep to themselves. Except when in a park. Here, they can scream and yell, run and scamper at will, knowing that for this particular time, it is their province, their kingdom and they rule it at will.

This is why I love parks. I have grown up to take advantage of any green space, not only in my home town of Glasgow but everywhere in the world I have travelled. I pursue my love of trees anywhere and chase the green although I found little of either in both Poles when I had the chance to visit there. The work I did in my life took me everywhere the Scottish diaspora had touched, so that meant most places around the globe and I was glad to take advantage of the proximity it gave me on occasions to such places as the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the Swiss Alps, the American prairies, the Amazon forests, Pacific Islands, yet nothing has ever touched me as deeply as a well-kept parkland in my own city.

There are more park spaces in my home town than there are in any other city in the world. Glasgow is green and getting greener every day. Long let it flourish, and if not today by the preaching of the Word, then by the planting of the seed so that by its flowering, ye shall know it.

Last year, I was commissioned by Luath Press to write a study of 12 Glasgow parks and it was one of the most enjoyable commissions I have ever worked on. There are 90 green spaces designated as parks by Glasgow City Council. They include George Square in the town centre, which began life as a large, muddy pool used for the slaughtering of horses before it became an amenity to serve passengers on the new Queen Street railway terminal. I wish it could become a green space instead of the crowded repository it is now for too many statues – especially the preposterously large memorial to Sir Walter Scott, who only visited Glasgow once in his life. The other statues would look much better as centrepieces in city streets and squares and George Square could then become a pivotal and central "dear green space". What a wonderful project it would be to bring in the 22nd century.

A Walk In The Park was a pleasure to write because I never felt it was a chore. In fact, I was having a holiday walking around my own city taking in all these various green treasures and I genuinely enjoyed writing about them. They really were treasures, all these green places.

It costs nothing to walk in the park and smell the roses. Do they know there are more flowers in Glasgow's parks than there are in Paris? Oui, c'est vrai. C'est formidable!

It’s also medicinally good for anyone to take advantage of any park's clean air and fresh views to stimulate the body and freshen the mind. It often adds the extra charm of silence, which is a rare resort for any city's citizens. The ability to put one foot in front of the other and move forward is an ability only denied the few, God bless them, so the resources the park offers to everyone are freely available in daylight hours and ought to be widely used by hikers, bikers, runners, boaters, golfers, walkers, talkers and all those sedentary spectators who only want to sit quietly on a bench and take in the scenery. In short, there is something special to see in every park, for every single park is different.

Glasgow had the honour of creating the first ever space allocated to the common people for their grazing animals or leisure use. This fundamental event occurred in 1450, when Bishop Turnbull gifted the area of land by the river which was to become Glasgow Green, the first-ever park or green space for leisure and recreation in Britain. The very much later Victorian municipal parks system which was to grow out of this area was originally devised by James Cleland, the City Statistician and Superintendent of Public Works, in 1813.

Steps towards the parks system had already been taken as early as the mid-18th century, but the serious work was carried out by the Victorians and their mark is still visible to this day.

Working on the book gave me a new insight into the input the Victorians and Edwardians made to the city in their time. Of course, much of their money was made slightly earlier out of the export of slave labour out of Africa and the import of cotton but they did create new parks in every space available for the leisure and pleasure of all citizens. Today the planners present us with commercial premises with glass fronts and supermarkets the size of small towns and whole areas devoted to selling which they have the impudence to call retail "parks".

At least our forbears gave us pathways through trees and flowers by the wayside in gentle spaces with nothing asked of the user other than they walk where they please. How far-seeing to lay this out, not only for their own day but for generations to come.

Everyone sees their own park as they walk through the acres. No-one tells you what you ought to think or feel as you go through its area. It tells you itself – and you, if you are wise, listen. There's much to hear and I don't mean just bird song. Each park speaks in its own language through what it displays, therefore you have to use your eyes to hear. This is no contradiction. Nature works in a way that is special to it, in that she has many voices in order to make contact with the viewer and the first reaction required by natural action is feeling. See right and feel right and you can do that when you go parking.

Take down all those NO PARKING notices and replace them with others that read GO PARKING. Find your nearest park and follow the signs.

The public park is the place where your most basic identity is thrust upon you. The visitor is open to its effects, fresh air, colour and freedom from the normal restrictions. there are few locked doors in a park, there are no curtains to close discreetly, no blinds to pull down. You get what you can see, whether it's a good view or a coffee in the garden centre.

Parks are no longer open from dawn to dusk as they once were. Many are now open at all times to all comers. I am told by those in charge of such things that it's a matter of costs, particularly in the payment of wardens, park keepers and rangers. The positive effect is that parks are there for anyone as long as they can see where they are going. The basic thing to remember may be that when walking in the open, the best view you might get in the end is of yourself. A park is a parallel of life in that you find your path, if you are lucky.

A Walk In The Park: Exploring The Treasures Of Glasgow’s Dear Green Places by John Cairney is published by Luath Press, £9.99. John will be appearing at Glasgow book festival Aye Write! on Saturday, March 11 at 8.15pm in the Mitchell Library. The Herald and Sunday Herald are the festival's media partners www.ayewrite.com

About the author

John Cairney is a film and television actor also known for his one-man shows on Robert Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson, Robert Service, Charles Rennie Mackintosh and William McGonagall. He has also authored several books, including books including novels, non-fiction and autobiography