My earliest memories are in these gardens. The swans would always be there, but the cygnets would come and go. The squirrels would appear in spring, and dissappear almost as fast. In the spring and summer, the Stapenhill Gardens would be drowned in a sea of flowers, and in winter, as the frosts moved it, the flowers were removed, and the gardens lay quiet, silent. Ready for another year. And every year, I'd be waiting.