When I was a lad in days of yore, October nights would be edgy with excitement.

Our gang would sit guard around a bonfire still under construction. Chumping forays would have started weeks before: mills and local tradesmen approached for waste, wooden pallets stacked, discarded wardrobes broken into pieces and, oh the joy if a neighbour donated an easychair.

One year we heard workmen were cutting down trees across the main road, in an area well outside our territorial claims, and rushed to take what was on offer.

We planned the mission with precision; we had seen John Wayne leading his cavalry into enemy territory, and had scouts out to warn of danger.

Two sorties were completed before the locals got word of the bounty on offer.

We scurried home to stand guard duty in case they were provoked into a retaliatory raid.

The bonfire would be stacked so that a den was created inside, which would be totally against today’s health and safety concept of kids having adventurous fun.

We would sit inside, snug against the chill, until it was time for bed.

Our gang ranged in age up to 11 or 12 and we all came from the two rows of terraced houses that formed an L shape at the edge of an urban sprawl. This was the 1950s and communities were closeknit after surviving the war years.

Adults and children were bonded even closer by the tradition of Bonfire Night. “Bigger than last year,” one dad might observe to another, a few days before the event, causing youngsters to swell with pride.

Anticipation would build week by week and day by day. Faces would be pressed against shop windows to gaze at displays of Standard fireworks and pocket money saved for a five bob box, a rocket and a packet of Sparklers.

On the night itself, a Guy would be placed on top and an adult set the stack alight. Everyone would be outside taking part, young and old, whether they had children or not.

Rows of tea chests and card tables would appear loaded with parkin, home-made toffee, hot pies and peas.

The flames would burnish happy faces; bangs and Roman candles filled the darkness; and potatoes were thrown into the edges of the fire to hopefully bake before they burnt.

Bonfire night back then was one of those magic occasions that live in the memory. Times change and bonfires and pyrotechnic displays have become organised. The local social occasion has sadly been left behind although I suspect it’s only sleeping.

Provide the reason or excuse and community spirit will still rally to a cause.

But looking back at childhood, it was grand to go chumping and sit on guard in an old easy chair.