Andy Richardson: Magical moments at Gruffalo House

And so to the Gruffalo House, a dwelling located in a deep, dark wood surrounded by real live versions of the creatures from Julia Donaldson’s story. The fox and snake kept their distance, thankfully, but a little brown mouse scurried merrily in the undergrowth while an owl tooted with maniacal Strigiform glee. Too-wit, too-flippin’-woo. For four-year-olds, evenings don’t get more magical, more enchanting.

The house’s internal structure was fashioned from sturdy wooden poles swathed in thick, insulated canvas. Fairy lights twinkled and the dwelling was tall enough to withstand a 10ft tall half-grizzly/half-buffalo with terrible tusks and terrible claws and terrible teeth in his terrible jaws, should he come home later on. Happily, he didn’t. We had the place to ourselves – the Gruffalo must have been up to no good in the deep dark wood.

The centrepiece of the dwelling was a wood burner; all the better to keep us warm on two cool autumn evenings. I’d gone prepared, taking a bin liner full of highly flammable off cuts from a kiln-dried oak floor.

I loaded the fire. Paper, firelights, flame. Whoosh. It crackled into action then roared like a lion. The door of the fire burner had a circle on the front with holes cut into it three equidistant spaces. The intention was to draw in extra air to make the flames burn more fiercely. But as the fire glowed, it took on the form of the symbol for nuclear materials, which, given the amount of heat it was generating felt strangely appropriate. We thought of sending Kim Jong Un our formula just in case he was running short of plutonium-239 and uranium-235.

As the wood burner roared, the Gruffalo’s House was transformed into a Norse sauna. Dry heat radiated mercilessly. We expected the owl to fly away and be replaced by naked Norwegians, self-flagellating with birch sticks. At least I did, I don’t think they’ve taught my son about that stuff yet at nursery. The Norgwegians, thankfully, didn’t arrive.

“It’s a bit warm,” said Le Petit Ginger Bonce. On a scale of one-to-understatement, it scored an impressive 11/10. It was peak warm, maximum hot, or, in the words of the late Caroline Aherene’s Fast Show meteorologist Poula Fisch, Scorchio.

We removed one of the two quilts that was keeping the Gruffalo bed warm. The temperatures continued to resemble those in a midsummer green house on the year’s hottest day. Another quilt came off before garments were removed. No good. Still hot.

I carried Le Petit Ginger Bonce to the door. Let’s look at the stars, I suggested. We did. In an area devoid of light pollution, the Milky Way put on a display more spectacular than front row seats at Cirque du Soleil. But, God, it was cold. We stepped back into the Gruffalo House. Scorchio. And then back onto the step. Brrrr. The choice was 45° or 7°. The lip of the door was a border town between downtown Malta on July 2 and an October evening in Helsinki.

The fairy lights had been turned off and the only illumination came from the cosmos. From our vantage point on the lip of the house, we looked back inside. The log burner had, quite literally, started to glow. A vivid red light appeared to have been switched on at the base of the device. It was pulsating a crimson/vermilion colour. Yikes. Glowing red metal means don’t-touch-that-or-your-fingers-will-melt hot.

I called a friend.

“How does he like it?” she said.

“He’s sort of sunbathing,” I answered.

“But it’s 9pm and dark.”

“It’s a long story.”

The following day, after dreams of the Saraha and Kalahari, we continued the Gruffalo theme. Presents were stacked outside the door to the house while Le Petit Ginger Bonce snoozed.

“The Gruffalo Child came back in the night,” I told him. “I think he might have left you some stuff.”

He ran to the door and almost pulled it from his hinges. On the step was a new bike, Bob the Minion, a Minions Fart Gun (and after two minutes of him playing with that, God, how I wish I hadn’t bought it) and a bunch of other stuff that was less exciting but far more meaningful.

“But dad, you’ve been here all night, so you couldn’t have put them there. They must have been put there by…..” his eyes lit up. A sense of wonder spread. Cogs whirred and clicked as he processed new information. His onboard computer reached an irrefutable conclusion.

“They must have been put there during the night by the Gruffalo Child.”

“They must have been, yes. . .”

Le Petit Ginger Bonce had a pretty good birthday.

It was hot work. But Mission Accomplished.