Center Parcs Whinfell Forest: here's what my family experienced when visiting the Cumbrian holiday village

Yet, such is the parlous state of the red squirrel population in this country, it occurred to his mum and I that in his first decade on the planet, he’d not seen his favourite, a red squirrel, in the flesh. So, for his 10th birthday, we set out to change all of that, and it seemed fitting that for his 10th birthday we were off to visit a species native to these shores not for 10 years but for some 10,000 years.

So, a mere hop, skip and a jump from the northern boundary of the best county in England to one of the young pretenders to Yorkshire’s crown, we set our sights on Cumbria - Whinfell Forest to be precise where Center Parcs has one of its holiday villages. So that was that. Center Parcs to celebrate 10 years of Harry Mitchinson.

Now, the mere mention of Center Parcs will, I am sure, have conjured thoughts in your mind of their ubiquitous water parks, flumes and slides, and of course they played a huge part in our weekend away - why wouldn’t they with a six and 10-year-old in tow - yet there is something about the Cumbrian countryside in which this holiday village is set that lures you outside.

That isn’t a compulsion I recall having during my many visits to Center Parcs’ Sherwood Forest property; one that by virtue of growing up just a few miles from its gates I have visited more times than I can tell you. We know Center Parcs Sherwood like the backs of our hands, not least because growing up, if one of your friends’ mums or dads worked there, you got free day passes and discounted villas and the child of said parent was the most popular of them all!

So, yes. We know Sherwood intimately and I must confess to having expected Whinfell to be a copy and paste lift and shift of the template, only in rainier English territory. It isn’t. Trust me.

I can’t quite put my finger on why I felt like this at Whinfell, but it feels intimately connected to its surroundings in a way that I don’t recall having sensed at the Sherwood property. Examining myself for quite why I felt like that, I surmised that perhaps because I knew Sherwood Forest - it was our childhood playground - before Center Parcs opened there in 1987, subconsciously, perhaps I regard the park as some sort of interloper.

Up in Cumbria, my first visit to Whinfell Forest was to the Center Parcs facility, and one of if not the main reasons for going was owing to the special role it has to play in the preservation and protection of its most important guests - red squirrels.

As soon as you arrive, rolling up the tree-lined driveway, you’re greeted with signs praying caution towards bushy-tailed pedestrians and before you know it, you’re immersed in the project. You’re part of the team. You’re a park ranger plying your trade on the fringes of the Lake District, dashing between pines and hopping over streams. At least, you are if you’re a little boy with a love for nature.

Driving up the A1, the conversation was about riding the quad bikes and scaling the aerial adventure challenge up high in the swaying trees (not me, I hasten to add); it was about ten-pin bowling and the boys’ intent on thrashing mum and dad at pool. The excitement was for the waterpark and the arcades, the table-tennis and the pedalos - the spa for mum! - and the myriad other activities and adventures waiting for you inside, all of which it would be impossible to tick off even in a fortnight’s break.

Their giddiness for those things is unsurprising, and seeing both boys race around the quad-bike track bedecked in astronaut suits was as hilarious for us as it was exhilarating for them, but, you know, I expected as much.

What I did not expect was, on one of our scores of cycle rides around the sprawling, gorgeous forest, to stumble across a bird hide. Off the beaten track and in splendid, serene isolation, the boys crept inside with a trepidation only children feel, perched their bums on a viewing bench each and began delighting in hushed whispers of joy at the natural English menagerie before them.

Cross-referencing to the educational literature festooned to the walls, we saw two red squirrels dancing around a tree trunk, pheasants, pigeons, then … chaffinch, bullfinch, blue tit. Before we knew it, sibling rivalry had crept in and suddenly we’re away from their tablets and devices birdwatching for the win. Honestly, it was priceless.

As we left the bird hide for the second time, Harry offered: “Do you know, dad, that grey squirrels don’t mean to do any harm to red squirrels? It’s just that they carry a virus called squirrelpox and if a red squirrel catches it they die. That’s why it’s so important that we keep them apart.”

He’d read something as we shared those quiet family moments together, in a makeshift wooden hut, just a stone’s throw from home in the grand scheme of things yet a million miles away from the stresses and strains of work, school and life.

Arriving safely back at home, I was directed to the Wildlife Trust website so that he could see for himself where red squirrels are mostly populated, keen to understand more about why reds and greys can’t just be friends.

Next time, I’m told, we must visit Scotland.