Things have changed since I was kid. When my dad said ‘Let’s go for a walk in the woods’, I knew what was in store for me.

The clue, in fact, was in the title. It meant walking.

Several hours, moving my legs at twice the speed of my dad’s in order to keep up as we clomped through the trees, stopping occasionally to stare at a squirrel before marching determinedly off again.

Often it was only the thought of getting my hands on the Mars bar and bag of slightly-squashed jam sandwiches in his coat pocket that kept me plodding down another brambly trail.

Perhaps, as I’ve often suspected, my five-year-old daughter Scarlett really can read my mind because she seemed to sense that I had something like that in mind for her and her little brother Fin, 3, when we arrived at the Hampworth Estate in the depths of the New Forest.

With the rose-tinted glasses of mis-placed nostalgia, I’d convinced myself they’d enjoy a forced march through the damp autumnal avenues of trees. Scarlett had other ideas.

‘Let’s go for a w…’ I started heartily, channeling the spirit of my dad from 40 years before.

My daughter pointed at something behind me. ‘Can’t we use that?’ she asked.

I looked in the direction of her finger. Leaning against the crumbling stone wall of an old barn was a bright green wheelbarrow.

‘Well…’I said.

Too late. With a joint squeal of joy, she and Fin charged toward their intended transport.

I glanced at J for support. She shrugged unhelpfully. ‘They’ve only got little legs,’ she said ‘We could take turns pushing…’

Which is why my two arrived at the pretty farm shop a mile away to buy duck eggs and freshly-baked crusty bread for tea, they did so in a squeaking, bright green carriage pushed by a pink-faced middle aged dad, muttering under his breath.

And why, when three beautiful deer skipped out of the woods into a clearing painted gold by the dipping September sun, they were confronted by a small girl and boy surveying their domain from a cosy nest of blankets piled up in a wheelbarrow.

Billy the Barrow – he was part of the family by then and I feel he should have name – was gently propped back up against his original wall as we drove off at the end of the afternoon.

As I concentrated on not squashing any of the scores of strutting male pheasants picking their way in and out of the formal hedges that lined the lane, I glanced in the rear view mirror.

My son was waving our wheelbarrow goodbye.

View BFB’s handpicked selection of styklish and baby-friendly escapes in the New Forest below