Thank you for starting this thread, as this is something I literally never get to talk about.
I grew up in a small town in Canada, in a rambling Victorian mansion house that was the complete opposite to everyone we knew (bungalows everywhere).
Our garden was mostly neglected, my mum had a career and lots of children. But we had lots of lilacs in different colours, peonies, lily of the valley and orange blossom which all smelt wonderful. Irises which looked deep and mysterious. Initially lots of old elm trees, we eventually lost all of them to Dutch elm disease. An old stable on three floors, the top was an old pigeon rooster, it still smelt of bird poop despite no pigeons roosting there for about 75 years.
But what made it so special was that there were no neighbours at the back - just wild woods, rocky outcrops, no boundaries, no mobile phones. I spent my childhood in there, in summer walking around learning about plants and trees, picking berries, in winter jumping from cliffs into snow banks, with siblings and neighbours and my dog.
There were deer and skunks and raccoons and a zillion squirrels. Nothing scary ever (too far south for bears and wolves, too far north for coyotes).
Coming home with scrapes and bruises, black feet, covered in tree gum, just for dinner and bath. My mum hadn’t seen us since morning, or worried about it.
It was perfectly feral, and a great regret of my life is that my kids couldn’t have the same upbringing.