Sunday morning, but not any old Sunday. Father’s Day! Permission granted to slumber.
My slumbering isn’t so deep that I am not aware of the birdsong tweeting into the house. The windows left open to let in the cool air of the night.
It is Father’s Day again. Only this year is different, dad isn’t here.
“Daddy come here” the tweets are disrupted by a small voice from the bathroom. My feet roll out of bed, reluctantly followed by the rest of my body. I feel like a cartoon, my head stuck on the pillow as my body stretches through to the bathroom.
Task complete. “Daddy can I watch something” – meaning Spider-Man which is the hot new discovery. I remember watching Spider-Man cartoons when I was small. “Of course” I reply.
So I am back in Cambridge. It is hot and there is still a lot to sort, but that’s not for this weekend.
The house is still full of memories, good memories and it is comfortable to be here with my family.
Boxes of maps, books of munros, rucksacks of outdoor gear, photos of mountains and nature.
My adventuring started with dad. He would take us outdoors, whether it was train spotting, birdwatching, hiking or climbing in the mountains.
He was there on our first canoeing adventures, he was there on our first mountain camping epics.
Together we held up tent poles against storms, we got lost in clouds, drenched by rains and beaten by winds.
For a while the paths we trod were the same. He kept us safe as we learned.
But he was learning to. Although I didn’t know that at the time, dads know everything right?
Well I know it now.
“Daaaddy, can I have breakfast?”
Wait, aren’t I supposed to get that in bed this morning?