...my father; who was a teacher, and took advantage of virtually every school holiday to take us somewhere or other. He would spend weeks planning touring holidays of Scotland, Ireland and Wales, writing off for routes from the RAC and modest accommodations. Every summer we would go to Cornwall, never tiring of this westerly extremity – from the magic of Tintagel Castle to the wave-crashed Lizard peninsula. My father observed everything we passed along the way and explored our destinations to the full.
Wherever we went, he and I would walk before breakfast, whatever the weather. We would breathe deeply, look intently and return ravenous. Sometimes I would complain, but I always went. How glad I am now that I did.
It was from him that that I acquired the eager anticipation of driving off into sunshine on the first day of a trip; the joy of watching landscapes unfold; the allure of little-used lanes leading to remote places; an appreciation of big vistas and the desire to record them; a delight in walking though unfamiliar territory; and the ability to be invigorated by, and take solace in, the ocean.
He loved highlands and headlands, harbours and docks, monuments and battlements, bridges and causeways, estuaries and lakes, trees and weather. He bequeathed me his wanderlust, his itchy feet and his belief in the education of the journey. As a child, I believed there wasn't anything he didn't know about these things.
He would have been fascinated by my current adventures, asked me a zillion questions and never tired of admiring my hundreds of photographs.
April 9th was his birthday.