I seem to spend a fairly significant chunk of my time being taxi and, because today is a grey, mizzly day here in Derby and someone has no mudguards on his bike, I was talked into it yet again this morning. As I was driving through town, I was listening to a particular Brian Doerksen CD and it took me back in time to a rather more pleasurable example of being taxi.
During the summer, my boys do camp - except that, for the past two years, camp (singular) has become camps (plural) while they have been crossing over the age boundaries. The particular Venture they do is in Criccieth (N. Wales), but they are able to travel most of the way on the camp bus, which begins its journey in York and picks up just north of Manchester.
For me, this meant a series of runs over the tops to drop off and pick up boys and baggage (lots of baggage) and, last summer that co-incided with me hammering the Brian Doerksen CD to death. This photo was taken from the lay-by on the summit of Chunal Hill, just before the long descent into Glossop. Memories of the heather, the sheep and the wide open skies are a panacea on a miserable winter morning.
1 hour ago