I don’t remember much from that day—just fragments, impressions—but it must have been summer 1971. I was about ten years old, and Scarborough was the kind of holiday spot that working-class families from the North-East could afford. The battleships of Peasmole Park, the thrill of getting drenched by the high tide, and my stubborn refusal to ride the infamous cable car—these were the threads of so many joyful childhood memories.

But what I vividly recall is my dad calling me over with that quiet authority he always had. He handed me his small Kodak camera and gave a careful demonstration. “I want you to take a photo of me and your mum, son,” he said. “When I say, don’t just press the button—make sure you can see both of us in the picture.”

I stood ready, heart pounding with importance. My parents arranged themselves—Dad leaning casually against the wall, Mum standing beside him, looking like tin rabbits waiting to be shot in one of those penny arcades we used to visit in the evenings.

“Not yet, son,” came Dad’s voice, patient but firm.

He took Mum’s hand and gently pulled her in front of him. She leaned back slightly as he wrapped his arms around her. “Now,” he said.

I pressed the button.

That simple moment—captured in a frame—holds a world of love, care, and quiet tenderness. It’s a picture of two people who built a life together, who gave me roots and wings. And every time I think of that day, I feel grateful for that brief lesson in how to see, how to hold on, and how to love.