We explore, not knowing it's my mother's last summer. Down to The Batts, jumping from rock to rock, slipping and falling in, splashing back to Flint's Corner.
Out on single track roads onto the moors in the darkness, no lights to be seen anywhere, stopping for rabbits, walking into the fields for the sheer night silence.
Gabriel playing his saxophone, his gran and gramps an attentive audience.
Amy learning from her beloved gran, so like her.
Following my parent's little car northwards over other moors this time via Arkengarthdale and Swaledale to the Tann Hill Inn, tame sheep petted by Amy and Gabriel. Gran and her grandchildren pose smiling in front of a snowmobile.