On Saturday, despite waking to the sound of a toddler retching at 5.30 in the morning, despite the cold wind that whipped icily across the sunny sky, despite an unsettled forecast and uncertain weekend plans, despite a nasty fall that left both John and me in tears and despite the first rumblings of a tummy bug that we did our best to ignore, we managed to get out.
We paddled our canoe down the river, singing "Row Row Row" and waving at cows all the way, we ate a hearty lunch in a warm riverside pub, and then we walked back to the car along the dandelion-strewn paths of the Severn Way.
And even though the wind cut cruelly across the canoe for a while as we paddled down the river and John moaned miserably for a time after we woke him from his nap, I only remember it as good.
I remember the bright sunshine that dropped from the skies as we stepped out from the pub, the joy on John's little face as he donned Daddy's hat, the excitement that came from passing sheep and donkeys, farmers and tractors, the pride I felt in watching my boy walk and run and walk for miles, without ever losing his joy, and the waving fields of meadow grass and golden dandelions through which we walked.
It was good to get out on Saturday. Good to make memories that are joyous if not quite truthful and good to take photographs that are happy if not quite brilliant. Good to feel the sunshine on our faces and see the world outside our walls, and good to spend time together in a way that was pro-active and memorable and real.
Especially since the rest of the long weekend was spent inside, reading and sleeping, sleeping and reading, as the tummy bug caught up with us, and the weather closed in, and there was nowhere in the world that we'd rather be than the sofa.