Once a week, every week for the past 4 years my Dad has taken his grandchild/ren for a bike ride around suburban streets, gravel roads and winding pathways. With great excitement and a pocket full of loose change they set off in daggy clothing and ridiculous helmets, riding up big hills only to fly down them with the sea breeze in their hair and eyes and ears.
They sing age old songs* about rainbows and daisies and all the things that poppa's gonna give you if that diamond ring won't shine. They sing them in unison and I suspect with a glorious disregard for melody, harmony and rhythm.
Their meanderings always lead them to the same place -The Fruit Barn. A tiny little roadside stall that sells essentials like bread, milk, almond croissants and ice creams. With a handful of coins the children make their selection - a bucket for Pip and The Most Expensive Ice Cream In The Freezer for Zeph.
A small collection of mismatched outdoor furniture provide a shady resting place where they sit a while, eating and chatting and preparing for the winding ride home.
On occasion Pip has fallen asleep whilst catching the sound of Pa's voice in one ear and the wooshing of passing cars in the other.
Every Monday for the past 4 years my children have been lovingly indulged by my parents. Talking and playing and riding and creating - you know, all of the magical things that children do so effortlessly.
Spending time, etching memories and filling their senses with the joy of childhood.
*My dad has even taken the time to learn the words to the 'fire man sam' song. Seriously, pausing and playing the DVD whilst writing out the words.