I remember being in a house filled with music, going to folk festivals and rolling down hills in between asking dad for crisp money and joining in with ceilidh dances. I remember warm, music-filled pubs and friendly faces with beards. I remember climbing mountains and being warmed up in dad’s duvet jacket, nowhere warmer! I remember he was always fully kitted out, just in case. I remember camping holidays, the smell of canvas and cut grass, snuggling down in our sleeping bags while dad made us a hot drink in the porch of the tent. I remember dad digging trenches in the driving rain around the tent to divert the water and keep us all dry. I remember being taught how to ask for 200g of ham in a French supermarché and translating the silly jokes in the Carambars when we got back to the caravan. I remember watching him run into the path of a bike race to grab a toddler and sweep him to safety, super-hero style. I remember the stories of Woolton, and of the people that came before. I remember him making jig dolls with us, him riding the trolley in the supermarket and recreating the ministry of silly walks while we feigned embarrassment but were secretly amused. I remember his encouragement, his sage advice and the fact that in our house, we knew that there was nothing that we couldn’t do if we put our minds to it. I remember in my teenage years, when he would nip out to Oddbins in the evening to buy me chocolate and crisps. I remember him and mum patiently sitting in A and E for hours with me on my first day at university after I finally revealed the enormous swollen ankle I had inflicted on myself by falling over in my ridiculous wedge-heels the night before. I remember pick ups and drop offs at airports. I remember him dropping my friends and me off in the Lakes so that we could get up to mischief in the caravan. Later, I remember him walking me down the aisle and playing his wonderful music at my wedding. I remember his gentleness with my babies; drawing with them, carrying them on walks, playing with them and teaching them all sorts of things. I remember when he wasn’t well, he would use his inventiveness to be able to play with them in different ways. I remember that he brought out beautiful qualities in them. They always wanted to bring him pillows, make him laugh and smile and sing to him, like he had done for them and us before.I remember his determination, how he never gave up on trying to walk unaided or to play music again. I remember his unbeatable spirit and my children seeing that however difficult the challenge, if the result is worth it, you keep fighting. I remember laughing with him on a trip out in the car when I accidentally took him on an unintended tour of the Mersey Tunnel after missing my turn off. He never lost his sense of humour. I’ll always remember the beautiful messages we have had from people dad has known throughout his life and the memories of him that are scattered wherever he has been.He is here when I see my children refuse to give up, every time I see my little boy patiently teaching his little sister how to play a game or read a book, every time I try to embarrass my son in the supermarket, play my violin or wish I’d worn warmer socks. When I take my kids camping in France and get them to order the deux cent grammes de jambon, when I snuggle them up all cozy and tired on a camping trip, every time someone plays a song of his or remembers a funny time with him. We are because he was. He is here.