One of my very favourite days in knowing Hazza was when he and I larked about on holiday at Tar Steps. We experimented wading in just beyond the cover point of our wellies (being boys and all that) and we fished for sticklebacks, skimmed stones and raced pooh sticks. We made sure we became wet and cold and unsupervised! We thought about trying to go under the bridge but even our common sense ruled that part out. We sat on the steps, swinging our wellie booted feet in carefree delight. My feet skimmed the water and Harry's were miles away.
For a year or two, I thought of Tar Steps frequently, as a fabulous structure full of happy days as it had quietly sat there for centuries awaiting visitors just like the two of us.
This morning, five years and about half a foot of growing later (for Hazza), I was sad to hear that Tar Steps have been partially washed away. Given that many of the slabs were estimated to be around 70 tons, that really is a hefty day of rain, courtesy of Storm Angus!
Here is the bridge in a panoramic shot I took on that August day in 2011. Young Harry is contemplating the day, armed with a useful fishing net we had purchased at the top of the hill that morning.