Tim's Tales - A 'memory heart print' moment to cherish

She was watching the sun begin to set, not just on the day, but on the summer. We both stood in silence and I asked if I could take her photo. She agreed, although her photos of the sunset were much better than mine.

Tim's daughter admiring the sunset (Image: Tim Porteus)

It was just me and her on this evening walk, and our family dog Ceilidh. The rest of the family were at home. I’d wanted to go for a walk to make the most of the shortening late summer days before autumn draws its curtain on our evenings. But there wasn’t huge enthusiasm for a late evening daunder, so I decided to go with Ceilidh by myself.

But in that moment, my youngest daughter decided to accompany me. It was a short walk along a part of the coastline we both know well, our own salt path of memory. For me, it was more than just a walk. It was one of those moments I knew I must relish and treasure, and soak in every second of the magic moment.

I don’t mean the sunset, although of course it was stunning. But there will be more stunning sunsets, more magical late summer evenings. They will continue. But the magic of this one was not the colour in the sky but the presence of my daughter.

Our kids grow so fast. It’s a cliché, I know, but it’s true. As my daughter stood looking out to sea, I could see her in my mind’s eye as a toddler, barely able to walk, yet splashing in the water. Then I realised that in a blink of an eye, she’d be a grown woman, making her way in the world like her older sisters.

I often walked this path with them too, I saw the rocks where they had once stood, years ago, when they were the same age. But things change, don’t they? That’s what the sunset teaches us: that days inevitably come to a close, that seasons end and years pass. But they also teach us that moments can last if we cherish them with our presence.

This was such a moment. My daughter had chosen to walk with me. We talked about things that matter and things that don’t. We both took photos and laughed as she nearly fell into a foul-smelling burn while posing, precariously perched on a small bridge. We shared memories of past walks, of times swimming in the sea here.

On the surface, it looked like nothing special, just a dad walking with his daughter and their dog. Yet I understood such moments are the treasures of our lives. There will be many more sunsets, but times when my daughter will walk with me to admire them will grow less. When our kids leave the nest, we want them to fly. And I’m sure my youngest daughter will fly high, just like her older sisters are now.

She’s on the cusp of that journey, not yet ready to take that leap. That’s what made this evening so deeply meaningful. The seasons are changing and she is growing. Times will change and so will she, and that’s as it should be.

But as I took the photo of her standing on the beach admiring the setting sun, I also took what I call a memory heart print of the moment. As we headed home, the dying sun made the sky blaze with colour and she wanted to capture it. We paused at Cockenzie Harbour, a place redolent with my own childhood memory of my father. As she took the photo, she unknowingly stood in the footsteps of the grandfather she never knew, except in stories.

The sunset at Cockenzie Harbour (Image: Skye Porteus)

Perhaps she had little idea of the meaning that walk had for me. It’s growing older that makes you understand the precious nature of simple moments that fleet by without notice when you’re young.

But, of course, I asked her to read this so I could get her permission to print it. It was given, with a smile, as she quickly headed back to her online chat. Maybe when she’s my age, she’ll find this and read it again, and perhaps have a faint memory of the walk, and understand from the vantage point of an older age, just how much her decision to come that evening meant to me. If so, it would be a handed down memory heart print.

Such a possibility is one of the reasons I write this column.