Fishing with my dying father

On the North Norfolk coast, dawn is more sensory than visual.

Sea lavender and samphire engulf you before the bite of the wind reminds you of nature’s power. As the sun rises above the horizon, my father and I cross the salt marshes, the light revealing tidal creeks winding through the mudflats. This time, though, I know it is our last trip together.

In angling, the tippet is the thinnest section of line, the point most likely to fail.

Every step is taken with the knowledge that these rituals — these early mornings, the scent of salt and wildflowers, the quiet companionship — are being performed for the final time.

Silence as stewardship

This is not just a landscape but a stage on which the story of my