Sunrise, Sunset

In a world of mid-life crises and weekend motorcyclists, my dad remains a true man of the woods. Just as the sun will rise in the early maudley, so my dad would turn up filthy at 5 oclock every night and eat his tea whilst watching Neighbours. I used to believe him when he'd come back with a bag full of fish on autumn nights, saying he'd opened the back doors of the van by the riverbank and the fish just jumped in.
I regret the fuzzy contempt I held for him when I was 19 or so (ten freakin years ago!) and working with him as a lumberjack. In my defense I was a terrible pothead- waking up at 5am to drive to Scotland and drag a steel rope up a muddy hill was never going to be easy. Tree-murder is a pretty dangerous job. Nature will bite back at any given opportunity. Despite a catalogue of injuries, he still finds time to get on the European history trail with this, his 1938 Matador, lovingly restored from scrap.
Now aged 69, he's still out there making his own living, and a couple of years back he and his lifelong friend 'Dangerous' Ken built my sister's house. And a damn fine job they did, too.

Easily as hard and as resourceful as Jason Bourne, I'd say. Obviously this is a bit of a mushy post, but I feel my dad deserves some credit, even as I continually let him down. Happy Fathers' Day, Beardface.