Two Short Walks, a Lifetime of Memories
Two daughters, two weddings, and the moments I want to keep.
The bridesmaids had gone ahead. For a few moments, it was just Emma and me.
There were people waiting, a ceremony about to begin, and a day that had taken months to organise. My job at that point was fairly straightforward: walk slowly, take my time, and pause before we stepped out in front of everyone.
The idea, at least partly, was to help keep Emma calm. She was already pretty cool about the whole thing. Looking back, I suspect I needed that pause just as much as she did.
I looked at her, and the thought landed properly.
My daughter is getting married.
Of course, I knew that. I had known it for months. But standing beside her, with nothing left to prepare and nowhere else I needed to be, it felt different.
A few months later, in Crete, I would find myself in almost exactly the same position with Charlotte. The bridesmaids moving ahead, one by one. Then just the two of us, waiting to take those steps together.
Two short walks. I think I will remember them for the rest of my life.
At the beginning of 2026, having both daughters getting married in the same year felt like quite a lot to take in. Emma in May. Charlotte in September. Two enormous occasions in our family, each carrying so much anticipation.
More than anything, I wanted both girls to have the days they hoped for. I wanted to see them happy, relaxed and enjoying everything they had worked so hard to bring together.
I also wanted to get my own part right. Turn up feeling good, walk beside them, give a speech that did them justice. Be properly there.
And, if I am honest, I hoped there would be a little time with each of them that I could keep for myself. A moment when I could look at my daughter and take it all in.
I got those moments.
Emma’s day was beautifully organised and full of happiness. She beamed. There is something about seeing your child that happy that is difficult to describe without reaching for words that suddenly seem rather inadequate.
Proud, certainly. Delighted for her and Calum. But also a little overwhelmed by the fact that here we all were, at this point in our lives.
I remember feeling very much a dad. And, slightly oddly, quite grown-up.
You might think I would have got used to that by now.
Afterwards, my hope for Charlotte was simple: that she would come away from her own wedding feeling just as happy. The days were always going to be different, and I am glad they were. Each belonged to the couple who had created it.
In Crete, when I saw Charlotte before the ceremony, with the bridesmaids and photographers around her, there was that same unmistakable happiness. She looked stunning. She was beaming.
And there I was again, trying to slow the whole thing down enough to remember it.
There was sadness alongside the joy. Lucy’s absence was deeply felt; I had wanted to share the day with her. Ollie’s father, whom he had lost, was dearly missed too. His speech moved so many of us to tears, and Charlotte’s vows were wonderfully emotional.
Those feelings were all part of the day. The happiness was real, and so was the longing for people we wished could be there.
Before both weddings, I had suggested to the girls that they find little pauses during the day. Just a few seconds to look around, take a breath and notice what was happening.
I tried to follow my own advice.
It is easy to spend so long looking forward to something that, when it finally arrives, you are still mentally moving on to the next part. The ceremony, the photographs, the speeches. I wanted to notice the day while I was still inside it.
Giving the speeches helped in its own way. People asked whether I was nervous. A little, of course, but mostly I felt honoured. How often do you get to stand up in a room full of people and tell your daughter how much she means to you?
I had also written each of the girls a letter. There were things I wanted to say quietly, in words just for them. I am glad I made the time.
Then there was the simple pleasure of being with family. Laughing, joking, enjoying the celebrations. Looking around and seeing people happy together.
For all the preparation, most of what happened was beyond my control. I could do my small part. The girls and their husbands made the days their own, and I had the privilege of being there.
This Field Note is my attempt to hold on to some of it.
I write here about adventures, challenges and the things I try along the way. But these two days belong here as much as anything I have ever done on a bike or in a pair of running shoes. They are among the most important days of my life.
I know the photographs will help me remember how everyone looked. I want these words to help me remember how it felt.
One day in May. Another in September.
And, in each, a small pause beside my daughter before we walked forward together.
