This weekend is the weekend my sister and I affectionately called the “drunken daddy's weekend”.

It is a time when a group of Dads childhood friends came together every year to just be mates together camping, climbing, walking and drinking.

It started when Dad and Mum got married. Dad and his oldest school friend, David, wanted to have a weekend with all their bloke friends to be able to go camping, climbing, walking and drinking without their wives. That is why the first weekend in February was chosen way back in the 1970's. No sensible female would want to go camping in February! I have vague memories of all these men coming to the house in Winster on the Sunday morning for a full English breakfast, before they all went on their way home. Since then they have met up for this mad camping weekend, without missing one. Even in lockdown the camp was help via teams.

The group has grown over the 30 odd years since its conception to include other friends, sons, sons friends and even grandsons.

David died tragically in a car crash when Dad was 40. It changed so many people's lives and the February camp took on extra importance. They realised how short life can be and how important each other was for them. Friendship is so importance, and easily can be forgotten in the hustle and bustle of life. So if you have a friend you haven't spoken to in a while, ring them, text them pop round and say hello.  I have arranged to meet up next week with my school friends, we are going to swap Christmas presents!

This is the first year Dad has missed the camp. He did the lockdown teams one, which is what the photo here shows, a fire, a classic Feb. camp activity.

Now he just does not remember who the people are, and why you would want to leave the warm stove in the cosy house to go outside the the heavy rain. We did try to encourage him to meet up with the group in Hartington. He wanted to put more logs on the fire and do a jigsaw.

Mum and I got some old photo albums out, even pictures didn't seem to stir any interest. He was happy to do the jigsaw puzzle, and a cuppa and a chocolate biscuit.

Its strange, and a bit difficult, to know they are out their in the rain, and Dad doesn't remember. I have all these fragmented childhood memories that I can't ask him about.  Stories about eating daffodil bulbs, big fires, people falling to sleep in pubs, tumbling into rivers, passing pipes around, rugby watching, walking and digging tents out of snow.  Not that any of them lets on what happens at February camp.  It did make in into the Telegraph too, Why I go camping in the snow.