There is nothing better in the summer than the filthy blackness of camping feet. Oh – I wore them like a true soldier as a child – the filthier, the tougher, the better. They were a badge of honour – collected throughout the days of running barefoot on sandy beaches, rock strewn roads, and dusty pathways.

Each toe was perfectly imprinted with the memories of the day – tag and make-believe, kite-flying, bubble-chasing, capture-the-flag and kick-the-can memories – of laughter and sometimes the bitter disappointment of losing the game, or a friend, or feeling that you didn’t quite belong. Yet, these blackened, dusty, calloused feet continued to faithfully walk, run, hop, skip, and sometimes even drag me along on my journey; step after step after step. And when the summer grubbiness was finally washed away – the memories remained – and those memories remain still, buried deep within my camping feet.