In June 2005 my wife and I were in the Peak District. We had planned a walk the next day, but as the sky looked threatening I suggested we skip it. My wife was insistent. I did not chide her; she'd had bowel cancer for six years and I could not chide her for anything. After three lots of surgery, four lots of chemotherapy and one of radiotherapy, she was beyond treatment. The next morning was sunny. Ruth wanted to do the walk we had done two years earlier - it was eight miles, a distance she had not covered for a year. I said we must turn back when she felt tired. We set off and reached the River Dove. What would I do if she collapsed? We walked along, going deeper into the beautiful gorge. 'OK?' 'Yes.' After two miles I knew we were getting closer to a road access at Milldale. If necessary I could run and get the car. We sat on a grassy bank, eating our picnic slowly and wearily, then set off and turned right up Biggin Dale. We had the valley to ourselves. Near the top we rested before the final pull over the hill to Hartington. I photographed her on a rock in the sunshine. After eating I drove home, and for once she slept in the car. She died six months later, and that photograph had pride of place in the village hall after her funeral. It has hung in the house since, helping me through the dark months.

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