There’s a set of traffic lights we need to bear right at. As we wait, I spy a retro punk, leaning against the front window of an army-surplus shop. A middle-aged throwback from the 80s. Bovver boots, safety pins, Mohican, the works. He must be boiling. He peels himself off the shop window and slouches indifferently down the road and the illuminated man on the crossing changes from red to green.

‘Come on, then,’ I say to Dad, and we cross. It’s immediately busier and we need to slow our step. We start to get jostled a little, as the double act of our wide load takes up too much pavement; my right shoulder and Dad’s left arm susceptible. A man stumbles against us, his hand landing on my wrist.

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘We’re here,’ says Dad crabbily. ‘I can smell burgers.’

Camden is basking in bright yellow sunshine and absolutely buzzing. Spirits are high, sunglasses are on; music is pumping from about six different places – Bob Marley, Rihanna’s ‘We Found Love’, Paloma Faith covering the Mamas & the Papas … The smell of meat and onions and spices, of falafel and pizza and burritos, fills the air. There are dozens of tourists, pleasure-seekers and wanderers milling around, all soaking up the atmosphere of a very hot and sunny day in Camden Town, and we slowly make our way through them up to the bridge at Regent’s Canal.

‘Describe everything to me,’ says Dad. He’s so terse, I think. He’s enjoying himself even less than I am.

‘Oh gosh, I don’t know where to start, Dad. There’s just so much! OK, well, to our right is the Stables Market – food stalls and the like, I think. Lots of uneven cobble stones, so I don’t think we can venture in.’

‘OK.’

‘There’re people everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Clusters of tourists. Couples holding hands. Teenagers. A man carrying an Alsatian up the street, over his shoulder.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Dad tuts and shakes his head. He used to laugh when I described things for him. Sometimes, when I was young, I would embellish them or make things up – for fun – like saying I’d seen a dinosaur or a giant purple sunflower, making us both giggle. As a rebellious teen I would often refuse to describe anything and say ‘nothing’, when he asked me, even in the face of the most rich and abundant visual feasts. Today, I’m doing my best at becoming Dad’s eyes, like Verity said, though Dad is hardly receptive. When we looked at the photos together, he seemed open, happy to talk, for once – now he is as closed again as the photo album itself.

‘Oh, and there’s a guy dressed as Elvis, at the orange juice stand.’

‘Isn’t there always?’