We woke up under the river mist. Fingers of sunlight wrung the damp air, squeezed the water back into the fat flow of the Tamar.
Dog's tail was a fur propeller. We walked under our own steam in the bewildering bright day, down to the woods and up through the top path where we prepare to hack through fallen trees with Spiderman (Godson's alter ego) and his Mum.
'I'm not really Spiderman,' he says, eyeing the slain trunks that lie askance across the path, green with scales of moss and pine-spiked. 'I can't really climb that.'
'Have you tried, though? See here, how you can stand on this low branch?' I hold his weight until Mr leans over to take him.
Mr says, 'Do you think you will fit under the next one?'
Godson ponders. 'I don't know.' He ducks his head. He thinks again. He strikes the pose of a superhero edging on a high ledge and goes sideways through the arch of dank wood.
'Are you all right, lad?' his mother calls.
'You can call me Spiderman,' he says.