It’s an easy hour’s drive away; far enough for a child to get car sick, but close enough to pack up and decide to go that afternoon if the sun’s out and we’re feeling bored. Formby.

I’ve been to the beach numerous times with children and in the hot sun, it’s a stress. Whines as the suncream is slapped on. Babies obsessed with putting sand in their mouth then crying because there is sand in their mouth. Toddlers running in exactly the opposite direction to everyone else, usually towards the closest road or cliff. Heat makes all movement unwelcome.

Hot beaches remind me of cocktail hour and reading books and large Vietnamese prawns bbq’d on the sand…

Hot beaches are no fun with small children.

But then there’s windy beaches, with cold water that invigorates you from the toes… you really don’t want to go in that water… but the children do, so you have to.

And they love your screams, and your screams are lost to the wind and they want to wade in deeper so you wade in deeper.

And you’re not enjoying yourself because it’s awful but it’s also kind of great because it’s living. The cold is invigorating; the adrenaline makes you hop and run.

This is the year Rory is finally interested in collecting shells, and I mean: really interested. It’s what I used to do when I went on summer holidays to the beach in West Ireland, I was OBSESSED. I start picking up shells to show him and then we compare what we’ve found and suddenly I’m just six again, hunting for shells.

Etta likes the idea of building sandcastles and I’m well up for it too. I begin filling buckets and marking out the space for a fortress, but as soon as I produce a textbook tower, she gleefully kicks it to pieces. It’s gone.

This happens with every single tower I make. I’m confused because at this rate, there’ll be no sandcastle, but she is perfectly happy, so we carry on.

Tim and I pull out the surprise – the sledge we bought for last winter’s snow that never came. We brought it to take down the sandy slopes of the dunes, and it almost works, not really gathering enough momentum, but Tim pulls the kids along and they love it.

We try steeper slopes and we try smoothing out the sand beforehand and it’s mostly fun just trying to work it all out.

Then I run to get us Mr Whippy ice creams and they melt too quickly but taste great.

Etta hands Rory her flake and spreads the ice cream around her face like shaving foam. She keeps asking me to wipe her hands but seems completely oblivious to the fact 55% of the ice cream is smeared round her mouth.

I’m not gonna be the one to break it to her.

Throughout my life there have been places I’ve made my home.  Places that have developed meaning slowly, collecting layers of memory, trailing ghosts of myself and the people I’ve known.  

I think Formby will become one of these places.