Dear reader...

AS SPRING BLOSSOMS into summer, I feel an irresistible draw to visit the coast. A few days away relishing the season’s early warmth feels both indulgent and restorative. This is a tradition which started in childhood, when we would ago away for a short family holiday in June every year to the same village in South Devon. The journey was part of the magic. An old boat tied to the top of the car, like an upturned shell, acted as carrier for our tent and basic needs for the week. Progress was slow, but we delighted in the familiar markers along the way. As the roads became narrower and the hedges taller, we imagined it was our own secret route to a land of whitewashed cottages, clotted cream and salty lips. As soon as we arrived, the tent was hastily pitched and the boat dragged down the narrow lane from campsite to beach. Our damp canvas accommodation served a purpose, but it was the boat which promised endless exciting adventures to come. Leaving the tiny harbour behind, we bobbed along, fingers dragging through the water, exhilarated by the contrast of warm sun and cold sea. Out beyond the safety of the cove and its protective wall, the slipway and piles of lobster pots shrank to a size that would fit in my hand. Fishing was our plan. The harbour master, always on his bench, trusty black Labrador at his side, laughed at our rod and line of coloured feathers. But rarely did we come back without the treasure we sought: a bucket of silvery mackerel for our supper. Now June is here again, that familiar sense of anticipation returns. Summer is new, and while the longest day will soon pass, there are so many warmer days promised, so many more experiences ahead. But for now, a familiar journey to a special place brings back all the warmth and happy memories I need.