A seaside holiday can forge magical memories and give welcome respite... I know because my childhood was far from happy

Walking from the railway station towards the seafront nothing seems familiar. I can smell the salty air and hear the seagulls , but it’s almost half a century since I last visited Weymouth and the resort has changed somewhat.

But then I turn on to The Esplanade and see that glorious, sweeping bay and the dazzling sunlight shimmering on the blue waves.

I kick off my shoes and walk on to the sand, where the exotic aroma of Ambre Solaire mixes with the whiff of sweet candy floss and the irresistible waft of fish and chips.

And, in an instant, I am transported back to the 1970s on a tide of memories and a wave of nostalgia.

Mr Whippy, vinegar y cockles, sunburned thighs and the Penny Arcade, with Slade hits on repeat.

Donkeys, dodgems, making sandcastles and jumping waves.

The smell of Pledge and full-english breakfasts in our swanky B&B and the crocheted loo-roll cover in the toilet.

Then – the thrill! – my X Factor moment in the spotlight of the Pavilion Theatre singing to 1,000 holidaymakers with a famous summer season star. It

AASEASSEAS DS IDID I EE K S EV E M VII I L GG EE

getaway can be life-changing for hardup, bereaved or troubled families. Because “some simple respite can build precious memories, strengthen bonds and develop a new sense of optimism”.

I know it can. Because my own childhood was far from happy.

My father’s alcoholism cast a dark shadow and left us struggling financially. My brother and I grew up in the constant tension of our parents’ fraught relationship. But, once every two or three years, they would take us to a place where the sun always shone and we felt like a normal family.

We had several caravan holidays – one in a field in deepest Cornwall where I remember the thrill of sleeping on a dinette table that miraculously turned into a bed. Later we went to Pontins at Camber Sands, East Sussex, and were intrigued to find a collection of toenails in an ashtray in our chalet.

We won the children’s fancy dress contest that year, wearing pants adorned with twigs and leaves as a pint-sized Adam and Eve.

And the start of every holiday had the same exciting ritual.

The 6am start “to beat the traffic”, the 8am stop in a lay-by on the A34 for me to be sick, then a round of I-spy and some choruses of Summer Holiday to keep my mind off my stomach.

After many are-we-there-yets Mark and I would stare out of the window determined to be first to see the sea.

And, once we had settled into our caravan or holiday camp, we would head straight to the beach for the ritual at sti

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