Back in the bleak, wet days of January, I booked us a little holiday. In part, seduced by this photograph.
You know how dangerous that can be, don't you. When you are seduced by that picture in a brochure or on a website and somehow, even though you ought to know better, you have taken that one perfect shot and spun it out into a fantasy of a trip where your family are paragons of every possible virtue, the weather is blissful, and food of the totally delicious but somehow calorie free variety appears as if by magic. And somehow it would be rude not to press 'book now'.
Well, I sort of did that. Because it was our 20th wedding anniversary. And the Easter holidays, and goodness knows, a little restorative trip did seem in order. And in the depths of a dank January, who wouldn't have been seduced by that photograph?
But d'you know what - reality wasn't too far off the mark. I adored being right on the beach. Especially one of the pebbly variety. Sand is great, but for the British seaside, you can't beat pebbles. They warm up so fast in the sun and you get that great crunching sound as you walk along them. And there's always a pretty one to pick up - even a hagstone if you are lucky.
And the boys could zip about all they pleased, climbing things and playing frisbee (and in the case of Johnny, go for an impromptu, fully clothed swimming excursion). And I was happy, just sitting on the pebbles, thinking about not very much at all and taking photos in that glorious seasidey light.
I do like our life in Oxfordshire, but it is an awful long way from the sea. And every once in a while, a little sea-fix is just the tonic.