Going on Holiday

Just writing that heading summons up the childish excitement of treats, difference, a change in routine. As it happens, in my late seventies, with movement strictly restricted, I’ve got a lot less appetite for the idea of going away. I can’t walk around for hours, camera in hand, exploring new places. I vale the comfort of familiar routines, of having books, music and computer to hand, checking on the garden every day.

But I know that although that’s a solace it’s also a trap, and that going somewhere different, if only for a week, has huge benefits. It is also a lot of work, and looking after ourselves n a strange house two hundred miles away involves huge amounts of work - planning, lists, packing - for which I’ve got less energy than I once had. And this is one of those special holidays, extended family, three generations, seven people from one to seventy-seven.

It was fabulous. Saltburn is a neglected gem, a quiet, friendly town not far form Whitby but nothing like so packed, and it has a huge beach and a distinctive, simple pier. Until you’re sat with a one-year old kicking down sandcastles you forget the potency of beach holidays, but it’s lovely to see that old recipe work its magic once again.